Aftermath, No. 7

February 7, 2041

We’re all going to die. The best we’ve been able to do to the plague is abatement. We’ve slowed down how quickly it’s spread, and how quickly it kills, but unless we get a cure and pull together enough of an infrastructure to deploy it, were ——ing dead. 

We keep working anyways. Posterity I suppose. If someone manages to look back at this, they won’t see a tattered planet but a stalwart one. We might be about to die eventually, but we’re going to work to the end. 

I will at least. I’ve been fighting this stupid plague for so long that I’ve gone nothing better to do. 

Everyone I know is dead. At some point, that should have been sad. All I can feel is stubbornness.