Consumed

By Vera Brook

---

The magnolia trees outside the kitchen windows sway in the wind, the leaves rustling like money. Their quick shadows race across the long marble counters, the tall crystal cabinets.

Laura stands with her back to the new granite sink, both hands gripping the cool, smooth edge.

“…Five percent of the purchase price. That’s it. That’s the bonus they want to give me!” Her husband David isn’t quite shouting, but close. He paces back and forth across their designer kitchen, his eyes blazing. “And they expect me to be grateful. Can you believe it?”

Anger prickles Laura’s skin too, but she tries to defuse the tension. “David, that’s on top of your salary.”

David spins toward her. “Compared to how much they’re going to make? It’s an insult! Like tossing me spare change.” He slams the heel of his hand against the wall. “It’s my project, dammit. I put it together, I did all the legwork, and they need me to close the deal. I could’ve taken it anywhere. And now they want to cut me out?”

“Nobody’s cutting you out. They know how much profit you bring them. They know they could never replace you if you leave.” Laura means every word. Her husband is brilliant at what he does: finding rundown rental apartments and converting them into luxury condos.

“Then they need to pay me what I’m worth!” David is pacing again, his footsteps echoing through their multi-million-dollar house. “They owe me at least ten percent. I earned it. It’s my money!”

“Of course it is.” A pang of a headache stings the back of Laura’s eyes. Lately, it happens each time they discuss finances. “But there’ll be other deals, other bonuses. Just let it go.”

“Let it go?” David’s face twists, and he stumbles forward, his fists hitting the center island and his breathing ragged. “Dammit, Laura! I’m not a charity. What next? You want me to give up my salary too? Give away this house and everything we own like some damn Shamer?” Color drains from his face like he’s about to collapse.

Right then, the Dobermans burst into the kitchen — three identical lean and muscular bodies covered with the same blue-black glistening coats. They race past Laura’s legs, around the center island, their ears up and a low growl rising from their throats. They are getting wilder every day.  

“Out!” She snaps at them, then rushes to her husband. “David? What’s wrong?”

But he turns away. “Nothing. I’ve got work to do.” And he stalks out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his office.

Dread slashes through Laura.

The back of David’s shirt was soaked with sweat. Why? It’s chilly in the kitchen. Is he ill? Would he tell her if he was? They hardly talk anymore — only fight. Or avoid each other altogether. She hates it.

She wanders through the living room, her gaze brushing over the leather sectional, the silk accent chairs, the trendy original artwork on the walls, the walnut flooring.

Every item brings a flash of clarity and a sharp sting of pleasure, like a needle touching a bare nerve. Mine. Mine. Mine. Give it away? She could never do that.

Suddenly, her own palms are sweaty, her headache intense and throbbing.

She has to get out of the house, get some fresh air.

She’ll talk to David when she gets back. She’ll start by telling him she loves him and she knows he loves her. If he’s working too much, pushing himself too hard, it’s only to give her the best, true to his promise when they got married. How can she blame him for that? They both come from nothing — he a son of dirt-poor Polish immigrants in Chicago, she raised by her casino-loving grandparents in a trailer park in Indianapolis after her mother drunk herself to death. Nobody handed them a thing. They earned everything they own.

So why does it feel like her cherished possessions are a danger to her, a poison seeping in through her skin, changing her? 

She grabs her purse and hurries to the garage.

---

Laura lowers the top of her convertible and follows the serpentine scenic highway up the hills for a while, letting the wind hit her face. She inhales, searching for the familiar scent of the pine woods, but there is nothing. Must be her sinuses. Then she turns around and drives back to the city.

But she is reluctant to go home. How many hours would it take for David to notice she was gone? She might drive around to find out. She passes downtown and takes an unfamiliar exit.

Old, grim apartment buildings line the street on both sides, with small shops on the ground level, all boarded up and covered with graffiti. Dark alleys separate the buildings, with rusted fire escapes and filthy dumpsters squatting against the wall.

A homeless woman sits in a pile of rags near the mouth of the alley ahead — the first person Laura has spotted for three blocks. A human desert, to match the natural one that surrounds the city.

