The Fever Job

The rain in Seattle didn’t wash things clean; it just made the grime slicker.

From the passenger seat of the unmarked cargo van, Silas watched the droplets race down the windshield, distorting the neon sign of the bank across the street. Every drop that hit the glass felt like a tiny hammer striking his skull. He shivered, pulling his black tactical jacket tighter around himself, though the interior of the van was stiflingly warm.

"You look terrible," Micky said from the driver’s seat. Micky was chewing on a toothpick, looking annoyingly healthy. His eyes scanned the bank’s perimeter with the calm detachment of a man who wasn’t currently fighting a war against his own immune system.

"I’m fine," Silas croaked. His voice sounded like someone dragging a heavy crate over gravel. He cleared his throat, wincing at the raw scrape of it. "Just a bit under the weather."

"Under the weather?" Micky scoffed, turning to look at him. "Silas, you’re pale as a sheet and you’re sweating through your thermal gear. You look like you’re about to haunt a Victorian orphanage. We can scrub the job. The client can wait a week."

"The client is the erratic son of a cartel boss who thinks 'patience' is a brand of perfume," Silas muttered, closing his eyes as a wave of dizziness rolled over him. "And the vault cycle resets tonight. If we don’t hit the deposit boxes now, the codes I spent three weeks decrypting turn into gibberish. I’m doing this."

Micky sighed, checking his watch. "Alright. But if you sneeze on the laser grid and vaporize us, I’m going to be very upset in the afterlife."

Silas didn’t laugh. He couldn’t. He was fairly certain that if he engaged his diaphragm for a laugh, his head would detach from his neck and roll onto the floor mat.

The plan was simple, at least on paper. The target was a private holding facility masquerading as a high-end credit union. In the basement, box 404 contained a hard drive with leverage on a local politician. Silas and Micky were the retrieval specialists. Micky was the muscle and the driver; Silas was the ghost. He got in, cracked the lock, and got out without leaving a fingerprint.

Usually, Silas was a machine. He moved with fluid precision, his hands steady as a surgeon’s. Tonight, his joints felt like they were packed with rusted ball bearings.

"Go time," Micky said.

Silas opened the door and stepped out into the rain. The cold air hit him like a physical blow, momentarily clearing the fog in his brain. He took a deep breath through his nose, regretting it immediately as congestion blocked the airflow. He was a mouth-breather tonight. Great. The stealthiest thief in the Pacific Northwest, panting like a golden retriever after a run.

They moved to the service entrance in the alley. Micky disabled the camera with a looped feed, and Silas went to work on the keypad. His fingers felt thick and clumsy, encased in thin tactile gloves. He typed the code: 7-7-4-1-9. The light blinked red.

"Silas," Micky whispered urgently.

"I know, I know," Silas hissed. He blinked hard, trying to clear the blurry halo around the keypad. He had hit the 8 instead of the 9. Focus. He punched the code again, slower this time. Green.

The heavy steel door clicked open. They slipped inside.

The air conditioning in the hallway was set to arctic. Silas suppressed a shudder that rattled his teeth. They moved silently down the corridor, the rubber soles of their boots absorbing the sound. Micky took point, checking corners with a compact mirror. Silas followed, focusing entirely on placing one foot in front of the other without stumbling.

Every sense was dulled. Usually, he could hear the hum of electricity in the walls, smell the ozone of the security systems. Now, all he could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears and the wheezing of his own breath. All he could smell was the lingering scent of the menthol rub he’d slathered on his chest an hour ago.

"Camera up top," Micky signaled with a hand gesture.

Silas nodded. He pulled a small jammer from his belt. He had to toss it onto the magnetic rail running along the ceiling, just behind the camera’s blind spot. It was a throw he had made a hundred times.

He wound up, aimed, and threw.

A sudden sneeze, violent and unstoppable, hijacked his body at the exact moment of release.

He managed to stifle the sound into his elbow—a muffled hrooomph—but the convulsion threw off his aim. The jammer sailed past the rail and clattered loudly against a metal ventilation duct before falling to the floor.

Clang. Clang. Clatter.

The noise echoed through the concrete hallway like a gunshot.

Micky spun around, eyes wide, weapon drawn. They froze, pressing themselves against the wall, waiting for the shout of a guard or the wail of a siren.

Silence stretched out for ten agonizing seconds.

"You," Micky whispered, his face inches from Silas’s, "are a liability."

"Slipped," Silas wheezed, wiping his watering eyes. "Sweaty palms."

"Pick it up. Do it again. Don't die."

Silas retrieved the jammer. His knees popped audibly as he crouched. He took a breath, held it, and threw the device again. This time, it stuck with a satisfying thud. The red light on the camera turned off.

They reached the stairwell and descended into the belly of the building. The vault room was an expanse of polished marble and brushed steel. In the center stood the Titan-IV vault door, a circular monstrosity that looked like it belonged on a submarine.

"You have six minutes before the patrol loops back," Micky said, taking up a position by the stairwell door. "Work your magic."

Silas approached the vault. This was the part he usually loved. The mechanism of a Titan-IV was a symphony of tumblers and electronic relays. It required a stethoscope to listen to the mechanical tumblers and a bypass module for the digital lock.

He placed the magnetic stethoscope against the cold steel of the door and inserted earpieces into his ears.

Thump. Whirrr. Click.

