At What Price Does Death Pay?

Roger Spears stared at the client on the other side of the table. He looked like a decent man except his eyes told otherwise--they were shaky and untrusting. Roger was all too familiar with that look after dealing with crooked stockbrokers on Wall Street for years. This man was no different. He knew the man’s face, but couldn’t place where he had seen it before. His accent was familiar as well, it sounded like an accent from around Haiti, yet he couldn’t be sure.

As Albert Miley went on babbling, Roger wasn’t even thinking about the details, only how his daughter had bitched about the performance of Britney Spears at the VMA Awards and how she was so embarrassed to even share the last name of the singer. He then thought of his son who was fighting over in Iraq.

“Mr. Miley, you do know this is a class action lawsuit you’re proposing and you need a different attorney, one who can specialize in your need. I’m very sorry about the death of your son, but I deal with criminal financial and white-collar crimes, and if I did a class action suit with a bunch of other people then all of you would probably only get the minimal amount. It’s best for you to speak with someone else about mesothelioma.

“Mr. Spears, I am warning you. I want the money owed to me or you are the one who will pay.”

The air suddenly felt thick and electric. Roger looked outside the skies were sunny and clear. He took a deep breath and slowly tried to compensate for the sudden claustrophobic tightness in his chest. He suddenly wanted to leave, and quickly. “Look, Mr. Miley, I am not cut out for this type of lawsuit and it will only be a disadvantage for you. I’m sure I can find some referrals for you.”

“I see that you’re not going to help me, Mr. Spears.” Miley placed his hand on top of Roger’s. “No worries. Good day.” He stood and silently left the room. When he did, the air seemed to clear except Roger still found it difficult to take a full breath. He watched the man leave and began to finish his coffee. His fingers twitched as a slow burning feeling started up from where Miley had placed his palm. It crawled its way from his hand, up his arm, then to his shoulder. He grabbed his shoulder and doubled over in the chair. Shards of glass stabbed at his face when his coffee cup shattered on the floor next to him.

“Are you all right, Mr. Spears?” the waitress asked, kneeling down toward him. “Hey, someone get me an ambulance! I think he’s having a heart attack.”

Roger ignored the scrambling of people and voices around him. He crawled toward the door, searching for the nearest cab. When he didn’t see one, he hobbled toward the street, ignoring the intense pain in his chest.

“Taxi!” Roger hobbled into the street and violently waved his hand toward the oncoming traffic. A yellow and black cab stopped abruptly in front of him. Roger half limped to the back of the car and flung the door open. He slipped inside, barely shutting the door before the cabbie started on the move.

“Are you crazy man? I coulda killed you!” the cab driver spat into the mirror, looking back at Roger.

Roger stared back at him and with short gasps. “Please…help…get…hospital.”

“You need a doctor, man? Why don’t I just call an ambulance for you? No one is gonna die in my cab.”

“No…need…now.” Roger took short gasps of air and held onto his chest. The pain riveted from his arm to his breastbone and then down to his hip. He was sure he was having a heart attack and would die right there in the cab. The pain gripped him even more as the cab bounced over a manhole.

“Sorry, man,” the cabbie mumbled and sped on past Ground Zero where the old trade center buildings had been. “You a broker or somethin?”

“Just hurry…please.” Roger’s voice cracked before he started coughing.

“Hey, you all right? You’re not gonna die in my cab, are you?”

Roger hacked violently until streams of blood began to form in his spit. He wiped the crimson liquid from his mouth onto his white sleeve and stared at it. What had just happened? Had Miley made him sick? As far as he knew, the disease wasn’t communicable.

“Well, hold on tight. Don’t let that heart fail you.”

“It’s not a heart attack. It’s my lungs,” he said, spewing more blood on the back seat.

Roger coughed again and again until he began to see small pink pieces of tissue in his sputum. He cried out as the pain gripped his chest and throat and screamed when Mr. Miley appeared in the seat beside him.

“I told you that you would pay, Mr. Spears.”

“Huh?” Roger was in too much pain to even ask how Miley managed to get into the cab.
“Yes, Mr. Spears. Your life for my son’s life. You see, while your son gets all the awards for fighting overseas, mine stayed sick in a hospital bed fighting for his life. His last words were to avenge his death. Don’t you remember? He helped tear down that ceiling in your home. I took his death in my palm and transferred it to you. How does it feel to die, Mr. Spears?”

Roger coughed another long stream of blood and then grabbed Miley by the collar. “You son of a bitch. I didn’t kill your son.”

“Ah, but you did,” Miley laughed and continued, “and the revenge is mine.”

With his final bit of strength, Spears pushed as hard as he could, but then screamed as he flew out the cab door realizing that Miley was never really there. He landed with a big thud on the concrete.

Spears watched as his body jerked and quivered below him. The doctors tried to bring him to life on the spot and then moved his body inside to continue with the equipment. Spears suddenly found himself in a white room standing across from a young boy.

“Forgive my father for he knows only knows revenge and pain.”

“Where am I? Did I kill you? You were a man before? I don’t understand.” Spears looked at the boy and then took a deep breath, happy that he could actually breath again.

“I was. This is the form I choose. My father took years from me by making me work for him. He’s not angry that I died; he’s angry that his stream of money is gone, and for that I am truly sorry he killed you. You may go back, but you have to do something for me.”

The boy held out his hand and Spears reluctantly held it. “I want to you give this to my father.”

A sudden bolt of pain traveled up his arm and into his chest. Although he could breath, he knew it was there. “What did you do to me?”

“You’re now a carrier, but you’re not sick. Take my fathers hand and it will spread to his lungs. If you do not, then the next person you touch with your palm will be my victim.”

“That’s impossible,” Spears scoffed.

The boy’s eyes turned red and blood began to pour from his lips. “He did it to you, didn’t he?” the boy screamed yet suddenly the sounds of machines and doctors replaced the screeching noise.

“Let him sleep. He’s okay,” were the last words Spears heard before he felt his daughter’s hand grab his.

“Nooooo!”