Laura slows down, and the homeless woman turns her head, meeting Laura’s gaze.

Dirt coats her face under short, matted hair. She extends her hand in a wordless plea for cash.

It’s the stab of pain behind her eyes, more than pity, that makes Laura pull over. She clenches her jaw against the pain and digs in her purse for her wallet, conscious of the woman’s eyes on her. She fishes out a twenty-dollar bill and leans across the passenger seat, offering it to the woman.

But the woman doesn’t move. She just sits there, hand still extended.

A mix of shame and irritation rolls over Laura, her headache burning now. Maybe the woman can’t walk. Is that why her legs are wrapped in the filthy quilt?

Laura’s whole head throbs. Despite the breeze, her fingers clutching the banknote are starting to sweat.

What’s wrong with her? Surely, she can spare twenty dollars. She can spare more than that.

Gritting her teeth, she shifts into park and grabs her purse again. Extracts all the cash from it, even the five one-hundred-dollar bills she keeps for emergencies, and steps out of the car.

She trips and almost falls — the buildings are spinning around her, the asphalt buckling under her feet — and she has to grab the car door to steady herself. But she keeps going, a stubborn determination propelling her forward, toward the woman and her empty, waiting hand.

“Here… I hope it helps… I’m sorry —”

From the corner of her eye, she catches movement in the alley.

But they’re already on her. Two people, faces masked. Strong arms grip her, while a hand presses a wet cloth over her mouth and nose.

Instantly, Laura’s legs give out and her fingers lose their grip.

Panic flares in her. The money!

“Easy. We won’t hurt you.”

Before her vision fades away, Laura sees the homeless woman kick off the quilt and spring to her feet, arms outstretched. But reaching for Laura, not for the dropped money. “You got her? Careful!”

And then Laura is out.

---

When Laura comes to, the smell registers first. Cloyingly sweet. Flowers, but she can’t think of the name, her thoughts still tangled and slow.

The room is bright with sunlight, and she blinks, trying to find her bearings.

There — a splash of purple. Lilacs.

Her mind clears some more.

Her body feels heavy when she shifts her legs, moves her arms. But no pain.

She’s flat on her back on a wide bed, under a soft, white bedspread, a pillow under her head. The lilacs stand in a crystal vase on a dresser across the room. An armchair stands by the window that shows nothing but the sky. She’s in a bedroom, a stylish, expensively furnished one.

Relief washes over her — at least she’s not in some dark basement, tied up — but fear bites her again when she tries to sit up.

She can barely lift herself on her elbows, her muscles shaking with the effort. She’s too dizzy to do anything else. She falls back on the pillow, frustrated.

The door opens, and a young woman hurries around the bed. “Let me help you.”

Laura stares at her. The woman looks vaguely familiar. “Who…” she tries to ask but her mouth is parched, her tongue made of wood.

“I’m Becka. Don’t worry, you’re safe.” The woman presses a button, and the pillow under Laura’s head starts to rise, the whole bed bending in the middle, lifting Laura to an easy sitting position. “There. That’s better.”

Laura is dizzy again but forces herself to stay focused. “Where…”

“Just a second.” The woman reaches into her pocket and uncorks a small vial under Laura’s nose. “How’s this?”

Laura recoils from the foul stench. “Ugh.”

“You can smell it. Good!” Becka pops the cork back in. “Sorry about that. Just wanted to make sure.”

“Make sure of what?”

“Sofía will explain it. Here, you should drink some water. You’re dehydrated.” Becka holds up a plastic cup with a straw to Laura’s lips.

Laura can’t resist it. She takes a long sip and swallows, the cool liquid like a balm in her mouth and throat.

“You must be hungry again. I’ll bring you some broth. Or do you need the bathroom first?”

Laura almost chokes on the water.

Hungry again?

The weak muscles, the dry throat, the lightheadedness. “How long have I been here?”

“Three days,” Becka says. “But don’t worry if you can’t remember. It’s normal. You’re doing great.”

