Aftermath, No. 9

December 22, 2039

I got to see pus coming out of someone’s eyes today. I’d like to say: “They were dead, obviously.” But then I would be lying. I’d like to lie. Unfortunately, staring into pus filled eyes (not by a long stretch anything I’d like to do again) was the only thing disgusting and diverting enough to stop me from thinking about the quarantine, or rather, the gap in it. 

A bus. 

An entire bus. It crossed the border somehow and slipped into China. The red tape surrounding the incident is monumental. China could very easily be gone by the time we establish proper quarantine there, and it’ll be like India all over again…Or like hell. Take your pick. 

I’m scared. I’m shaking. I don’t have any idea how this could possibly turn out alright. There are three billion dead already, and another billion could easily follow by the end of the year. China’s dense, and the plague moves quickly. I’m frankly not sure what could possibly happen that could make this worse. 

The body stops twitching. I look away, and realize what a number like three billion means: too many.