He rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling. He felt a tear run down his cheek and he squeezed his eyes shut again. He could see her bloody body laying across the dining room floor, her leg missing and most of her face chewed off. He tried to convince himself it wasn’t her, but her tattoo was visible. The torn heart just above her left breast with Roger in the middle. The perfect half to his matching tattoo with Cecile inked in it.
His hand absently rubbed the area and he stifled a sob. Why hadn’t he listened? Why couldn’t he have rushed to her side, even if to placate her?
He sat on the edge of the bed and clenched his jaw, his body wanting to scream, to hit something, to kick something, to punch something. He held his head in his hands and choked down the pain. He tuned out the ragers screaming outside and forced himself to breathe normally.
He hated when reality came back to kick him in the nuts, and tonight’s reality check was especially vivid. He blew his breath out again and walked back out to the balcony.
The cool night air brought the smell of rain and he stared above the horizon to see if he could spot the approaching storm. Nothing but stars were visible for as far as the eye could see.
He glanced down to the concrete patio below. For the briefest of moments, he could imagine allowing himself to simply slip over the edge. As long as he landed head first, odds were strong he’d be with Cecile. But he knew his luck. He’d end up broken or damaged, fully awake when the ragers began chewing on his parts.
He sat down on the balcony and stared through the wrought iron railings. It was going to be another one of those nights where the ghosts of the past wouldn’t let him sleep.
Dr. LaRue went from subject to subject, recording vitals and charting any changes she could find. She paused by a white male subject and gently raised his sleeping eyelid. She couldn’t be certain, but it almost appeared as though the redness of the eyes was beginning to dissipate. She marked her thoughts in the chart, then went to the next subject. A darker-skinned female breathed rapidly as her body tried to burn off the sedative they were filling her with, via the IV tubes.
Vivian checked her vitals and shook her head as she noted her condition. “The gene therapy isn’t taking.” She pulled her gloves off and tossed them into the waste bin.
“I would think it prudent to give it more time.” Her colleagues were always hoping for the best, but she was more of a pragmatist.
She sighed as she pulled the outer lab coat off.
“We used the same viral vectors as the virus itself. You’ve seen how rapidly it infects. I would expect similar results if it were going to work.”
He laid down his own clipboard and approached her. He instinctively checked before lowering his voice, “The subjects we used the gene therapy and secondary treatments on seem to show very promising results. Perhaps if we consider that the vaccines are weakening the virus’ ability to propagate through—”
She held a hand up, stopping him. “The subjects who just got the vaccine variants have the same promising results.” She shook her head. “I think we can scratch the reverse vector gene therapy from the list of possible curatives.”
He crossed his arms and gave her a tight-lipped stare. “I’m not ready to give up on the gene therapy just yet.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Charles, I realize you were the one who replaced the viral DNA in the therapeutic strain, but let’s face it, they aren’t taking. They aren’t overwriting the viral DNA in the host cells. Either something in the DNA that was removed somehow changed the capsid on the cell wall, or the DNA itself has a built-in biological firewall that prevents the replaced DNA from having its desired effect.”
He shook his head. “You know that gene therapy takes time.”
“And you’ve seen how quickly this virus replicates and infects the subjects. We’re talking seconds…not days.”
He huffed and turned his back on her. “I’m not counting it out just yet. You can choose to ignore that test subject if you like.”
“Charles, be reasonable.” She stopped herself short of calling him closed-minded. Instead, she counted to five and took a deep breath. “In order for the curative to be effective, it has to be a single dose that can work on its own. We can’t hospitalize 90% of the population and baby step our way through weeks of gene therapy.” She sighed dramatically. “It isn’t effective unless it’s a single shot, one and done, rapid realization.”
“Says who?” he demanded, spinning to face her again.
“Says the government.” She lowered her voice and pulled him aside. “They need something they can mass deploy. Yes, in some instances, once the grand majority of the population has been treated, we might be able to use your gene therapy in clinical theaters for…stubborn cases. But they need a nuke, not a precision instrument that is slow with results.”
“Your vaccines aren’t showing to be an instant cure.” He crossed his arms and gave her a smirk.
“I’m not claiming them to be. But it’s something that could be delivered via numerous vectors.” She gave him a sad smile. “I’m counting out the gene therapy.”
“You can’t do that.” His eyes widened with surprise.
“I can, and I am.” She motioned with her head to one of the orderly techs. “Return her to the isolation ward and prepare her for reentry to the general population.”
Charles was nearly pleading as he followed her. “But what if it begins to take? What if she begins to show signs of remission? She’ll be in there with them and…”
“And if she shows any signs of improvement, we’ll remove her, and we’ll readdress