Laura can only stare, her whole body frozen. Three days? It’s not possible…

Suddenly, it hits her: why Becka looks familiar. “You’re — you’re the homeless woman. On the street.”

Becka looks up. “Yep, that was me. We take turns. And let me tell you, that wig itches like hell.”

Laura swallows, her mind racing now. So, it was a setup, a trap. But why? To kidnap her for ransom? Something tells her that’s not it. What then?

She glances around the room. Three days. She’s been here for three days. Missing.

My God — David!

Laura grasps the woman’s wrist, anger chasing the last bits of fog from her mind. “My phone. I need to call my husband.”

An older woman walks in the door. Rimmed glasses frame her dark eyes under short silver hair. Two men appear behind her but she waves them off.

“Hello, Laura. I’m Dr. Ramirez. You can call me Sofía. I know you want to call your husband, and you’ll have that choice. I give you my word. You’re not a prisoner here, Laura, and if you decide to leave, we won’t try to stop you either. But first, I need to explain some things. Is that okay with you?” 

Laura narrows her eyes. None of it is okay. But she needs to know. She nods.        

---

“A disease?” The word jolts Laura. “What disease?”

Sofía sighs and looks away. “We don’t have a medical term for it yet,” she admits. “It’s a new virus. But we know it targets the brain. A specialized type of neurons in the cingulate and the insula. Or the salience network, which integrates the sensory inputs with prior learning and assigns them emotional significance to guide our decision making, particularly when —”

“Can you slow down?” Laura snaps, frustrated. It’s been years since her intro neuroscience course in college, and she barely remembers anything. “You’re saying some new virus infects the brain? And does what, exactly?”

Sofía blinks. “I’m sorry. You’re right.” She thinks for a moment. “When we have an intense experience, our brain tags it as either pain or reward. A shorthand to tell us how to respond to it next time. The stronger the tag, the more urgent and inflexible the behavior.”

“Okay. And?”

“The virus reprograms the brain network that assigns these tags,” Sofía explains. “But instead of causing damage — it puts this brain network in an overdrive. The infected neurons are faster and more efficient. In fact, too fast and too efficient for other brain regions to keep up and intervene if necessary, especially the prefrontal cortex, which normally inhibits obsessive-compulsive and anti-social behavior.” Sofía must sense Laura’s frustration, because she quickly adds. “Naturally, we can’t see the changes in the brain. But the symptoms are clear.”

Laura tenses. “Like what?”

“An impaired sense of smell is a minor one. But the major symptoms? An obsession with money and a compulsion to hoard it. Loss of empathy. Paranoia.”

Laura stares at her. “You’re talking about greed.”

“Essentially — yes.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Laura protests, her cheeks and throat hot. A desperate need grips her: to disprove the idea, to push it away, to be rid of it. She’s not sure why. “Greed is not a disease. It’s… it’s part of human nature!”

Sofía shakes her head. “Not like this. Not like what we’re seeing. Besides, no disease creates a completely new behavior or physiological process — it only alters an existing one. The disease is also progressive. The more the virus rewires the brain, the more it undermines the person’s self-awareness, so they never realize they have a problem.” Sofía looks Laura straight in the eye. “But we can stop the virus and reverse the changes — if we act early enough.”

Dread creeps up Laura’s spine, her cheeks still hot but her body turning to ice. “Why are you telling me this?”

“We are fighting an epidemic, Laura,” Sofía says. “We have little clinical data. But we believe about twenty percent of people in this country are already infected. That’s one in five people, and it’s only going to get worse.”

“What about you? Are you infected?” Laura demands.

To her surprise, Sofía nods. “I was — yes. Most of us were, at one point. But, thankfully, we have a treatment now. A drug.” She turns her head and lifts her hair to show a small, round scar on the back of her neck, just below the hairline. “A nanoparticle-guided viral inhibitor that targets the infected neurons. We inject it directly into the cerebrospinal fluid to bypass the blood-brain barrier. It takes about three days to clear the infection —”

Three days…

Laura’s hand lifts to her own neck — and she flinches as her fingers find the sore spot. “You gave it to me too? Without my permission?” Shock slams into her. “Get away from me! I need to get out of here —”

She starts to rise, but Sofía catches her arm. “We had no choice, Laura. I’m sorry. The infected never agree to treatment. They can’t accept they are sick. It goes against their new cognitive schema and only triggers paranoia, sometimes even violence. It’s part of what makes the virus so dangerous. And why you’ll never hear about it on the news.”

