Short Stories

Not the Cure

This was not the cure they’d been hoping for. But they wanted a cure, and so I gave them a cure. They asked for a cure to overpopulation and its subsequent predicaments. They said that they didn’t care how I did it. All they cared about was their politics and making sure that their empty promises of a solution were filled. They wanted a cure, and they got the goddamn cure. It’s a pity that the world won’t survive long enough to punish them for their foolishness. I’d love to see their rotten careers burn.

    You see, they never specified how they wanted their problem solved. All they wanted was a biological agent that could solve food shortages and overcrowding. Something that would spur people to help themselves rather than rely on the government. The problem with that request, you see, is that they had absolutely no clue what they were asking. They knew nothing of genetics or biology or anything of the kind; no, all they knew was that a biological agent could solve all of their problems and make sure they didn’t have to lift a finger, like some kind of silly movie. Of course, I took their money, and I developed their cure. Oh, they were so pleased to see the effects of the “cure” that I had created. Oh, if only they knew how stupid they’d been. If only they’d seen it sooner.

    In its early stages, my cure is completely harmless. It increases the metabolism, makes the subject more focused, and heightens the senses. In terms of affects, its early stages are more like Adderall than a brilliant, multi-million-dollar solution. But, once again, the politicians didn’t care. All they saw was their ticket to a page in the history books. Of course, due to the nature of the cure’s late stages, they probably won’t even be punished for what they secretly commissioned, much less commended for its temporary effects and benefits. Oh, the television broadcasts are splendid today. I, being the highly paid man I am, am able to watch the events unfold in many different cities around the country simultaneously. If I were a bit higher paid, I could watch it unfold overseas as well. But, I’m more than satisfied with seeing a few key cities descend into chaos while the politicians stand helpless, so I’ve no room to complain. One city in particular is an exceptionally bloody mess at the moment, and it’s quite a shame that the news crews are, how do I say this… out of commission. I can’t seem to remember the name, but no matter. It just seems to have developed a bit faster than I anticipated, but that—Chicago! Yes, the Windy City, of course. How could I forget such a magnificently ordinary city? I have a few colleagues in that wretched place that are less than likely to adapt to the new order of things, but I never cared much for them anyway. They won’t be missed.

    Never-mind the loss of questionably-intelligent life, for there is a more pressing matter to attend to. You think I’m completely, hopelessly insane, don’t you? You think that only a madman could or would create a false cure meant to kill rather than save. You think me a madman, a cold, merciless killer. While the latter statement may be true I am not mad. A madman would see no flaws in his plan and proceed arrogantly, which would merely end in disaster for himself. A madman could not orchestrate the contamination of food products with a seemingly beneficial pathogen and dance away unseen. A madman would not see the apparent insanity of his plan. I am a highly educated, renowned geneticist and scientist, not a simple mad scientist. For you see, by acknowledging the unconventional nature of my plan, I have proven that I am, in fact, reasonably sane, and quite firmly attached to my current state of stability. A mere madman could not dare claim such things, as he would not see that others would doubt his plan.

    Oh, but never-mind that now. Now that my sanity has been proven and my motives revealed, I can reveal a rather pleasant surprise. There is a cure to the cure! Now for the bad news: I’ve no plans to distribute it. It will remain sealed in its tube and locked away behind blast doors until it either decays or is finally liberated from its refrigerated tomb. I have no plans to use it on myself either, but there’s a perfectly logical explanation to this that I’m sure you’ll understand. You see, as I sit here watching the world go to hell, and see the screens turn to static or sideways views of gruesome scenes, I am certain that I do not want to continue on in a dying world. Humanity was a virus to this planet, and I have cured the world of the wretched species that we call mankind. You see, people cannot drive cars without finer motor skills, so that eliminates cars polluting the atmosphere. Electricity cannot be generated without the power plants and subsequently some form of natural resource, so the coal crisis will be no more. Unless, of course, in the extremely unlikely event that enough qualified staff survive to continue running and protecting the plants, as the world is descending into anarchy as I speak, but even then they’ll run out of fuel eventually. Nothing lasts forever, and the damned power companies are no exception. While anarchy is fresh on my mind, the governments of the world will soon realize how powerless they are, regardless of how vast their militaries. Oh, speaking of government, our dear Mrs. President is on the television attempting to comfort the nation. Oh! A young Secret Service member was just unfortunate enough to be tackled by one of my “cured” individuals; oh, the poor man is just a bloody mess now. His comrades don’t seem to realize that their body shots aren’t doing anything but perforating the half-brain-dead brute.

    Half-brain-dead! I’d almost forgot to mention the late stages of my magnificent extinction event. After the initial energy boost, which lasts about twenty hours for those initially infected, the virus starts to rapidly deteriorate the body. Also, it makes it nearly impossible for wounds to clot and stop blood-flow, which can make a small cut turn fatal. As it deteriorates the host, it begins to break down certain areas of the brain and causes internal bleeding, etc, etc. It fucks your shit up, as one of my unfortunate subjects once said. Although vulgar, his statement is true, both figuratively and literally; in one case, an unfortunate young man did find himself flushing blood down the toilet. Quite unfortunate, but I recorded it and his rather quick death nevertheless.

    Oh! But I’m getting off topic again. Those fortunate enough to catch it through food products, or in some cases, I’m sure, shared needles, were spared the excruciating pain of how others will be and are contracting the virus at this very moment: bites. Yes, yes, once again, you think I’m a madman. I assure you, I am perfectly sane, and very capable of doing my job. I was asked to create a cure, so I took advantage of the lack of legal and ethical oversight and created an extremely effective cure. Yes, my work is cruel, but one mustn’t consider these things when doing business. This is simply a contract I was paid to fulfill, and I did so to a brutally effective measure. In the long run, my cure may even prove helpful to humanity as well, because slowly dying out with your planet is far more excruciating than being bitten and suffering for a few hours. But that is not the point I am trying to make here.

    I am no madman, and I am no monster. I am simply a doctor curing a plague I was tasked to eradicate. In doing so, I decided that the new world is one in which I do not wish to live, and I have decided to record my final thoughts for anyone insane enough to seek out and infiltrate my lab. I have carved the combination to the vault into the metal table in front of the vault door, and I will have a nearly fully loaded handgun on my person wherever I may fall. Use the cure as you will, but don’t drink it; not only can it kill you outright, but it doesn’t immunize you that way.

I hear the brutes now. I believe that a few of my beloved sponsors are among them now, but I’m not going to check. They could be gnawing upon themselves for all I care. Now, let’s see if I remember how to use this wretched thing... Ah! There’s the safety… round in the chamber… Farewell, you horrid little monkeys.

    Oh, damn this wretched, long trigger pul--