The Mutation

I look to my left and he’s there, on the other side of the street, keeping pace with me as I walk. Even from here I can see the glassy look in his eyes and the way he moves his neck left and right in small jerks, birdlike and very aware. These are the telltale signs, or so the leaflets dropped over our town said, but this is my first encounter with an infected person since the quarantine was lifted.

They call it 20. I still don’t know if that’s because it is a mutation of Covid-19 or because it started last year, in 2020. The first cases were in November, just three weeks after the famous vaccine was released. I still remember the long lines at the clinic. The shot was mandatory, but hardly anyone kicked up any fuss about that. Certainly not me. I held my wife’s hand as we waited in the cold autumn air, willing the line to move faster. They took our pictures and social security numbers, then gave us a shot and a receipt, papers proving we complied.

I pick up my pace. I can’t see the man well enough to be certain. But maybe that is the normalcy bias in my brain speaking up to protect me, to tell me everything is fine and there is nothing more to be afraid of. I shut the thought out as I move even faster, now just short of running. He keeps up. I know I’m in trouble.

There has been so much fear. First the COVID-19 swept the country. We thought we were out of the woods in July, when President Pence announced the end of the curfew. Churches held mass memorial services for everyone who died. The news interviewed people as they went outside for the first time in months. There was a national day of mourning and the state funeral. But then it was just... summer. Open beaches, bon fires, parties. Sure, people washed their hands a little more, and most kept a little extra toilet paper at home, but other than that it almost felt normal.

Then September came in cold and wet and the first cases of COVID-19 started showing up again. Fear was a living thing, the claustrophobic memories of the long quarantine resurfaced quickly. In short order we were back in quarantine, back under a curfew, back to being afraid.

At the corner I turn right, skirting around a car that is half buried in a storefront window. The driver must have lived because the car is empty. Behind me the man crosses the street and moves in my direction. I need a plan.

The first cases of 20 were on the news in early November, but no one recognized it for what it was. A CDC doctor sent out a video on social media, but it disappeared pretty quickly. So did the doctor. There were rumors. A lot of people thought it was a bad reaction to the vaccine, some sort of nuerological infection. More leaks came out of the CDC, the COVID-19 was mutating, resisting the vaccine, and feasting on nuerons of infected people.

That’s when the internet went down for good.

I turn another corner, out of his view, and begin to run. If the rumors are true about their strength, I have no alternative but to hide. I’m fit enough, but not much of a fighter, and who can really defend themselves against something that can’t feel pain?

The riots started that night, when the internet cut out. From my house alone I could see seven pillars of dark smoke rising to the sky: buildings burning. The last TV channel went down around 10:00pm, and the next day there was no electricity.

At first people helped each other out. Neighbors were checking on each other, sharing food and water while keeping the recommended 6 feet apart. But that didn’t last long. A crowd of men, maybe 12 or so, started going door to door in our neighborhood. They had a truck, a heavy one owned by the county, and they were collecting everyone’s food “for fair distribution”. Every one of them was armed, most with at least two guns, a few wore tactical vests.

I’m winded, but I must keep running. I glance behind me as I turn between two houses. He’s there. Running. His knees lift and fall so uniformally he looks almost robotic. His head no longer twitches from side to side, instead his vision is intensly focused on me, like a carnivore making its death run. I am prey. I jump a fence, and try to ignore the stitch in my side as I force myself to move faster.

It was twelve days after the power went out, nine days since the thugs with guns took everyone’s food, when the leaflets fell. There had been more fires, and large pieces of ash had been falling intermitently so that I did not recognize the papers when they first rained down. The plane that had dropped them looked like a military job, something big and camouflaged and loud. The papers did not look like anything an official government or professional organization would create. They were simple, black and white, a letter with bullet points. There was no signture line, I still have no idea who released them. They explained about 20, how the virus had mutated, how the people who contracted it could not be cured, how they would turn violent, how they would only live for a short time as they refused to eat or drink, and how they, with unnatural strength and ferocity, were only interested in harming humans around them.

I jump another fence and run through a backyard to an alley. I want to try a door, maybe I could be safe if I could get inside and out of sight, but I know that to risk trying a door will mean death if it is locked. And I cannot imagine an unlocked door in these strange times. He’s behind me, closing in. I see his face better now. His eyes are bloodshot and strangely wet. His chin is also wet, as if he drools. A vein is throbbing in his forehead.

I cannot run anymore, and to fight is suicide. I have one shot, I must try a door and hope it is unlocked and substantial enough to hold back this animal-man. I scan the houses ahead of me, looking for my best option. There, a brick house with a heavy-looking front door. I cannot see any lights in the windows but there are two cars in the driveway. If the people are home, maybe they will open the door; if they left on foot, like so many others, maybe they didn’t bother to lock the door. It is my last chance to live. I am breathing so hard, my throat feels torn from the cool air. I cross the yard, reach out my hand and close it on the metal knob.