The Saran 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…