The original video’s been wiped from the TV station’s website, and all the links to it are broken. But, of course, there’s a whole heap of streamers who’ve reposted it. Once something’s out there, it’s out there; even now. Even with the web as locked down as it is there’s still a thriving market for clickbait paranoia, and this is perfect for spreading fear and gaining subscribers.
Only maybe it’s not just clickbait, Erika.
Maybe they’re right.
And fuck if they are? If this is your virus? Then they should worry.
After scrolling for a while I find an upload without some streamer narrating their pet conspiracy theory over the top of it.
Doctor Blames NEURAGENE therapy for FLU DEATHS.
Honestly, it’s clickbait enough without the seasoning of added conspiracy theory.
My finger hovers over the play icon for the longest time. Logically I know that pressing play won't make it worse, but my fingers don't seem to have got the message. I walk a few paces, glance into the living room where Ash and Addy are beating the snot out of each other on some flavor of Final Fantasy. I guess Ash won this round of the games argument.
I retreat into the furthest corner of the kitchen and, turning the volume down as low as it’ll go, I coax my finger into tapping play. Turns out they didn’t save the whole broadcast, but it’s enough.
“…marily affect men, nine of whom have been taken to the already overwhelmed All Saints Hospital in Spink County. Social media comments from local residents in the cities served by the Jabez Family of Hospitals report they’ve been unable to get care in facilities overwhelmed by a combination of flu and this unknown virus that appears to be spreading either alongside or after flu infections. There have been similar reports from seven other counties scattered around the United States.
“We're joined now by the Chief Physician of Jabez Family of Hospitals, Doctor Chase Musser.”
“Thank you for having me.” Despite the fact the guy, looks-wise, is about half an inch from a lucrative career as a cable channel pastor, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so uncomfortable in front of a camera. He really doesn’t want to be there.
“Doctor Musser, can you tell our viewers what’s happening there?”
“Certainly!” His calm, paternalistic tone stands at odds with the beads of sweat on his hairline, and the anxiety I read from his body language. “Now, despite some exaggerated reports to the contrary, our hospitals — in fact, all of our facilities — are still providing competitively priced, timely and exemplary care. That said, it has been a busy influenza season, and we have seen higher than usual attendance—”
Impatient, I skip forward. Pausing for another quick check to make sure the kids are still occupied.
“…eports of men collapsing at home, at work, or in the street with an unknown infection. Can you tell us any more?”
“We have contacted the CDC and the state health department regarding a number of somewhat concerning admissions. All the patients admitted so far have been men, all arrived following syncopal episodes, some of them with an altered level of consciousness. None appear to have had any intoxicants onboard. All of these patients arrived grossly dehydrated and, as of this moment, all of them remain in the hospital. We believe we have them stabilized but they continue to present with a very high caloric demand, a high fever, and concerning markers on both CT and MRI scans. We continue to consider them to be in critical condition.
“However, I want to reassure the community, our patients, staff, and of course our shareholders, that we have been highly successful stabilizing these individuals mostly with simple intravenous fluids, analgesia and intravenous nutrition. Currently we’re optimistic that — once we further optimize treatment — they should improve and be able to fulfill their fiscal obligations.”
“Have any of the men woken up?”
“Several patients Glasgow Coma Scale — that’s how we measure level of consciousness,” he smiles condescendingly; I want to punch him through the phone. “Have improved during the course of treatment. However, they have now been sedated. We are, of course, taking steps to manage their other symptoms. I really can’t say more than that regarding those patients.” Doctor Musser glances backwards as four ambulances on lights and sirens streak out from the hospital belying his earlier comments. A look of concern flickers across his face before he gives a quick cough to clear his throat. “As I said, it’s a busy flu season this year. I should note that we have also seen a similar number of women who had similar initial symptoms to those described by the men — joint pain, fever, weakness, thirst, hunger. However, all of them were able to be managed at home. None of the women have required hospitalization. We have spoken to teams at the facilities where other individuals have been hospitalized and they report a similar pattern suggesting that this virus does more severely impact men for some reason.”
“There have been suggestions that this is a biological weapon that’s been released by dissident opponents of the government.”
“Well I think we can reassure you that this is unlikely. Other hospitals have confirmed our initial findings that this appears to be related to a specific type of gene therapy, and not a biological weapon. I understand that this in itself is concerning for the many people who’ve received gene therapy, but I think it’s important to wait until we better understand the situation.” He nods, presumably in a manner that’s meant to be reassuring, but which instead makes me want to find something very sharp to throw at him.
