Chasing the Cure and Other Stories

The Choice of Umoanjah Useshen

Prime Minister Umoanjah Useshen, Grand Leader of the New Republic, had passed away at the tender age of 49. Just months ago, he had stepped down from his post and retreated to a private estate, despite being in perfect health. When the news of his death dropped, the nation was in shock, then in mourning. Our peace today could not have been achieved without all the blood he had spilled and all the uneasy handshakes he had endured. The world had lost a great beacon.

As he laid in state, journalists from all corners of the globe flocked to our shores for a scoop of the mystery behind his death. That was why I was especially delighted to receive an invitation from Kryloah Keshani, PM Useshen's personal doctor. The fact that he would pick a small-time journalist like me was a mystery in itself, but I pushed that thought aside and accepted the invitation. Maybe this would be the story that would fast-track my career.

Dr. Keshani chose PM Useshen's residence as the location for the interview. It was here that the great man spent his final days. The bed where he drew his last breath was empty save for neatly laundered sheets and tidied pillows. There was no impression, no sign that anyone had ever laid there. The room itself was painted a humble brown, with none of the furniture presented with more than a simple dust cover. Even the view outside the window was that of the quieter side of the city, basking solemnly in the faint moonlight. It just didn't feel right for such humility to house such immortality.

"I'll start by saying why I called for this interview," said Keshani, voice hoarse and heavy. "There's a truth that I need to get out there. Something about Umoanjah that's so fantastical that my sanity can't solely bear the burden of knowing."

We had sat down in old creaky chairs and Keshani had poured himself a generous helping of whisky. I had accepted his offer but decided to leave my glass by the side table for the time being. He was sitting beside the PM's old bed, as if unwilling to let go of his former charge.

"I had known Umoanjah since he was a teenager. He was always the patriotic one, the type who would admonish you for even thinking poorly of the country. When the Climate Wars began, he was among the first to enlist. This is probably something you were all taught in school, but what they don't tell you, is that he was believed to be dead for a couple of days."

My hand began moving towards the glass of whisky.

"Yes, I only knew about this because he told me, and a platoon mate of his later confirmed the records. According to Umoanjah, his company was forced into a retreat by enemy artillery fire, and one shell landed particularly close to him. When he came to, he found that he was lying in a muddy ditch and missing his right leg just below the knee."

Keshani paused to take a sip of his whisky. I chimed in with my first question.

"Was he captured by the enemy?"

"No, he was most likely left for dead by both the enemy and his comrades. There was not a soul in sight for miles, and he dared not shout for help. He dragged himself with his elbows to a small patch of forest and took shelter there, hoping for a miracle before his rations ran out. He was there for about a day or so, a tourniquet around his stump, bread and stale water for subsistence. His wound was beginning to get infected and his mind was going. That was why when she appeared, he was barely perturbed."

"She?" My glass of whisky was noticeably emptier, and my breath began to develop the cool rush of alcoholic vapor.

"Yes. According to him, she had appeared from a hole in reality, shining blue and chrome. He's not sure if it was her skin, or if she was wearing some form of flexible metal. She was bald, but her face was practically symmetrical. She had a beauty that was beyond attractive. He found it unnatural."