I wake up feeling out of sorts.

It hits without warning.

One moment I’m rinsing dishes in the sink—the next…

Puking does not adequately describe the apocalyptic disgorging. Though the sink is right there—all I have to do is tip my head forward—contents of my stomach spew forth in firehose fashion. Kitchen window, fringed by lace curtains, rendered opaque by the first heave, completely blown out by the second. Incoming breeze momentarily cools my clammy face.

The ordeal resumes.

Three stories below, a startling sight: men, women and children on the street doubled over, as if mocking me. A torturous reverberation; every person in the city has been turned inside out. Caustic odor of fresh bile inescapable. Skidding car crashes and an array of alarms punctuate the dull cacophony of retching misery. Clouds of smoke visible by the airport.

I turn from the window, heave anew, stagger into the living room. It’s as if I’m regurgitating every drink and meal from the last five years. It all comes out looking like canned soup. Still gagging, I switch on the TV.

A blonde female newscaster and her ruggedly handsome male co-anchor lean out of view. When they come back into frame their eyes are bloodshot, faces flushed. The camera angle is slightly tilted, unfocused. The woman’s blue dress took a direct hit, as did the man’s red necktie.

Each time the gastric agony appears to be over, a fresh round of hurling begins. City echoes the newscasters’ strangled, apologetic sobs. The torment is contagious. Abdominal muscles painfully contorted, but everyone continues to bring up god knows what.

After an eternity of torture followed by endless dry heaves, newscasters are able to semi-coherently address the camera. They try to make gasping, unscripted sense of what happened. Off the top of their heads, they come up with terms:

Urban Mass Nausea Event.

The Great Sickening.

They settle on: Barfquake.

We’re all in this together. Wry humor attempted.

Across the city, continuous groans, like chanting monks.

Honorable Mayor wishes to make a statement. He appears surprisingly unsoiled—though a little worn out, as if hungover. Mayor states the obvious—we got sick. Some people died, but it appears to have passed. We must now mop up and get our top experts on this thing. Whether it’s a virus or—dramatic pause—something else, we’ll get to the bottom of it.

Obligatory platitudes.

Remain calm.

Could’ve been worse.

Barfquake strong.

On this last note, everyone feels profound pride.

Gradually, we realize it’s something more—a gurgling sense of unease.

Lower in the gut this time.

Mayor’s eyes go wide, he pales.

A wet, collective crepitation.

Screen goes black.

END

By Robert Morgan Fisher

From: United States

Website: https://www.robertmorganfisher.com/

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