“One final question Doctor Musser, if you would? A document leaked earlier today, that purports to be from GenTechnik Laboratory Equipment, states that the sequencing of the patients performed at All Saints Hospital, among others, found evidence of a Neuragene marker related to an as-yet unidentified treatment. Can you confirm or deny that?”
“I— Uh.” He glances off camera. I’m not sure it’s possible for him to sweat any more than he already is into that sports jacket, but he’s giving a good college try. “It is— uh — true that in our lab — our sequencing equipment — we — the sequencer — identified a marker — a partial marker that can be — that is sometimes — has been used by Neuragene. However,” he speeds up, appearing frantic to ensure this gets in before he’s slapped with a billion lawsuits. “I want to be clear that all the men have no record of receiving such therapy in their records. And to assume that Neuragene is at fault at this point would be premature.”
“Thank you Doctor Musser.”
“Thank—” The guy’s cut off mid-word. Probably cut-off mid-paycheck too.
“While the CDC has so far declined to comment, the South Dakota Department of Homeland Health did release a brief statement advising any males with a combination of weakness, fever, rash, severe joint pain, accompanied by persistent thirst or hunger, or partners of individuals with these symptoms to dial 91—.”
“What’re you watching?” I hit pause and almost throw the phone behind me on the counter. Addy’s standing at the faucet, her cup full, her face which was filled with curiosity switches to concern.
“Oh hey sweetheart. I didn’t see you come in. It’s just, uh, something work related. It’s nothing exciting.” I say in possibly the least believable everything’s fine voice I’ve ever managed.
“Are you okay Mom?”
“Yeah! Why wouldn’t I be?” Get a grip, Erika.
Addy stares at me for a moment.
“Hey, sweetie, why don’t you go finish up with Ash. It’s gonna be—”
“Bed soon. I know.” She mostly keeps the whine out of her voice, but also manages to convey how terribly persecuted she is as she heads back to the living room and plops down onto the couch. I can’t quite make out what they’re saying but my heart sinks as Ash and Addy whisper frantically.
“Hey,” Caitlin says, softly. I turn back to find her propped against the hallway doorframe.“You okay?”
I so-so my hand.
That’s probably an overestimation.
“You want to talk about it?”
I incline my head toward the sounds of Ash and Addy’s whispered conversation. She gestures at her watch and then upstairs. I give a quick nod.
“How about I chase ’em up to bed, honey. You go get ready and do whatever you need to. You look like you need the break.”
I slump slightly in relief. The tension that’s been holding me rigid at least somewhat dropping away. “Please?”
“Go on.” She steps over, pulls me upright off the counter, and planting a quick kiss on my forehead, shoves me in the direction of the stairs. “I got this.”
#
:::RL: ¿A quién carajo hiciste enojar? [image attached]
:::RL: Que se joda tu apartamento
:::RL: Quiero que me devuelvan el dinero
I stare at the black-clad men fuzzily captured in the photo for a while. There’s no identifying markings, but it’s the same gear that Rue’s bodyguards have on in the background of a publicity shot from opening the Neuragene facility in Cuernavaca. Hardly enough to convict him, but enough to convince me.
Shit.
I guess he’s decided that I’m worth more to him than the damage my dead-man’s switch would do. I’d hoped the audio of his unfettered rant — his admission of what he’s been doing — would be enough to keep him away.
It worked until now.
But apparently our detente is over.
It’s not that I didn’t know that, but it’s different when you’re looking at the kicked in door to the place he thinks you live, the belongings smashed and strewn across the floor. The wrecked furniture.
Even at a digital remove it’s fucking terrifying.
I swallow down the nausea, find I’ve unconsciously wrapped my arm around my abdomen. Suddenly feeling like it’s burning me, I toss the phone as far away as I can get it. Then dropping back, I slump down, curl into a fetal ball on the bed, and silently cry.
#
I assume the kids’ll be listening, or trying to. But, if they’ve made it back to lurk outside our door, they’ve done so impressively quietly. The floor squeaks in the hall just outside the kids’ rooms, probably a result of the exquisitely graceful movements of a pair of just-pre-teens. But neither Caitlin nor I heard any noises so hopefully they’re not there? Fingers crossed.
After I’d gone upstairs Caitlin heard some of Ash’s whispered analysis to Addy. While Ash’s version of stealthy is kind of like elephants dancing, and subtle isn’t a word in her dictionary, what Caitlin overheard isn’t enough to know exactly what she thinks is going on. We’ll need to talk to them both sooner rather than later.
Ideally sometime before her invention becomes more terrifying than reality.
Another job for tomorrow’s list. Slot it in somewhere after breakfast, getting them out the door to school, finding out whether Rue’s got any idea who I am now, or that I have a family, or where I live, or that he could kidnap our kids and I’d pretty much do whatever the fuck he wanted to get them out. Y’know, after the typical small morning errands but before coaxing the two of them back to bed in the evening.
That is, assuming by the end of tomorrow I’ve not been thrown in an unmarked van and driven off to the nearest Neuragene facility to be— Okay Erika. Enough. That isn’t a useful line of thought.
But before we can get to what the hell we tell the kids, I need to tell Caitlin.
After a pause that felt like it lasted hours, she glanced up, away from the phone, and toward me. I untangle myself from her — the fear gnawing away at me is that it’s the last time she’ll ever hold me like that. That she’ll ever look at me like that.
“Erika?”
“Sorry! Shit! Uh, yeah? I mean, uh, no.” I spit out, trying and failing to answer the question she asked somewhere between a few seconds and a few centuries ago. I pause and try to pull it together into coherence. “Aht. I mean not ‘yeah’ to your question. Fuck. I guess I don’t really know how much danger they’re in — how much danger any of us is in. I’m sorry. It’s a useless answer, I know. But at the moment there’s just so much that I don’t know.”
Honestly, time went wrong the second she asked, ‘Are our kids in danger?’ Suddenly ripped from the moment and back to decisions I — apparently — once made. Decisions I made so long ago they feel like they were the choices of a totally different woman. Are they in danger, though? It’s basically the same question that’s been buzzing around my brain like a nest of giant hornets ever since I heard that first alert. A sign that hung in the foreground, scrawled in neon, as I scrolled through the messages.
Have I put our family in danger?
Have I put Ash and Addy and Caitlin in danger?
And the answer is: Yes?
Probably?
Who the fuck knows.
The silence expands until it feels like the walls of the room are bowing away from me. The ceiling pushed out and touching the ionosphere. Caitlin’s eyes, normally so warm, are almost cold. She’s just staring forward, watching the flickering dance of the TV screen. She flipped it on to make just enough noise to cover our conversation.
I suck in a slow breath. Where the fuck do I start?
“Why do you get employee alerts from Neuragene?” She says, startling me.
“Shit.”
“Erika—”
“You remember when we met?”
“Can’t easily forget — not a terribly romantic first-meeting story.” She smiles sadly. “Why?”
“Not long before you met me, I’d run away from working there. From Neuragene. I’ll get to why. I promise. But I wasn’t on the run when I met you. Well, I’d stopped running. I’d got where I was running to, if that makes sense. I just hadn’t worked out what to do next. I’m sorry I never told you, but when I first met you it was too soon. You were just some random woman in a Safeway and I was having a fucking embarrassing breakdown in the middle of the store.
“I wanted to tell you, though. I was so desperate to tell someone. To tell anyone. It was this huge thing getting in the way of everything. But it was just too soon.
“I nearly did, though. I almost blurted it out. Trauma dumped on you in aisle forty-fucking-seven. I’d been alone for months, just texts from Mary-Anne to keep me the right side of sane.” Caitlin snorts. “Okay, more or less the right side of sane.
“Then we started dating, and I didn’t want to ruin that. And then I met the kids, and they were so great, and I didn’t want to fuck up the relationship and I was like maybe it doesn’t really matter?
“You were the first friend I had here — really you’re the first person that I really ever got close to.”
She slips her arm around me — her face softens a little.
“Whatever it is, honey…”
“Don’t say that. Don’t, Caitlin. Not until you know. Because— God I fucked it. I fucked it up so much.”
I slump back against the headboard. How much can I tell her and keep her safe? Does it even matter what she knows at this point? Is she— Are we all fucked regardless? “And then, well, it was just too long. It just felt like something I could leave in the past. I kept looking and no one seemed to be checking up on me. I thought my plan had worked.” I take a sip of water, my mouth suddenly dry. “Oaklen — Oaklen seemed to be leaving me alone. So I thought maybe I was safe. Maybe I’d got away with it.”
