The Sarran Plague

Chapter 1“A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.” —Joseph Stalin Earth, July 12th Twenty-six-year-old pediatric resident, Anya Forrest, lay alone in Manhattan General Medical Center ICU. Her reddish blond hair hung limply about her face. Only her icy blue eyes were visible under the respirator mask. Her heart and liver were failing, and her skin the bluish-yellow tinge of the urine stains on the wall. Anya was terminal. Four weeks ago, she should have been moved to a hospice, a sunny, peaceful place to die. But there were too many patients and too few staff to give palliative care. Therefore, Anya stayed in ICU, hypnotized by the plip-plop of the IVs and lulled by cacophony of digital breath. The pain was intense. She knew she wasn’t going to make it when Mark Stern, the Chief of Staff, had stopped by her bed and asked if she needed anything. That was three days ago, when she could still speak. She remembered how it began. It was the Fourth of July. She had taken a break and joined some of the staff on the hospital roof to watch the fireworks… * * * * Sarran Calendar: Cycle 9435: Barren Trion, Rising 92 Earth, July 4th to July 12th Fireworks filled the night sky across the United States of America. It was Independence Day. Aerial shells burst, scattering shooting stars in red, then white and blue. The finale was Blue Earth—triple rocket fountains surrounded the rotating sphere highlighting the environmental awareness theme. Then celebrants spotted a magnificent explosion in the upper atmosphere. It was a show-stopping display. Everyone agreed that green mist was a great finale, until, that is, they noticed it became a slimy, oil-like substance on their skin. Breaking news headlines streamed across CNN. Banners shrieked from print. Talk shows spoke slime 24/7. Environmental groups expressed outrage. The EPA investigated, and Congress planned hearings. The executive branch had no comment. It was a two-day media fest. Then on July 6th the NYPD nabbed a serial killer. . Someone leaked photos of twenty-six naked women stacked like cord wood in a New York City townhouse basement. Green slime slipped off the national radar screen, and America went back to business as usual. The first cases hit the hospitals the evening of the seventh. The virus took forty-eight hours to incubate. Another twenty-four passed before full onset of symptoms. On July 9th, at 21:00 hours, hospitals became holding facilities. On July 12, the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta provided the media with maps of the infected areas. Every state reported Plague, even Alaska and Hawaii. There was no time progression. No sunburst pattern to suggest an initial area of contamination. No case zero. It started everywhere, at once. No one asked questions. They were too busy trying to survive. Reports from CNN showed the rest of the planet in the same condition. No outside help was available to anyone. Everyone tried to save their own. Fifty percent of the female population was infected. The CDC named it mixed immune response syndrome. The public called it the Plague. It was a virus, and symptoms varied. All known autoimmune diseases combined in strange variations. The victims were all female. The National Institute of Health compiled statistics that linked the Plague to ovulation. It struck only the fertile. Someone had manufactured the Plague. It constantly mutated. There was no apparent cure or treatment. Both NIH and CDC worked round the clock. Symptoms worsened as ovulation neared. Episodes, called flares, brought new symptoms, more pain. Each flare brought a patient closer to the brink. Women begged for death, which seemed, in some cases, preferable. The cycle worked rapidly in some, from health to near death in four days from exposure. As women dropped dead, hospitals became understaffed. If there was a tech to take blood, there was no one to test it. Hospital labs ran with one or two male techs. Nurses came out of retirement. Governors mobilized the National Guard. The White House called in the Army and the Army Reserve. The federal government drafted all single men. Medical facilities returned women to their husbands or families for palliative care. Divorced men returned home to tend children. Patients with no family waited to die in medical facilities with little staff to treat them. * * * * To Anya, the hospital was home. She was an orphan. Upon leaving St. Brigit’s, she had lived at or near the hospital since starting medical school. Aside from her cat, Tigger, she had no friends outside of the hospital. Before, Anya had been five-foot-six and small-framed and, at 150 pounds, a bit overweight. Now, the bed, blankets, sheets, and machines overwhelmed the shrunken, nude body in the bed. Dr. Forrest’s one vanity was that she had not cut her hair since childhood. At the orphanage, she had cried and fussed when the nuns tried to cut her hair. The only memory she had from before was of a soft-spoken woman brushing her hair. Anya refused to let it go. One young nun, Sister Rose, had taken pity. She’d taught Anya to braid and pin her hair to keep it neat. Sister Rose assured Anya if it was neat, it could be long. After that, she had pinned it up tightly. Loosened, her hair flowed below her waist. It might have looked thicker if Anya spent money on hair products or cosmetics. She did not. St. Brigit’s taught its students that frivolity was useless, so Anya bought her cosmetics, lotions, and hair products on sale at a drug chain. Anya’s life was filled with her studies and her patients. She had little money, as few residents did. She brushed her hair for maintenance. Her luxury was her orange and white tiger cat, Tigger. Tigger was the constant in her life, the only living being that was even close to knowing the real Anya. She had fallen in love with his huge paws and audacious personality when he was a kitten at a local shelter where she had gone to seek some undemanding company. Since she was an orphan, she had no friends from before college, orphans learned not to get too close. After