Aftermath, No. 8

January 17, 2039

My roommate died only a few hours ago. I’m down at the hospital, staring. It’s all I can do: Stare. Nobody else has said a word. They’re all too afraid. My roommate was in the Quarantine Department. I see on their faces: what if the plague comes here? What if…?

They know I’m in the QD too. They ask me sometimes, but I can’t answer that, not legally anyway. Legally I have to tell them that we’re working on it, so I tell them that we’re working on it. Nobody asks me after a while. I’m glad I’ve been given an answer, because I don’t think I could think of one myself; I’m too busy worrying about being deployed. I’m going to India at the end of this year. I hate to sound like a coward, but I’m scared to go and I’m scared to die. 

I’m especially scared to die like my roommate. He was bloated and there were mushrooms growing from his eyes. He smelled like rotting cheese. Because I was in the QD they let me into the autopsy room. I wish they hadn’t. I looked at my roommate’s eyes and the mushrooms growing out of his eyes and they were my eyes. I looked at his corpse and I saw my corpse. I’ve been through enough training and read enough books to imagine what the plague feels like. I know symptoms: it’s my job.