Black Rain, Rusting Heart

Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump.

  I watched Eli sleep, his hulking body in its usual position, face down on the makeshift bed with his arms draping over the sides. He always lay on his stomach, I guess he found it more comfortable that way. I climbed up and lay on his back with my ear resting between his shoulder blades so that I could hear his heart.

  Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump.

  I closed my eyes, lulled, as always, into a state of serene calm by the rhythm. His fever was running a little high today, a contrast to the chill of the room. Without meaning to, I fell asleep.

  I dream of better times, the early days before the infection. I walk through a field from my childhood. It is full of tall wild flowers, their colours form a rainbow blanket as far as the eye can see. I remember thinking angels were painting with such fervour that the colours had splashed down to the earth. Eli and I stand holding hands, mine swamped in his, my head barely reaching his chest. We are silent, not needing to say anything as we take in the vista. I lean against him, comforted by his presence. All is right in the world. All is as it should be. 
  I try to deny the dark clouds as they begin to stain the horizon, but I am powerless to halt them from spreading out, reaching closer. A gloom spills across the land beneath the advancing clouds, like a foul stain that leeches the colour out of the world. I tug on his hand, trying to pull him away from the approaching storm, but he stands firm. I could no more move him than I could a mountain. The clouds bring with them heavy black raindrops that fall in a deluge. The sound is a deafening roar when it reaches us, and we are instantly drenched. To my horror, the flowers touched by the rain have become rusted cogs on top of copper stalks, their petals jagged and sharp, threatening to bite deep as they sway violently in the hot, stifling wind.
  Eli falls to one knee, and the black rain coalesces and moves with a purpose across his body. It flows up to his head, in through his ears, his nostrils, his mouth. He gags, then vomits the foul liquid onto the ground before him. The liquid pools, increases in volume and then rises to cover his feet, moving slowly but purposefully up, up, up, until it flows into him again. He cannot fight it. His gags become gurgles that make me want to retch. The black rain leaves me alone to weep and watch him convulse on the floor. There is nothing I can do to help. 
  Time stretches out and all I can do is watch Eli suffer. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the storm is gone. When he picks himself up, he is not the same. He walks with a stoop and drags his left foot slightly. As we travel along the road home we pass the working fields, and they are all affected by the horrific blight. We see the workers in the fields have also changed. The once strong and proud workers are now stooped and rusting automatons. Just like the flowers, they have become something less, something wrong, something corrupted. Eli stumbles, barely able to walk any more, and his breathing comes out in a wheeze with the occasional rattle.

 Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump.

  I woke from the dream to the familiar sound of his heart. I slid off his back and moved over to my workbench so that I could consult my textbooks and notes. I double checked the surgical tray and put on my tool-belt. I moved to his side and unscrewed a panel on his lower back. Tears welled up and I clamped down on the surge of emotion. Before I began, I had to clench my hands into fists to try to stop them shaking. I paused and listened to the sound that always calmed me.

Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump.