TO: All board members
FROM: Chancellor John Michael
RE: EO draft
Please give me your thoughts on the following draft. The final order will go out tomorrow.
Executive Order #13 of the Post-Flares Coalition, by recommendation of the Population Control Committee, to be considered TOP-SECRET, of the highest priority, on penalty of capital punishment.
We the Coalition hereby grant the PCC express permission to fully implement their PC Initiative #1 as presented in full and attached below. We the Coalition take full responsibility for this action and will monitor developments and offer assistance to the fullest extent of our resources. The virus will be released in the locations recommended by the PCC and agreed upon by the Coalition. Armed forces will be stationed to ensure that the process unfolds in as orderly a manner as possible.
EO #13, PCI #1, is hereby ratified. Begin immediately.
To: John Michael
From: Katie McVoy
Subject: Potential
John,
We received the following radio message from soldiers at Ground Zero EU: an exchange between a Lieutenant Larsson and a private named Kibucho that began during a helicopter flyover. I have to warn you, it’s a little disturbing.
*Begin transmission*
Larsson: What the *expletive* is that down there? Through that gash in the roof. What’s all that movement?
Kibucho: They’re supposed to be *expletive* dead by now. It has to be animals or something.
Larsson: No way. But it’s too dark. We need to get down there and have a look.
Kibucho: I’ll tell them.
*Three-minute break in transmission*
Larsson: Open the door.
Kibucho: Are you sure?
Larsson: Open the *expletive* door, Private!
Kibucho: Going in.
*Two-minute break in transmission*
Kibucho: He chopped off my leg! He chopped off my *expletive* leg!
Larsson: What? What the *expletive* are you talking about?
Kibucho: [Garbled response.]
Larsson: Private! What’s going on?
Kibucho: Half of them are alive! Get me out!
Larsson: Backup, backup, backup! We need backup in Sector Seventeen of Ground Zero EU immediately!
Kibucho: [Garbled screams.]
Larsson: Holy *expletive*! Holy *expletive*! They’re eating him! My God, they’re eating him!
Kibucho: [Garbled screams that cut off abruptly.]
Larsson: They have me cornered! Oh, *expletive*, they have me cornered!
*End transmission*
We need to gather the board.
—Katie
To: Randall Spilker
From: Ladena Lichliter
Subject: Unbelievable
I know you’ve been sick, but the reports are flying in now. Have you seen any of them? These aren’t rumors anymore, Randall. They have at least 27 confirmed sightings of infected groups. The virus didn’t kill them! None of the doctors or scientists can nail down what’s gone wrong. But most of the people living at Ground Zero locations are completely insane, like animals. They’re monsters!
But that’s not even the worst part. What has the Coalition terrified is that victims even had time to escape from the remote camps. The Coalition thought the incubation period and onset of death would be much faster. And there are reports of symptoms in citizens outside the hot zones. Everywhere.
Randall, we have a major, major crisis on our hands. They should’ve listened to us. They should’ve listened!
God help us.
—LL
To: John Michael
From: Katie McVoy
Subject: Some last words
John,
There’s no way we can stop this. You’re right. I hate to admit it, but it’s true. Every effort we made to prevent the spread was pointless. The virus is jumping bodies every second. We can only hope that the rumors of the presence of Immunes are true. They might be the only chance we’ve got for survival.
A cure. I can’t think of any other possible solution. Somehow, we have to find a cure.
Did you hear what the media has taken to calling it? The Flare. I’m sure it’ll stick.
I have it. I know I do. I’m leaving. I don’t want to infect anyone.
You were a true friend in this madness.
Goodbye, John.
—Katie
Post-Flares Coalition Memorandum, Date 220.05.01, Time 11:23
TO: All board members
FROM: Chancellor John Michael
RE: Another solution
The killzone. That’s their word for the brain now. Where the Flare does its damage and slowly kills you with lunacy. And they already have a nickname for the Immunes, too. The Munies. What utter ridiculousness.
But jargon matters not. What matters is how it all connects. The killzone. The Flare. The Immunes. A world that’s in complete catastrophe. We need to find a cure. There is no other way to go forward.
We will meet tomorrow, 0800.
I have an idea.
Part III
Suppressed Memories
Thomas’s first memory of the Flare
It had been five days since they’d locked Thomas up in the white room. On that fifth day, after trying his best to go through the routine he’d established—exercise, eat, think, repeat—he decided to lie down and sleep. Let his terrible new world wash away for a while. Exhausted, he faded quickly and images began to bloom in his mind.
Thomas is young—he can’t tell how young exactly. He’s curled up in a corner, knees pulled up to his chest, shivering with fright. His dad—the man who holds him, reads to him, kisses him on the cheek, hugs him, bathes him—is on a rampage, screaming hateful things and turning over furniture. His mom tries to stop him, but he pushes her away without even seeming to realize who she is. She stumbles, tries to regain her balance, then slams into the wall a few feet from Thomas.
Sobbing, she crawls to him, pulls him into her arms.
“Don’t worry, honey,” she whispers. “They’re coming to take him away. They’ll be here soon.”
“Who?” Thomas asks. His voice sounds so young, and it breaks his dreaming heart.
“The people who are going to take care of him,” she answers. “Remember, your daddy’s sick, very sick. This isn’t really him doing all of this. It’s the disease.”
Suddenly Dad spins around to face them, his face aflame with anger. “Disease? Did I just hear you say disease?” Each word comes out of his mouth like a poisoned dart, full of venom.
Mom shakes her head, hugs Thomas tighter to her body.
“Why don’t you just say it, woman,” Dad continues, taking a step toward them. His chest is lurching with his attempts to suck in breath, and his hands are clenched into tight fists. “The Flare. Tell the boy how it is. Tell him the truth. Your dad has the Flare, Thomas. It’s comin’ along real nicely.” Another step closer. “Your mom has it, too. Oh yes. Soon she’ll be chewing on her fingers and feeding you dirt for breakfast. Laughing hysterically while she breaks the windows and tries to cut you. She’ll be bat crazy, boy, just like your daddy.”