“Got away with what, Erika?” Caitlin whispers, an unnerving tremor in her voice. Caitlin’s the strong one. The planner. The always ready mom. The foreman who keeps people as safe as she can. I’m worried I’ll breaking her.
“I worked for Neuragene. I had a different name back then.” I keep talking over Caitlin’s intake of breath. “For a few years. You know how I said I took a year out, and then there was that break from college because of COVID, and then I took that year with my family?” She nods. “Uh. That’s when. That was to cover the time I was working for Neuragene then. The year off afterwards too. They — well, Oaklen — recruited me straight out of college. He saw my dissertation: Bidirectional Modulation of the SOX9 Pathway via CRISPRa and CRISPRi utilizing dCas9 Ribonucleoprotein Delivery in Vivo. Catchy title, eh? But exactly the sort of thing he was looking for.”
“I understood basically none of the words in that, sweetheart. Utilizing – sure – and in vivo, that’s like in live subjects?”
“Yeaaaah. Basically turning on and off one of the main ‘boy’ genes using a virus.”
“What’s that got to do with flu? Or why you had to run away?”
I take another slow breath. Shuffle myself so I’m sitting cross legged facing her. Wrap my hands around my knees.
“Uh. I swear I’ll get there. But it’s complicated.”
“Okay,” she says, hesitantly.
“Caitlin, you remember Miller’s Protection of Women and Children Act?”
“Yeah, that was the one that got rid of Title IX, wasn’t it? ‘cos we’re all such delicate flowers. And it banned treating trans people. Well, banned trans people. No legal anything, no treatment.”
“Yep. That’s the one,” I say. “Had a bunch of other wild gender stuff and homophobic shit in it too. Oh yeah, it made children officially the property of their parents. Sick fucks, the lot of them.”
“Huh,” Caitlin shakes her head. “I remember when it passed. Some trad-wife-bitch was celebrating in the restaurant we were commiserating in. She yelled at me for being in the wrong bathroom.” She sighs.
“So… uh. Fuck, Caitlin. Thing is, I’m not intersex. I’m trans.”
“But— No— I don’t understand.” She looks at me, utterly nonplussed.
“I was assigned male at birth.” I meet her gaze steadily. Watch as disbelief crowds around her.
“But how? What? No. But…that MRI? I was there after the accident with you. I remember doing the checklist with you before it… You said you’d never had surgery, and I know you were kind of out of it when that stupid doctor was going over the results. But he said you were intersex. Went on and on about how your womb’s not— anyway. I know he kept ignoring you and talking over you, but you have periods. We sync up for fuck’s sake. I don’t know a ton about trans women but they don’t—”
“Oaklen Rue wanted something that could — partially — reverse male development. Turn off the genes that make you male, wind back the clock. Basically force a male body into becoming a female one.”
“That’s not…possible?”
“Ta-da,” I say, wiggling my fingers in jazz hands.
“But…What?!”
“It wasn’t easy. He picked me to lead the project because of my work. The project lead had got stuck, and their virus didn’t do as much as he figured you could. Not that he really understands anything, anyway. But he brought me in to make it ‘better’. I swear, Caitlin, when I started I thought he was doing it as some kinda — I dunno — philanthropic way to help trans people.” I pause, tuck my hands under me and dig my nails in to the backs of my legs. “No. No more omissions. No more lies. Yeah, I thought that for a hot minute when I got there, but I didn’t think it for long. Then I thought maybe he was some chaser, pissed at the sudden supply shortage of trans people for him to, well, screw or date or whatever.” I laugh hollowly. “But then I— No, I’m getting ahead of myself.
“Anyway, I don’t know where he got the people he used it on but,” Another breath. Another attempt to keep myself from the brink. “But when I saw them I don’t think… No, fuck, Caitlin. I hate admitting this. I knew they weren’t trans. They weren’t happy with the changes to their bodies. I mean, the couple’a ones I was allowed to see and speak to, sure. Either coached really well and effectively terrified into great acting, or actually trans.
“But the rest of them, they weren’t trans. And they weren’t people picked because they’d adjust.”
“Adjust?”
“Yeah, you know, people who don’t really care about their sex. Like Liz? She’s fine being a woman but she’s not like, attached to it. She’s said before she doesn’t really care, thinks being a guy would be fine. And maybe she wouldn’t? But I figure some of us are hard-wired girl or boy — whether that matches the body we’re in or not. And some of us are kinda shoveable in whatever direction fits their body. You know — the two bell curves of what people’s internal sex is,” I tap my head, “in here, overlapping.”
