Cured

INT. ENTRYWAY – DAY

A dark and gritty entry to an apartment block – a narrow short hall with a door to the outside at one end and a flight of stairs at the other. A fluoro light flickers. A bag of trash has been discarded in the corner. The stuck door takes a shove to open it. SALINA IKKE, 26, Scandinavian, enters wearing ripped jeans and a grey hoodie, her long blonde hair spewing from the raised hood. She carries two plastic bags of groceries.

Salina shoves the door closed behind her and heads up the stairs.

INT. SECOND FLOOR STAIRWELL – CONTINUOUS

Salina rounds the corner of the first landing and trudges up the second flight of steps.

INT. THIRD FLOOR STAIRWELL – CONTINUOUS

MISS TENKSOM, 65, her woollen cardigan as aged as her face, is on her hands and knees, scrubbing a large dark red stain from the stairs. The wall is splattered with more dark red stains that run in streaks to the floor. She plunges the scrubbing brush into the bucket and sploshes dirty sudsy water onto the stain. She scrubs, putting her old back into it.

Salina appears on the landing below Miss Tenksom and sees the old lady at work. Salina pauses and starts to step back downstairs again, then slumps her shoulders in a sigh and resigns herself to facing the old woman. Salina treads lightly up the steps.

Miss Tenksom glances over her shoulder and sees Salina coming up. She stops scrubbing, eyeing the young girl suspiciously. Salina forces a grimaced smile at the woman then focuses intently on her own footsteps, moving quicker now. As Salina passes Miss Tenksom, the old woman intentionally splashes a big slop of dirty water onto the girl’s shoes as she thrusts the brush onto the stairs and scrubs deeply, looking up at SALINA the whole time.

Salina makes it to the next landing and turns toward apartment door 3A. A red cross has been crudely spray painted on the door. Salina jams a key into the lock and opens the door.

INT. APARTMENT 3A – CONTINUOUS

Salina's apartment is small but tidy with modest furnishings. She drops her keys and the plastic bags onto a counter. She picks up a remote control from the coffee table and turns on the television, flicking through several channels – action movie, nature doco, sitcom – to find a news report.

She listens to the news as she unpacks the groceries: loaf of bread, carton of milk, tin of pasta sauce, packet of spaghetti, plain crackers. Mundane and meagre items.

On the TV screen, we see a news report showing pharmaceutical machinery producing medicine, doctor’s administering injections, military personnel on city streets.

NEWS REPORTER:

This new funding has seen production of the antiretroviral Nalkainen-Z triple in the last two weeks allowing World Health Organization officials to increase the rate of treatment. The Global Outbreak Alert and Response Network has downgraded the country’s status from Level 4 to Level 2 with an estimated 60% of people infected with the Nalka virus captured and treated.

Unfortunately, officials believe this figure to be the highest possible as many of those infected have suffered serious wounds that could not be treated even if the victim is cured of the disease, meaning the epidemic clean-up will still be a co-ordinated response between the WHO and the military, with the WHO assessing Nalka victims and engaging the military to eradicate those deemed impossible to save. Health officials still ask for anyone who suspects a family member or friend to be infected by the Nalka virus to get to safety first and then call the hotline for assistance. The number is 1300 966 243.

In other news, Elon Musk’s Mars expedition team have completed their twentieth orbit of the planet and successfully launched their third surface exploration robot in the hopes of finding an alternative landing site for the troubled mission.

There is a knock at the door. Salina goes to look through the peephole in the apartment door.

CUT TO:

INT. VIEW THROUGH PEEPHOLE

In the corridor outside the apartment stands MAT FERSK, 38, an out-of-his-depth health official in a black plastic PPE gown with a laminated ID tag on a blue ribbon dangling over the front. He has a full-face respirator hung around his neck and carries a satchel bag under one arm. He knocks on the door again with a sigh.

CUT BACK TO:

INT. APARTMENT 3A – CONTINUOUS

Salina opens the door a little and speaks through the gap.

SALINA:

Yes?

MAT:

Hi. Are you Salina…

Mat opens his satchel and fumbles to pull out an iPad. He taps at the screen while Salina waits.

MAT:

…Saline Ike?

Salina corrects his pronunciation.

SALINA:

Ikke.

MAT:

Ikke?

Still not right. It rhymes with 'sicker'.

SALINA:

Ikke.

MAT:

OK. Are you Saline Ikke?

SALINA:

Yes.

MAT:

I’m Mat Fersk. I’m with the Global Outbreak Alert and Response Network. I’m your case-worker.

He holds up his ID card for her to see his photo and name.

SALINA:

What happened to Mr Savnet?

MAT:

I’m your new case-worker. May I come in?

