Joe King opened his eyes slowly, the tiny effort seeming to tax his entire body far more than it should have. He knew something was terribly wrong.
His head was throbbing; his throat was so raw that it hurt to swallow and the sides of his throat ached as though the glands had swollen to twice their normal size. As if that wasn't bad enough, he knew that he was running a fever and his chest literally felt as though an elephant was sitting on it.
He struggled to sit up on the bed, finding himself drenched. Slowly he struggled to the tiny bathroom and flipped on the light. For several moments, he braced himself against the sink with one hand while covering his mouth with the other while he coughed.
When he pulled his hand away he was shocked to find a trace of bloody sputum on his palm.
"Good God," he whispered.
Panic filled him as he surveyed his reflection in the mirror and horrific images played across his mind's eye.
Quickly he washed his hands with hot soap and water, trying to force himself to stay upright while his fevered mind worked around a plan.
Drying his hands on the towel, he realized that they had only one hope. He prayed silently for a moment, then forced his aching body to move, knowing that they didn't have much time.