Were Rooster Gets Sick
People get sick at the most inconvenient times. Hank spent one Thanksgiving throwing up and a birthday with a terrible migraine. Since his transformation, he hasn’t been sick. (Apart from throwing up, but that’s because of what he ate.) It’s the only plus side about his condition, and Hank tries to feel grateful for it.
Naturally, his good luck doesn’t last.
By some miracle, he manages to avoid Covid. A miracle meaning at least two masks while out in public, far more hand sanitizer than one person could need in a lifetime, and shouting whenever a person gets close.
No matter how cautious he is, eventually illness catches up to him. Eating worms and dirt probably also involves eating bacteria.
Three years after his change, he catches a cold. That isn’t so bad, even if chicken soup isn’t the panacea it once was. It’s two years later when he gets the flu that everything goes to hell.
Maybe it would have been fine, but Hank get sick two days out from the full moon.
He scowls at the thermometer, wishing for it to show a smaller number. It disobeys him. He snuggles closer under a blanket and watches the world spin around him. “I can’t stay sick.”
As soon as he can get up, he goes to his doctor. “This is why you’re supposed to get a flu shot,” his doctor says, because doctors love nothing more than lecturing people over what they ought to have done.
Hank glares and takes the prescription, already on his second box of Kleenex. He takes the medicine when he gets home and goes to bed early, hoping that rest will help.
Come morning, he feels no better. He sweats during the night, and wakes with his pajamas pasted to his skin. The warm shower helps fix that, even if he has to lean against the shower wall to keep from falling. Hank layers up his clothes and takes another douse of the medicine. One more night until the full moon. He calls in sick and goes back to bed.
The day passes slowly, the crap television not helping. Still, the next day he feels better. He can walk and keep down his food and not feel like he’s going to collapse.
Hank goes to work, where his colleagues avoid him and his boss gives him little to do. Thanks to that, he goes home early. The sickness, though better, lingers.
With a few hours until dark, Hank gets to work.
He pulls the curtains shut, adding blankets on top to conceal the outside world. In the bottom of a tool box, he finds some chains and locks. With an extra coat on for warmth, he ventures outside. He locks the back door, the chain wrapped tight around the knob. Is that enough? As a rooster, he walks funny and gains horrible taste but loses none of his dexterity. Hank brings out a chair and braces that against the door.
Back inside, he tests it. Even when he applies his shoulder and his full weight, the door refuses to budge. Pleased, Hank takes more medicine and goes to bed.
He wakes in the early a.m. hours. His shoulders bunch up, and he walks with high steps as soon as he’s out of bed. The moon is up, he can feel it. He can’t see it, and somehow that makes it worse.
A yank pulls down the blanket. He shoves his head past the curtains and stares out, a stupid smile on his face. The moonlight feels nice on his face.
Slowly, Hank heads to the back door. He always goes out the back door during the full moon. Though he pushes hard and claws at the knob, the door refuses to open. He curses the chain and the lock and the chair, but he’s still stuck inside.
It’s hard to turn his back on the moon, but Hank manages. He walks through his kitchen and entryway, to the front door. One flip of the lock and this door opens easily. The small, rational part of him screams at his own stupidity. He’s always had two doors, but he didn’t think to barricade this one.
The driveway isn’t as nice as the backyard, but a few steps take him to the community flower garden. The thorns on the roses thwart him, so he continues to the peonies. Ants crawl over the flowers, urging the bulbs to open. Hank licks his lips and leans in, snapping up the nearest ants.
At some point, he starts to sweat. He went to bed in layers, and now he feels too hot. He pulls back from another garden just long enough to shuck his sweater, then goes hunting for worms. There’s nothing like worms. He has to stop a few times to catch his breath and wait for the world to still, but there’s always more bugs to catch.
The eastern sky begins to pink. Hank rears up and shouts, “Wake the fu—” He has to stop for a bout of coughing. After that, welcoming the morning doesn’t feel as satisfying.
That, and he’s come back to himself.
Hank collects his discarded sweater and retreats back inside before his neighbor thinks to look out front. On the plus side, the night outside has broken his fever. Hank takes the last douse of medicine just in case and because it tastes better than ants and worms.