Salina pauses a moment, then stands aside to let Mat in. He enters the apartment, taking in his surroundings with a series of quick glances.

MAT:

Ikke? Is that German?

SALINA:

Norwegian.

MAT:

Your folks are from Norway?

SALINA:

Where is Mr Savnet?

MAT:

Um, he’s been… assigned to other cases. May I sit down?

Salina nods, turns off the TV and returns to her groceries. MAT taps at his iPad.

MAT:

So how have you been feeling?

SALINA:

Fine.

MAT:

No illness?

SALINA:

No.

She is uncomfortable with the line of questioning, but bears the formality.

MAT:

Blackouts?

SALINA:

No.

MAT:

Headaches?

He is checking items off a list on his iPad, tapping the screen as he goes.

SALINA:

No.

MAT:

Dizziness?

SALINA (slightly exasperated):

No. Nothing. I’ve been perfectly fine.

MAT :

And your… appetite?

He says the last word carefully. Guardedly.

Salina waves her hands over the groceries on the counter. See for yourself. Mat gives a tiny smile.

MAT:

Good. That’s very good. May I check your temperature? Blood pressure?

Salina walks around the counter to the lounge room, where she flops down next to Mat on the couch, flicks her hair behind her ear and offers her arm. She is clearly fed up with the process.

Mat takes a thermometer and checks the temperature of her ear. Normal. He takes her pulse. Normal. He removes a sphygmomanometer from his satchel, wraps it around her upper arm and sets the device going. As the armband inflates, she shifts her position and a glint of silver catches his eye. Her necklace has fallen loose out from the collar of her shirt, on the end a delicate heart-shaped locket.

She notices him staring and tucks it back into her shirt with her free hand. Mat offers a weak smile as he waits for the machine to…. Beep.

He checks the reading.

MAT:

All normal.

SALINA :

Told you.

MAT :

This is all very good. It’s been what… five weeks since you were treated?

SALINA

Six.

MAT:

And how long were you a…?

He struggles to offer the appropriate word.

SALINA:

Zombie? Nine days.

Mat refers to his iPad, more to avoid her stare than to check data. He nods.

MAT :

Yes. You’re one of the lucky ones.

Salina offers a smile. Her first.

SALINA:

Yes. Very lucky.

MAT:

Because the antiretroviral medications have a threshold of ten days. One more day, and you would have... well, not so lucky.

He taps at the iPad to finish his notes as Salina picks at a cuticle.

MAT:

So do you have any questions for me?

SALINA:

What's with the mask?

Mat looks down at the protective respirator hung around his neck. He flicks it with a hand.

MAT:

Standard issue. You know, just in case.

They sit in silence for a while, awkwardly, before Mat tucks his iPad back into his satchel and slaps his hands on his knees as he stands up.

MAT:

Well, if you have nothing to report...

He leaves it hanging open and glances at Salina for her to answer. She shakes her head.

MAT:

I'll be off then.

When he sees she won't bother to show him to the door, he gives a little hop and heads for it himself. When he reaches it, he turns.

MAT:

One more thing, Miss Ikke.

Salina looks up at him. Yes?

MAT:

Where did you get that precious little locket?

Salina presses a hand against her chest, feeling the trinket beneath her shirt.

SALINA:

Why?

MAT:

I would like to get one. For my girlfriend. Where did you get it?

Salina stands up and moves to the kitchen bench where she continues unpacking her shopping.

SALINA:

It was my mother's.

MAT:

Oh. No matter then.

Mat opens the apartment door and steps through as Salina walks over and readies to close the door behind him.

SALINA:

Mr Savnet had something like it. Maybe you should ask him.

Mat smiles as Salina closes the door.

INT. THIRD FLOOR LANDING – CONTINUOUS

MAT:

Maybe I will.

He heads for the stairs.

INT. APARTMENT 3A – CONTINUOUS

Salina stares at the groceries until her face screws up and she suddenly scoops them up and throws them in the shopping bag, carelessly. She turns to the fridge and pulls the door open, revealing several plastic Tupperware containers on the shelves.

She pulls out a large container and roughly stuffs the crumpled shopping bag in its place. Without closing the fridge, she dumps the container on the kitchen bench.

Salina opens a drawer filled with a mess of clattering utensils and grabs a fork. Wrapped in the tines is a blue ribbon so that as the fork comes out, it pulls out the ribbon until a plastic card on the other end emerges. She picks it up and places it on the bench next to the Tupperware container.

Her lips curl into a snarl as she rips the lib from the container and jabs the fork inside to pluck out a human finger. As she devours it, she stabs the fork back into the container for more and looks down at the plastic card. Blood coats her lips. She turns the card over. It is the ID card of Mr Nino Savnet, Global Outbreak Alert and Response case-worker No. 10368J.

THE END

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