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After the Pestilent Maize blew in, people said they got all itchy. It felt like corn silk was running up and down under their skin. Wormy. Electric jolts. That sensation was actually the mold attaching to the brain stem. After we became infected, our memories were compromised. We didn’t recognize the faces in family photographs. We asked ourselves, “Who is this baby I am dreaming about? Why do I feel nothing for the man in my bed? Why did that stranger hug me in the Target?” Folks did what they could to get rid of the pain. Some tore off their own flesh with garden tools. Others chose to douse themselves with ethanol while holding beeswax candles. Those that bore the agony were damaged, but survived.
Everybody had a different exit plan. Some families hid in their basements, and others disappeared into the deep woods. Most just panicked. Did mindless, repetitive circuits around their houses like demented polar bears at a low-budget zoo. At Rybogerm they had four days’ warning. But the lead time was squandered. Too much in-fighting and self-interest. Jimmy heard talk of taking the corporate jet up to Iceland. Something about how the geothermic baths would quell the disease. Jimmy knew it was bullshit. A line the executives could tell their scared wives. A tiny morsel of hope doled out to children huddled in the backs of limousines.
Jimmy knew the odds were close to zero. He had access to all the data. He saw the numbers before they got crunched and scrubbed. But Jimmy’s own brain was infected, and soon logic escaped him. He ignored his own sanity and dared to dream of escape. At first Jimmy’s mental clarity increased, but that was undermined by a loss of motivation. He became easily muddled by his own schemes. Jimmy made long lists of possible solutions, but never acted on them. First, he was going to inject himself with one of the many unmarked antivirals in the classified pathogen lab. He thought he’d worked out the meaning of the bar codes that marked the syringes. But when Jimmy broke into the storage freezer, he forgot why he was in there. Next, he was going to blow up the Lincoln Memorial. Something about the plan had made sense to Jimmy somewhere along the line. But he stared at his crazy notebooks the next morning — the diagrams and political musings — and refused to believe they were his. That’s when Jimmy decided to pack up the RV and haul ass up to Alaska. He figured if he just stayed mobile, he’d be able to ride out the storm. Of course, that’s never how things play out. You got to get your affairs in order first. Pick up your kids from soccer camp. Maybe you need to wait until Monday for the bank to open. By the time you’re ready to skip out of Dodge, it’s too late. The borders are closed. They’ve got the snipers on all the tall buildings.
About David Hancock
