A light was still on in the house at 13 St. George Avenue. The property now combined both numbers 12 and 13, though only the original number plate remained.
The petite woman eyed Jenkins's face with suspicion, finally nodding after a long moment.
"Alright then. I'm here to help whenever you need it... Goodnight, Jenkins."
"Goodnight, Alexia. Sweet dreams."
And then, the room was left to the man and his cat.
Chocolate slowly drifted off to sleep. Jenkins sat for a while longer before rising to gently place the cat on a soft cushion. He changed into his pajamas, poured himself a glass of ice water, and, without turning on any lights, made his way up the stairs in the dark. Opening a side door on the second floor, he stepped out onto the converted terrace.
The late winter night was bitterly cold, and the weather was poor. Jenkins had hoped to gaze at the stars, but now, all he saw when he looked up was an inky, starless sky.
He raised the glass and took a sip. A shiver ran through him as the ice-cold water slid down his throat, but it did the trick, chasing away the last vestiges of sleep and leaving him feeling much more alert.
He focused, activating his Eye of Reality to survey the city. Points of light, large and small, dotted his vision, interspersed with ominous black auras. But the one thing he couldn't see was the shape of the sword. Jenkins knew that finding their enemy was, for now, their greatest challenge.
On Friday morning, the newspaper headlines were just as he'd expected, reporting the news that a plague might be about to strike Nolan City. The article's angle, however, was different from what he'd anticipated. There was no mention of the plague from thirty years ago. Instead, it claimed that since the start of winter, the flu sweeping the city had taken on a new and alarmingly different character.
While its mortality rate was no different from a common cold, its contagiousness had increased dramatically. Officials from the kingdom's health and disease control department had traveled to Nolan City to investigate, collaborating with local hospitals and the Church to perform autopsies on the deceased.
Their conclusion was that after patients died from the flu, the pathogens in their bodies began to mutate. This created a high probability of a deadly, corpse-borne plague, and the public was urged to take preventative measures.
Both The Nolan Daily and The Rhone River Gazette dedicated significant space to educating the public on preventative measures, but the advice amounted to little more than the basics: wash your hands frequently, don't drink untreated water, and stay away from the corpses of diseased animals and humans.
At the same time, nearly every paper reported on City Hall's emergency announcement: "An Emergency Ordinance on the Current Management of Funerals in Nolan City." Judging by the mayor's signature on the document printed in the paper, it had been signed just yesterday.
The ordinance decreed that, effective immediately, all deceased must be cremated before burial. Furthermore, to prevent the spread of pestilence, no body could be kept for more than thirty-six hours before final disposition.
It was an incredibly strict decision, issued without any prior consultation. The suddenness of the decree signaled the gravity of the situation, and now even citizens who were unaware of the full truth could sense the severity and danger looming over them.
Jenkins usually took about half an hour for breakfast, but today, engrossed in the newspapers, he spent nearly an hour at the table. His food, however, was not wasted as it grew cold. While Jenkins was absorbed in the news, his cat had stealthily crept onto the table and taken efficient measures to prevent any waste.
With the plague news seizing the headlines, yesterday's afternoon tornado and the strange gray snow were relegated to the back pages.
There wasn't much to say about the tornado; the paper chalked it up to an unpredictable natural disaster. The reporter spent most of the article using hyperbolic language to describe the damage, listing events like "innocent citizens missing," "buildings destroyed," and "flying debris shattering shop windows," yet there were no accompanying photographs of the scene.
The gray snow, on the other hand, sparked a widespread debate, though the consensus was clear: it was a rare natural phenomenon caused by the city's polluted air. The snowflakes started out white, the articles explained, but had been contaminated by complex pollutants in the atmosphere during their formation and descent, resulting in their current appearance.
All three newspapers Jenkins subscribed to lambasted the city's environmental issues, but not one of them dared to point out the truth: that cases of respiratory and pulmonary diseases treated in Nolan's major hospitals were increasing at an alarming rate year after year.
If they could link the potential plague to the air pollution, he mused, the environmental problem would likely solve itself overnight. But of course, certain people would never allow such a story to be printed.
Two new wanted posters had also appeared in the paper. One was for the murderer who had escaped prison the day before; clearly, the Church hadn't yet realized he was already dead. The other was a pencil sketch of the young man Jenkins had fought yesterday.
Beneath the sketch, the man's identity and danger level were clearly detailed, even listing two of his known aliases: Provence Lucal and Wilkawang.
It was a shame Jenkins hadn't managed to get a lock of his hair. With the [Disease Curse] spell, he could have at least severely wounded the man, if not killed him outright.
The weather this morning was overcast but free of snow. As he left the house, Jenkins spotted the new wanted posters plastered on a lamppost on St. George Avenue. He paused to look and was greeted by his neighbor, Mr. Goodman, who was just leaving for work. The middle-aged man smiled, though his face was partially hidden by a mask:
"Leaving so early today, Mr. Williamette?"
His voice sounded muffled and hoarse. Hopefully, he hasn't caught the flu, Jenkins thought.
Normally, when Mr. Goodman was leaving for the day, Jenkins would just be stepping outside in his pajamas to collect the milk and newspapers. But since he was up an hour earlier today, their paths had crossed.
After a brief complaint about the weather, their conversation turned to the plague warnings in the paper. Mr. Goodman was deeply troubled; even without prompting, his mind immediately went back to the disaster thirty years ago. He had only been a teenager then, but he had never forgotten the horrific sights the plague had left in its wake. Thıs content belongs to novelFɪre.net