In 2011 the Variola Vera virus, better know as smallpox, responsible for the death of 300 million people in the 20th century alone, was declared eradicated by the World Health Organisation (WHO).
WHO had initiated a global smallpox eradication campaign in 1967. Routine smallpox vaccination in the United States concluded in 1972 and the final round of vaccinations across the world were undertaken in 1977.
There were still two known repositories of the virus were left, at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia and the State Research Center of Virology and Biotechnology (VECTOR) in Koltsovo, Russia.
It was never made public if they were the source of the mutated strain of smallpox that swept the world like wildfire, or if it was a terrorist act, either way the result was the same.
Global lethal pandemic that killed indiscriminately, except for those individuals inoculated in the 70s.
For a brief while a smallpox scar on the shoulder was a thing of pride, something that marked you as special, a survivor.
Then reality set in.
The year was 2026 and the youngest person on the planet was 49, though in years to come they became known only as The Parents.
Instalment Thirty Two
Don’t look under the bed, the child shivered. Never look under the bed.
Why? I asked, it’s only a bed.
Under there, the child stammered, that’s were they live.
Who lives?
The Dust Bunnies!
I bent down to look, chuckling, dust bunnies!
Don’t move anything, he said, it disturbs them.
Funny kid, just doesn’t want to clean his room so invented this story.
But still, those scratches on his arms…
Under the bed was the mess I expected, shoes, boxes, clothes and comics, all covered in a film of dust.
Don’t disturb them, he whispered.
I puffed my cheeks and blew, sending a cloud of dust into the darkness.
There’s nothing under here but mess, I said.
Then it happened.
Movement.
From of the corner of my eye I caught it.
They’re here, squeeked the child
Darting back by the bedhead.
One, two, three, ten!
Multiplying, breeding like… rabbits?
They surged, not so much fur but matted hair and grime, clawing, biting.
I fell, covered in dust bunnies. Flailing, my hand grasped the vacuum I had present the boy earlier that day. I switched it on.
Vanquished.
That’s why we keep our room clean, I said daubing blood from my forehead.
Why? I asked, it’s only a bed.
Under there, the child stammered, that’s were they live.
Who lives?
The Dust Bunnies!
I bent down to look, chuckling, dust bunnies!
Don’t move anything, he said, it disturbs them.
Funny kid, just doesn’t want to clean his room so invented this story.
But still, those scratches on his arms…
Under the bed was the mess I expected, shoes, boxes, clothes and comics, all covered in a film of dust.
Don’t disturb them, he whispered.
I puffed my cheeks and blew, sending a cloud of dust into the darkness.
There’s nothing under here but mess, I said.
Then it happened.
Movement.
From of the corner of my eye I caught it.
They’re here, squeeked the child
Darting back by the bedhead.
One, two, three, ten!
Multiplying, breeding like… rabbits?
They surged, not so much fur but matted hair and grime, clawing, biting.
I fell, covered in dust bunnies. Flailing, my hand grasped the vacuum I had present the boy earlier that day. I switched it on.
Vanquished.
That’s why we keep our room clean, I said daubing blood from my forehead.
Instalment Thirty One
The two old men began their second lap of the park, as was their daily routine. While their first lap of the park always contained a few lively moments, it was that second lap around that they lived for. Gnarled and bent, they took time with each step, resting on their canes to comment on the surroundings.
“There’s that dirty wop again,” Epithet shouted to the hard of hearing Pejorative.
“That little so-and-so is still eyeing us off,” came the even louder reply.
The ever so slightly dark-haired, anglo-saxon gentleman reading the paper on a park bench looked up, as he had done an hour before, and said “Oh do fuck off!”
“That damn dago just mouthed off at us!” Epithet screamed pointing his cane.
“Stinkin’ eyetie!” howled Pejorative.
“Look, I understand you were raised in different times,” the set upon man began, “but this simply isn’t on, please refrain.”
“I most certainly am not from the Ukraine you greasy bastard, come over here and I’ll whip your hide,” Epithet spat.