She smiles a little. “I remember having this conversation with you not long after we met. Your little pet gender theory. Said there was no ethical way to test it… That was a good date night. Karaoke and one too many shots.” The smile fades just as quickly as it appears. “Okay. So they picked up not people who have some gender flexibility? And not people who were trans? Why?”
“Oaklen wanted people who’d suffer. People who’d hate what was happening. People who’d be ashamed or think being a girl, being a woman was humiliating. I… Most of the time I only saw like a couple of the test sub— captives. But sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of the others and they weren’t… Caitlin, they were sobbing or curled up. One time I saw this gir— person. They were just staring out into space. But,” I plead, “You have to believe me Caitlin, I always had someone with me — like a nurse or the doctor and they had the access keys. I swear. I couldn’t just go in or out.”
“You’re right Erika. I’m not gonna lie to you. That’s bad. Real, real bad. What you did — it sounds pretty fucked, too. But I still don’t get what this has to do with flu, or why they’re trying to track you down now?”
“Caitlin,” I swipe tears away from the corners of my eyes. “That’s not the worst bit. I know I keep saying it,” I try and temper my tone, dial back the desperation of me imploring her to believe me. “But I was really fucked up back then.” Her gaze settles back on me — I realize that at some point I’ve switched from holding my knees to dragging the coverlet into a tight ball.
“Wait — so I wanna know the answer to the why but also: what was he planning to do with those people? It’s illegal to be trans — so what was he doing with these people he was, uh, ‘making trans’? They’re just — non-people, suddenly.”
“I don’t know, exactly. He called them ‘merchandise’. And he didn’t want people who were indistinguishable from cis women. Or, well, nearly.” There’s a faint, far-away sound. I realize it’s my bleak laugh. “That was why their virus was so shitty — he just wanted it a little better. A little more reliable. Because he wanted people for a certain clientele.
“He takes them out to his island, I think.” She’s just staring now — unblinking — stiller than I’ve ever seen her. “But my virus was too good at what it did. They didn’t look like early-transition trans women anymore and uh, he wanted them to keep their dicks. I kinda spoiled that for him.” There’s that sound from me again. Despair wrapped in a comforting blanket of self mockery. “When he got angry, that’s when I found out why he wanted the virus that way. What he wanted it for. So I ran. I dosed myself and ran. Destroyed all my research before I left. I wanted to stop him, Caitlin. I did. I just didn’t know how to.”
“You wanted to stop him?”
“Yeah. And I did? At least a bit. I wanted revenge too, though. I think. Xavier? He’s the asshole that’s been texting me. He said Oaklen closed the lab after I ran. But I figure he just went back to what he was doing before.”
Caitlin doesn’t say anything for a while. The white noise of the chatter from the TV inadequately fills the growing void.
“I’m pissed at you, Erika. I still love you, I think you need to hear that right now,” she says, bringing my gaze gently up to meet hers. “So I’m telling you that. I do still love you. But I am pissed. You brought this,” she gestures, somehow encompassing everything, “Into our lives. You brought it into our kids lives. And I get that you didn’t tell me when we met. I get that you didn’t tell me for a while. But we’ve been together years, Erika. You should have warned me.”
“I’m sorry.” I say, my voice scraping out across the sharpened rocks. “I— I always meant—”
“Meant doesn’t mean you did. And you still haven’t told me why this is happening now.”
“Oh shit. Right. Because… You remember the deputy who went missing? And the motel guy? Steven something.”
“Yeah. You did tell me about the deputy. Although I would have realized. You looked kinda familiar and your face’d been all over the news.”
“Well, uh, he caught the virus. Same with Steven. I didn’t mean for it— When I say I was fucked up, Caitlin, I wasn’t really there all the time. It sounds like an excuse, and a crappy one. But I wasn’t. I couldn’t imagine more than a day ahead? Sometimes just a few hours. It was like a fugue state and in it? I made the virus really infectious. All my notes, all my everything said it wasn’t. But I did. Took me a while to work out how much I’d sabotaged myself.
“So they caught it. You need a shit ton of fluids and protein and fats and carbs to survive. I prepped for it before I got properly sick. Set up fluids. Gave myself a shot at survival. But they didn’t know. It fucks you up — fucks up your head for a while. And it hurts so much to move. To get food. To drink. They didn’t prepare, and they didn’t go to the hospital, so they died. Part way through the change. That’s why they found those intersex bodies they never identified.”
