Plague

A view of events in The Plague from Starsky’s point of view.

Hutch is dying. Everything seems focused on making that happen—hit man, an expert at staying hidden and anonymous. the one person who needs to be found; public announcements forbidden by everyone so as to keep the public from panicking; none of the medical treatments have had any effect on the virus. Hutch is dying. You know this is true, no matter how many times you tell yourself that it can’t happen, it will. You pray to any god who will listen, but none of them are. You feel the emptiness of your words—useless words to uninterested gods.

You write your name on his prison widow in lipstick—blood would be more appropriate, but lipstick doesn’t smear. How do you tell somebody, the only one you love, good-bye? You will every thought of life to him, begging, pleading that he hear you. Will he leave you here alone? Does he dare? How long is forever? He promised you that; he promised. You pray some more, but the words are just as useless now as they were before.

You demand they let you in, in to touch him one last time, in to hear his voice, to feel his reality, in to tell him that you love him one last time. Oh, how you love him! And how you long for his voice to interrupt your thoughts of doom. But it’s only his eyes that you seek, eyes that speak of love and all the rest of the wonderfulness that is what being in love means. You long for response, but nothing comes to you except his words of defeat. Tears fill your eyes. You tell him you won’t let him die, but he doesn’t respond and you know there is nothing you can do to prevent it.

Hutch is everything to you—your life, your smile, your reason for existence. Is his life just going to fade away and then will yours also? What will you do when the unthinkable happens? Eat your gun? Crash your car? Find a high enough place and jump? Something you cannot contemplate, not now, not yet. Running out of time and words, you finally make your broadcast appeal. But is the hit man listening? Will he respond? You pray for something different this time—Calendar needs to come in, give up his freedom, offer it for Hutch. But he won’t, and you use the child to weaken his resolve.

Do you feel guilty for this deception? No. If it will save your love, your life, then anything is up for use—anything. You promise him anything he needs, anything at all, if he will save Hutch. Free ticket out of town? Here it is. Protection from Roper? You’ll personally guarantee it. And although you almost fail, his antibodies now flow through Hutch’s veins and do what they are supposed to do—give him weapons to fight the virus. He will survive to walk beside you once again, to love you again, to live to be one-hundred-and-forty-eight.