By now a crowd had gathered at the spectacle, a feat the old men managed almost daily, providing them with future fodder once they had finished with the spiv.
“There’s that dirty wop again,” Epithet shouted to the hard of hearing Pejorative.
“That little so-and-so is still eyeing us off,” came the even louder reply.
The ever so slightly dark-haired, anglo-saxon gentleman reading the paper on a park bench looked up, as he had done an hour before, and said “Oh do fuck off!”
“That damn dago just mouthed off at us!” Epithet screamed pointing his cane.
“Stinkin’ eyetie!” howled Pejorative.
“Look, I understand you were raised in different times,” the set upon man began, “but this simply isn’t on, please refrain.”
“I most certainly am not from the Ukraine you greasy bastard, come over here and I’ll whip your hide,” Epithet spat.
By now a crowd had gathered at the spectacle, a feat the old men managed almost daily, providing them with future fodder once they had finished with the spiv.
Instalment Thirty
I can’t listen to this song, he said leaving the bar. It was Cyndi Lauper’s Time After Time. My mother used to sing this to me, we can’t listen to it ever again, he sighed. I hate to admit this but straight away I calculated: do I like Cyndi Lauper’s Time After Time more than this man. We had told each other “I love you,” said we would be together forever but, am I willing to give up listening to a song I have never given passing thought to? It’s a catchy tune. His mother had died, he was raised by an older brother, this grief wasn’t misplaced, but still it’s a good enough song. True Colours is the same thing right? I thought. Be happy with True Colours and this boy, you love him. Yes, True Colours and this guy will do. I felt somehow short changed, I wasn’t even thinking about what other grief landmines could be buried in our future, just this one song I kinda liked. We broke up a year later. “You always put yourself first Selfish” he said. I still don’t own either song but I turn them up when they’re on the radio.
Instalment Twenty Nine
“The Ranks of the Unemployed are swelling sir,” he was told.
“It is as I feared,” replied the Prime Minister, “This could well spell the end of our Government.”
The unemployed numbered more everyday. Factories closing, spewing forth overalled workers rather than goods. Banks were bankrupt, their broke brokers recommending floor staff face the axe. Cleaners, sweepers and sandwich hands. More and more they came from all across the country and they flooded into London. They weren’t just looking for answers, they were looking for a leader. They found one. Underground.
“Did I not tell you,” Pauper boomed, “Did I not tell them all? The End is Nigh.”
“You did Sir.”
“We must gather our forces, our numbers have never been stronger. Now is our time. Bludger, Beggar, Street Arab take young Vagabond and Guttersnipe to count or numbers in the Almshouse and Shantytown. Raise the Ranks – Tonight we march!”
Assembled The Ranks of the Unemployed were a formidible if shabby sight.
“Recite Pauper’s Oath,” someone yelled. “I do solemnly swear that I have not any property, real or personal,” they all intoned. “I will fight. So help me God.”
“Onward to Whitehall,” Pauper comanded, “We fight The Class War.”
“It is as I feared,” replied the Prime Minister, “This could well spell the end of our Government.”
The unemployed numbered more everyday. Factories closing, spewing forth overalled workers rather than goods. Banks were bankrupt, their broke brokers recommending floor staff face the axe. Cleaners, sweepers and sandwich hands. More and more they came from all across the country and they flooded into London. They weren’t just looking for answers, they were looking for a leader. They found one. Underground.
“Did I not tell you,” Pauper boomed, “Did I not tell them all? The End is Nigh.”
“You did Sir.”
“We must gather our forces, our numbers have never been stronger. Now is our time. Bludger, Beggar, Street Arab take young Vagabond and Guttersnipe to count or numbers in the Almshouse and Shantytown. Raise the Ranks – Tonight we march!”
Assembled The Ranks of the Unemployed were a formidible if shabby sight.
“Recite Pauper’s Oath,” someone yelled. “I do solemnly swear that I have not any property, real or personal,” they all intoned. “I will fight. So help me God.”
“Onward to Whitehall,” Pauper comanded, “We fight The Class War.”
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