I was wrong.
Now she’s stiller than I’ve ever seen her.
I’m not entirely certain she’s breathing.
I can’t meet her gaze anymore. Avert my eyes. Stare at my hands tying themselves in knots.
“I didn’t mean for anyone— Fuck, no. Clearly I did mean for it to spread. But I didn’t realize. I didn’t—” I shrug, despondent. “They caught it. They died. Other people, the women in town, they caught it too, I think. But they didn’t die. I don’t really know what impact it has on cis women other than they seem fine afterwards. The why now, though? That’s because the other thing I did when I was fucked up I — I made it so it can become infectious again later. It y’know, goes dormant for years, hides in your cells, and then it wakes up. And it doesn’t hurt you the second time, except maybe a rash. But it does spread.”
“So those Verity social posts? The TikToks you found, all that social stuff you showed me with people complaining about a rash after the flu — they have it?” She asks.
“Yeah. It’s in all the places the women from Red Dust went, I think.”
“And that video you were watching. The one with that asshole doctor talking about guys who collapsed and they’re in the hospital?”
“Yeah.” I whisper. “If they manage to keep them alive they’ll wake up girls. Well, physically.”
“You’ve transed — is that a word? You’ve transed a bunch of people.”
“Uh, yeah. And there’s going to be more. Christ, there’s going to be a lot more. Unless they can work out how to stop it.”
“And that thing about it having a Neuragene tag or something?”
“Yeah, also me. I put Neuragene’s biomarker on the virus. Apparently fugue-state me thought she could get the finger pointed at Oaklen.”
Caitlin hops off the bed. Stretches herself out.
“No wonder he’s pissed.” She paces the length of the room, thinking. “How soon?” she eventually asks.
“How soon which thing?”
“Uh, first two off the top of my head: I’m guessing we need to disappear. How soon do we need do that? And, How soon is it going to get bad?”
“Getting out of here? Soon, I think, probably. I’m sorr—”
“Don’t. I know you’re sorry, but right now? Right now we need to make a plan to keep Ash and Addy safe. You can apologize later.”
“If— If you think it would be better I can just go.” I whisper.
“Erika, don’t you dare.” I can feel her anger singeing the edges of her words. “I’m not going to pretend I’m not upset. I’m not going to pretend I’m not pissed at you. But I’m more angry with them. And this fucking country that made you feel this was the only way. And, I’m your wife and you’re mine, Erika. We keep our family safe together. Just because you fucked up doesn’t mean I want you to fuck off. We’re a team, and don’t you forget it.”
“Okay.” I choke back the sob that threatens to escape, and instead take a shuddering breath. Dig out answers to her questions. “I don’t think there’s anything obvious linking me to my past. But,” I hold up my hand, shuffle across and grab my phone from the bed where she dropped it, show her the photos of the apartment. “They seem pretty serious.”
“Shit.” She says. I watch as her eyes scan the photo and then our room. I follow her gaze, she’s hitting the markers of all the things I know matter to her. Itemizing the small pieces of her life she wants to save.
“As for how soon is it gonna get bad? My rough R-naught — sorry, that’s like how many people each person infects — is about fourteen or fifteen. I, uh, don’t have enough real world data to calculate it really accurately yet. But I think it’ll, uh, spread a bit faster than chickenpox.”
“Fifteen? Each person infects fifteen?”
“Yeah, uh, about that. On average. It’s— I engineered it to have a longer infectious period before you get symptoms. So yeah. Fifteen-ish. That’s unless the country behaves like Red Dust where it’s nearly all women infected and they’re pissed, and then they all hole up by themselves, more or less.”
“Fifteen?” I watch as she starts to do the math in her head. “That’s insane. That’s like—”
“About seven or eight cycles of infections ‘til the US is fully infected.” I say, quietly. My phone clatters to the floor from her hands. “Um, if we use science, not woo, to try and stop it then a bit longer.” I say, trying to feign optimism. “Longer still if they work out a vaccine. But, uh, rough estimate? Four months? Probably not less than three, but almost certainly no more than six.”
“Half the population is going to be what, hospitalized over the next maybe three-to-six months?
“Yes,” I whisper.
“How’s that going to work?”
“I… I don’t know. I think a lot of men are going to die.”
“And then what happens?”
“I… I don’t know.”