Jacqueline Druga: Immune

Samaipata, Bolivia

It was the day of her death. Not that Mariana was ill. She was perfectly healthy. One hundred percent well. But she was going to die.

She was ready.

A young woman, barely an adult, made her decision. For nearly two days, she stayed in one room, watching the end of the world. At least to her, it was the end.

She prepared to leave. What would happen once she stepped outside her home was a mystery. Her tourist attraction village had gone from peaceful and serene to nothing less than hell on Earth. Streets splattered with blood, armed soldiers fighting the enemy, men and women in medical space suits.

Her primary focus for two days was Franz Vargas. He ran the bake shop in town and was the first person that told her about the illness. She was picking up a bread order and he was closing shop early for the day.

He warned her that people were falling ill at the snap of a finger. He conveyed that he believed it was more than likely something in the water. How ignorant and absurd. Falling ill at the snap of a finger was a ludicrous exaggeration.

Until she witnessed it with her own eyes.

Not one block from the shop, an old woman grabbed her arm, gasped, and struggled to breathe. Her eyes were dark, face pale, and before Mariana could do anything, the woman collapsed to the bench on the street.

Mariana ran all the way home.

After having done so, she finally noticed that old woman was the only person she saw. The streets, usually dotted with tourists, were vacant. Had they heard of the illness or were they all sick?

When she got home, her parents were rushing out the door. Her sister was ill with the mystery sickness and they were taking her to the hospital.

That was the last she saw of them.

That was two days earlier.

She did, however, see Franz. Alive and well until he was killed.

Whatever the illness, it caused some sort of violent mental disturbance. A transformation in the victims.

They looked dead, dropping to the ground motionless, only to get up again.

They rose into a violent state, ripping apart anyone that went near them. Chasing them down with a vengeance.

They moved oddly, twitching movements that seemed inflexible. As if parts of their bodies were broken.

That first night, she also heard them.

Mariana realized that many were not sick that first night, they were hiding like her. But those… things sought them out, pounding on doors, scratching at the walls, breaking windows.

They never saw her or sensed her. Unlike Franz, she was safe.

The first thing silenced was internet connectivity that went down before the sun, followed by any phone service, and finally the electricity. Military vehicles along with medical vans started rolling

Franz sought salvation from the infected pounding relentlessly at his home. He ran out, only to be pounced on by countless infected. When they were finished, Franz lay in a huge pool of his own blood, his insides ripped from him, a huge gaping hole in his gut.

Mariana watched him all night.

At first light, Franz rose.

She watched his figure contort its way from the ground to an upright position. He twisted and jerked, his legs shook, and his back wrenched left to right before he stood upright with defined, rigid movements.

A stiff turn of his head and he opened his mouth as if trying to speak or gasp for breath, and he made the same sound as the others.

The air rumbled against his tongue trying desperately to get into passageways that were closed. It sounded similar to snoring, only in a painful way.

She wanted to believe he was aware, though she knew the reality of that was slim. He wasn’t alive; he couldn't be alive.

Franz would become one of them. Pouncing on the uninfected, violently recruiting them into the sickened world.

No one was safe, not even the medical personnel. A woman in a protective suit held a clipboard up for Mariana to see.

Words written big, it read, ‘I am from The World Health Organization. Stay put. It will be over soon.”

The woman was attacked and killed right before Mariana’s eyes.

The soldiers surprised Mariana. Some remained and fought, trying to rescue people from their homes, but the rest withdrew with the trucks. When that happened, people panicked. The tourists in the hostels took to the streets with their luggage. It was insane to her. If they needed to escape, why weigh themselves down with heavy baggage?

By morning of the second day, it was mayhem. Screams and cries for help filled the air, and Mariana knew it was time.

She prayed for everyone. For the sick, the dying, the suffering, and then with a plan to head into the nearby park, her destination, Mariana slit her wrists and opened the door.

Holding out her arms in a ‘here I am, come and get me manner’, she was shocked that she was ignored.

The infected never came near her. It was as if she wasn’t there. They continued devouring the others while she stood among them.

In bare feet, Mariana walked down the street. Her soles sloshed through pools of thickened blood, people cried out to her for help, arms reaching out to her in desperation, but she didn’t stop.

What could she do?

Blood draining from her arms, Mariana grew weak. She brought her hands to her ears to block out the noise, the screams, the gurgling those things made. She ventured only as far as the end of the block when she heard it.

A high pitched whistle sound.

Peering up to the sky, Mariana saw the trail of white smoke and the object overhead.

It could only mean one thing.

Mariana lowered her arms, took a breath for courage, and waited.

The explosion arrived a split second later.

The medical worker was right. It was over.

Pittsburgh, PA

Some people were born too late. Myron Bauman believed he was a soul meant for the eighties, but somehow, he missed his spot in line and was born decades later. Even his name dictated that.

He felt it and knew it. REO Speedwagon music defined him. Not a day went by that he didn’t blast the past tracks while getting ready for work. He was a master of Atari, and despite the low resolution and often comical graphics, mastering such an old game was not an easy task.

Myron was different. He was creative and eclectic, and his aspirations and dreams didn’t require a college degree. He was quite happy working at the Game Shop as assistant manager. At twenty-eight years old he had his life ahead of him.

Myron was a large guy, larger in the middle with, as his grandmother described, chipmunk cheeks. He stood before his bedroom mirror, combing his thick brown hair and trying to look his dapper best for work.

Myron always did.

He could smell the cinnamon rolls baking, his grandmother was fixing breakfast. He had lived with his grandmother since he was nine when his parents decided to go to Aruba and never returned. They were alive and called once a year.

His grandmother was his all star; he would do anything for her, and vowed that even if he got married, his wife would have to live there. He wasn’t leaving her alone. She supported his every whim.

When Myron wanted to join the football team, his Gram came to the tryouts. Myron didn’t make it because, well, he was slow and didn’t run quite as fast as everyone else did. At every gamer tournament, she treated him like he was a celebrity and when Myron decided to join the wrestling team, his grandmother was all for it. Although she did ask him not to wear those tights. They showed far too much of his ‘gentlemens’ and should a future wife be in the audience, she didn’t need to get a sneak peak before the wedding night.