The sounds of the lock were magnified. But so were the sounds of his own body. His heartbeat sounded like a war drum—DOOM-DOOM, DOOM-DOOM. His breathing sounded like a gale-force wind. It was drowning out the subtle clicks of the gravity pins he needed to hear.

"Come on," he whispered to himself. sweat trickled down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He couldn't wipe it away; his hands were occupied with the dial.

He turned the dial left. He needed to feel the friction point.

Click. One tumbler down.

A wave of nausea rolled through him. The marble floor seemed to tilt 45 degrees to the left. Silas swayed, his forehead resting against the cool metal of the vault door for support. The cold felt incredible. He wanted to just lie down right there, hug the vault door, and sleep for fourteen hours.

"Silas," Micky’s voice hissed over the comms. "Three minutes."

"Working," Silas groaned.

He spun the dial right. The fever was playing tricks on him now. The numbers on the digital keypad seemed to be rearranging themselves. He blinked, and they stabilized. He keyed in the bypass sequence.

Access Denied.

"What?" Silas stared at the screen. He had run the algorithm perfectly.

He tried again. His fingers were trembling. A chill started at the base of his spine and radiated outward, making his hands shake uncontrollably.

Access Denied.

"Two minutes, Silas! I hear footsteps on the floor above."

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced the fever haze. If he didn't open this door, they were walking away empty-handed. Or worse, in handcuffs.

Think. Why isn't it working?

Silas pulled back and looked at the keypad. He looked at his hand. He looked at the glove.

There was a smear of menthol rub on the tip of his index finger. It was interfering with the capacitive touch of the screen.

"Unbelievable," he muttered. He ripped the glove off with his teeth, spitting the fabric out. He wiped his bare finger on his pants leg and typed the code again, his skin pale and clammy against the glowing buttons.

Access Granted.

The heavy bolts retracted with a groan that vibrated through his chest. Silas pulled the massive door open.

Inside, the safety deposit boxes lined the walls. He scanned the numbers. 402... 403... 404.

He produced a tension wrench and a pick. This was purely mechanical. No electronics. Just feel.

He inserted the pick. He applied tension.

And then, the tickle returned.

It started in the back of his nose, a jagged little itch that demanded attention. Silas froze. He stopped breathing. He couldn't sneeze now. If he jerked his hand, he could snap the pick off in the lock, sealing the box forever.

His eyes watered. His nose twitched. The pressure built in his sinuses, a volcanic eruption waiting to happen.

He bit his lip so hard he tasted copper. He focused all his willpower on the lock. Click. The cylinder turned.

He yanked the box out, flipped the lid, and grabbed the hard drive.

"Got it," he gasped, shoving it into his jacket pocket.

"Guard coming down the stairs!" Micky barked. "We gotta move, now!"

Silas shoved the box back into the slot and turned to run. But as he spun around, the equilibrium in his inner ear—already under siege by the flu—gave up the ghost.

The room spun. The floor rushed up to meet him.

Silas crashed onto the marble, his hip hitting the ground hard.

"Silas!" Micky was there in a second, grabbing him by the harness of his tactical vest and hauling him up.

"I’m up, I’m up," Silas slurred. The world was a watercolor painting left out in the rain.

"Move!"

They hit the service corridor just as the heavy door to the vault room swung open behind them. A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, slicing the space where they had been seconds before.

"Hey! Halt!" a guard shouted.

"Run," Micky commanded.

They sprinted. Or rather, Micky sprinted, and Silas performed a stumbling, chaotic lurch that roughly approximated speed. His lungs burned. His throat felt like he had swallowed broken glass. Every footfall sent a shockwave of pain up his shins.

They burst out of the rear exit into the alleyway. The rain was coming down harder now, a deluge.

"Van! Go!" Micky shoved Silas toward the vehicle.

Silas practically fell into the passenger seat. Micky vaulted into the driver’s side, ignited the engine, and peeled out of the alley just as red and blue lights began to reflect off the wet brick walls behind them.

Micky drove like a madman, weaving through the late-night Seattle traffic, taking corners sharp enough to make the tires scream. Silas sat slumped against the window, the cool glass vibrating against his fever-hot forehead.

They drove in silence for twenty minutes until Micky was sure they weren't being tailed. He slowed the van down to a legal speed and merged onto the highway heading out of the city.

The adrenaline began to fade, leaving Silas hollowed out. He felt infinitely heavy. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the hard drive, and placed it on the dashboard.

"We got it," Silas whispered.

Micky glanced at the drive, then at Silas. He shook his head, a mixture of anger and begrudging respect on his face.

"You look like hell, Silas. I mean it. I’ve seen corpses with better complexions."

Silas coughed, a wet, rattling sound that hurt his ribs. He pulled a crumpled tissue from his pocket and dabbed at his nose.

"I told you," Silas managed, closing his eyes as the exhaustion finally claimed him. "Just under the weather."

Micky laughed, a short, sharp bark of sound. "Under the weather? Buddy, you are sick as a dog. You’re not doing a job for the next month. I don’t care if the President hires us to steal the Declaration of Independence. You are going to bed."

Silas didn't argue. He was already drifting off, lulled by the rhythm of the windshield wipers and the fever dreams waiting to take him. He had pulled off the heist, but he knew the real fight was just starting. The enemy was a microbe, and he was pretty sure it was winning.