she entered school, she had no time for socialization, she needed to study to keep up her grade point and retain her scholarship. Anya had never been in love, she had never had s*x. There was a voice in her head that said, Hold out for love. Her virginity would be a gift to her lover; the only one she had to give. That day hadn’t come and Anya didn’t want to be alone anymore, so she had gone looking for a safe companion and found a real friend. Tigger knew all of her secrets; they had developed a language of sorts. He didn’t care that she had to study or work long hours. As long as he had her lap when she returned and his kibble and toys while she was gone, Tigger was a happy cat. Every piece of clothing Anya owned, every piece of furniture, was covered in cat hair. Since it was just the two of them in her small apartment, neither cared. She worried about him being all alone. What would happen to him without her? Anya knew where she was. The sights, smells, and sounds said Manhattan General, and this was her hospital. Her skin texture was yellow and thick. She felt the rash move over her body in concert with the virus. Each patch of scaling skin was a prophecy of the next horror. She had not slipped into unconsciousness, although she longed for that state to shut down the bulldozers that danced on her bones. The pain was intense, despite the morphine drip. Her blood ran through her veins like acid. Her throat and mouth burned as if she had swallowed drain cleaner. Anya’s senses were hyper-alert. She heard the click of the monitors and muted alarms from the medical equipment throughout the wing. She sensed the vibrations of the stretchers and gurneys as they whizzed by in the corridors and the heightened thump of soft-soled shoes running on vinyl floors. The intercom announced code after code with colors and numbers. She knew the language. The hospital was overwhelmed with too many cases and not enough beds or staff to tend them. Manhattan General’s policy dictated that human contact and interaction was essential to patient recovery, yet she only remembered Mark coming in to see her. He asked about Tigger and sent and an orderly to take her keys to feed him and change his box. The deadly rash snaked up her left breast. She felt the destruction of each cell as it fell to the intruder. Her body had no reserves left to fight the virus. Pain ruled her mind and heart. Despite her oaths and her supposed strong moral fiber, she longed for the end. Tears ran down her blotchy cheeks, salt stinging her abraded skin. Her body was in constant spasm, not allowing even the slight respite of sleep. Her throat was parched and sore from both the respirator and her silent screams. There was no one for Anya; the tubes in her mouth muffled her sobs. She would die, unloved by anyone, save an orange cat. She dare not close her eyes again; she did not want to go unto the dark alone. Wait…what was that, voices murmured in her head. The conversation was muted, but intense and masculine. It was a buzz, a fly in her brain. Her path inescapable, she walked toward a blue light, yet the outline of the moon, no, three moons at her back called her name causing her to stop, despite the light’s gentle promise. But the buzz, she couldn’t shake the buzz. She turned toward the moons. She heard the voices, closer now. Anya almost understood the words. The buzzing had ceased. Curiosity, one of her besetting sins, rooted her feet to the path. Forward was the blue light, pulling at her and promising peace; surrounding her on her left and right sides was the constant buzz of conversation, to her back were the strange moons and the pain. She lifted her face toward the sky; the voices came down from the heavens. Tenderness bathed her body…Her imagination escaped the tyranny of her innocence. Lust ran like a fresh breeze through her brain. She felt a masculine presence. Two, she thought. She felt gentle fingers brush against her n*****s, and wet, soft kisses flowed across her collarbone to the back of her neck. And then a bite. Both n*****s pushed erect against the soft thin cotton of the hospital gown. Need, she needed. She felt the blood moving to her labia, as the lips engorged, becoming heavy. Opening outward, throbbing. Rational thought intruded on her arousal. Anya, you’re dying here, in pain, breathing your last. You’re a physician. You know the score. What the heck is happening? The thought fled and all was sensation of hands and lips. Her body tensed, climbing, climbing the precipice, a burst of light came. It was white, blinding in her brain, her lower body pulsating in rhythm, leaving the hospital linens damp. It came, a whisper, a tendril of hope, and then a thought drifted into her consciousness. “We’re here, with you,” the voices said. “We are one, BondStirred; you will never be alone again.” The thought gave comfort even as she turned from the light and headed back to the pain. * * * * Sarran Calendar: Cycle 9437: Phase 1, Barren Trion, Rising 100 Earth July 12th Tonas, Prince of LightClan and co-Admiral of the Sarran Fleet stood quietly by the command console in the StarRoom, the Admirals’ ready room, adjacent to both the Admirals’ Quarters and the Bridge. Tension was evident in the line of his heavily muscled back and torso. At six-foot-nine, he was leaner than his BondMate, the fiery Jonal. Tonas had broad shoulders. His movements were supple, tempered steel sheathed in grace and elegance. Hair the color and texture of sweet Rhine wine hung down his back. A black strip of Nathrian leather gathered it up in a queue. The bulge between his thighs was evident in the Sarran flight suit. Tonas looked well endowed; even for a Sarran. At rest, his package was merely impressive; fully erect, it reached well over his belted waist. His voice soft, he weighed his words and decisions. His face was rugged and not traditionally handsome. However, when lit by a smile that put a silver glint in the shamrock green eyes, it was a face that, before his WarriorPairing ten cycles past, had left many a fem longing to see it up close and personal.