The Eaten

We’re almost there now. We walk through battlegrounds of disease and backlots and every other random happenstance of a place that’s had a run-in with death. It’s all in attempt to not get it. Boardings started a week ago to take us out of the community, it’s one of many that’s been run down by society’s most recent trend of a plague. The sky is grey and the air smells like gasoline whipping hard with the wind. We’re all indistinguishable silhouettes filing forward in a groggy mass.

We pass the ponds where people would often meet to discuss disease control, to share any information or news that might’ve been helpful. That quickly turned into a witch hunt. I didn’t trust the common public to gather without it turning into something ugly. Everyone’s hiding some sort of lunacy amidst the organized hysteria. And I’m not one for lending out good faith. I’m a little more on edge than my peers. I have something to hide myself.

There’s something eating me. It’s as simple as that. I don’t know what it is, neither does anyone else. They know it exists, a bacterium or something to that effect. No one knows it’s eating me specifically, just a doctor that I blackmailed and swore to secrecy. He obliged. As I held his collar in my fist and demanded his compliance, he handed something over to me. A tiny locket, heart shaped. I didn’t know what to think. He explained it was for more than just aesthetic charm. It contained a small mix of coffee, baking soda, and hydrogen peroxide. Enough to hide the scent from suspicious folk. I didn’t know what he was talking about at the time, but I’m beginning to understand. Now in my hand, I clasp the locket tight between my thumb and index finger, almost like I’m trying to break it. For my own safety, I stop. I’ve been a little off since the diagnosis.

Having to lie does something to you. Being manipulative, harboring hidden truths, it makes you feel like a bad person. It doesn’t mean you are, but that doesn’t ease the guilt and toll it takes on your spirit. And the spirit is a priority, sometimes it feels like it’s all I’ve got. Needless to say, my body isn’t holding up so well.

People die of it, but not until the late stages of sickness. It makes you tired and wither away until you eventually drop. There are published photos everywhere for those who are curious; curious being a kind word. People say they’re concerned, but they’re no more sensitive to the infected as they are to the local adulterer or heretic.

I want to go to the North sector, across the bay. They’re more sympathetic toward illness. They have beta programs and temporary remedies to deal with symptoms. If I can just get over to the other side, it’s not too late for me yet. I’m still fresh enough to be trialed. I don’t like to think of myself like a piece of fruit in the back of a refrigerator. This thing hasn’t proven contagious yet, but the people over here have decided it is. They put the sick away to isolate them, which I wouldn’t totally mind, but there’s no plan to help them get better. From what we know, they’re all just dying off in cold rooms, alone. Not over there, though. Over there, they offer some semblance of hope.

What I can say is that I’m not alone. I count my blessings in fours, the number of friends I have with me to travel. Lauren and Simon have known me forever, they’re the closest relationships I have now. Our friendships pre-date worry. The three of us move parallel to one another. Without even realizing it, we walk as a pack. Trailing us are Scott and his girlfriend, Leanne. I haven’t known them as long, but they’re good people; easy to talk to and in good spirits when possible.

When we reach the boarding gate, fear freezes inside of me. The guards brought the dogs this time. Instead of drugs, they’ve trained them to sniff out rotting flesh, inner decay. Some humans are too oblivious to spot the sick unless the infected is on their death bed. Canines are sharper than that. It’s said they can find it even within the first few weeks. When the outbreaks began, they realized that man’s best friend is also its biggest tattletale. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I grip the heart-shaped necklace again. At this moment, my trust is in the meek doctor and his home remedy.

They come toward our group, I keep my breath tight, whatever control I can manage.

“Stop.” They smell something. I see the guard survey our general direction and know that I’m done for. I thought I stood a chance, but the pooches are trained well.

They’re not looking at me, in fact they’re a couple feet behind. Leanne. They pull her shirt up, manhandling her, exposing things that I’d rather forget. I hear screams, cries of appalment, I don’t look anymore. Scott’s frozen, bewildered.

“I swear I didn’t know.” For some reason, I believe her. She’s dumbfounded, it’s written all over her face. How it progressed to this point without her knowing is baffling. She must have had it for years now. The naïve and sincere get carried away. Scott is pleading with them now. Lauren and Simon haven’t moved. My tunnel vision prevents me from seeing everyone staring at us, observing the spectacle that is illness. I see another dog lingering around, still unsure of what’s left to be sniffed out, but the guard pulls him forward as they escort away a more obvious culprit.