Laura’s head spins, the scent of lilacs thick in her nostrils.

When was the last time she smelled anything before today? She can’t remember. She stopped using perfume weeks ago. There was no point, and David didn’t seem to notice either. Is it the drug then? Did it restore her sense of smell? If so, at least one thing Sofía told her was true.

But that’s insane. These people have kidnapped her, drugged her, and now they’re holding her against her will. Virus or no virus, the sooner she gets out of here, the better.

“You told me I could call my husband,” Laura says, struggling to keep her voice steady. “I heard what you had to say. Now can I have my phone?”

Sofía watches her for a moment, then pulls out a phone from her pocket. “Very well. But I have to warn you… We’ve been keeping a watch on him because of his work. And his disease is progressing quickly.”

Laura’s voice is shaking now. “He’s my husband. I’ve been missing for three days. I need my phone.”

Sofía sighs, her face suddenly tired. “He never reported you missing, Laura. Never even called you. We checked. Just… keep that in mind.” She drops the phone into Laura’s eager, extended hand.

---

The phone isn’t Laura’s. It’s a burner phone, untraceable. Sofía stands behind the armchair by the window, watching her. Laura will have no privacy, but it hardly matters. She dials the number and puts it on speaker, as they agreed.

The phone rings three times before David picks up. “Who is this?”

The sound of his voice brings tears of relief to Laura’s eyes. Words rush from her mouth. “David! It’s me, Laura.”

“Laura. Thank God.”

The feeling in his voice brings tears to her eyes. It’s the real David. The David she fell in love with. “I’m sorry I couldn’t call you sooner —”

“Where are you?”

Laura glances around the room again. Where indeed? “I’ll… explain later. But I’m all right, David.” She laughs.

In the pause that follows Laura hears the dogs growl and snap in the background. A vicious fight that makes Laura’s hairs stand on end. She clears her throat. “Are the dogs okay?”

Without warning, David’s tone turns cold and detached. “They’re fine.”

Suddenly, it’s too much, and Laura’s emotion breaks through. “Why didn’t you report me missing, David? Did you even notice I was gone? Do you care?”

Silence.

“David, darling?”

“Of course I care. But… I’ve been busy. The final walkthrough is today, and we’ve had to renegotiate the contract. With the new regulations, our liability will be minimal and we’ll double our profits. And guess what my bonus is going to be? A full fifteen percent.” Excitement seeps into her husband’s voice.

Laura shudders. She catches Sofía’s eyes and quickly looks away. “David,” she says, her throat tight. “I’ve been gone for days, I could’ve been hurt or killed, and all you think about is… money?”

David’s response is sharp. “I don’t have time for this.”

Anger surges through Laura, burning hot. “You don’t have time for this? I’m your wife! What’s happening to you? I know you — and this isn’t you. You’re not well… My God, they’re right about the virus!” She didn’t mean to say that. It just slips out.

“They?” David’s voice is a growl, like the dogs in the background. “I don’t believe it. I’ve heard rumors but… You’re with the Shamers, aren’t you? Let me guess, they gave you drugs? Or just brainwashed you? You know what? It doesn’t matter.”

“David!”

But her husband had already hung up.

Laura is still staring at the phone when Sofía walks over. “You’re welcome to stay here, Laura. I hope you will. We need you.”

Laura is numb. “Need me? For what? So you can inject me with more drugs?”

“Don’t worry. Nobody gets more than one dose. Anything more could cause an autoimmune flare-up. Besides, our supply is limited.”

“Then why do you need me? Even if it’s true about the disease… what can I do?”

Sofía’s intensity surprises her. “You can stay healthy, Laura. Avoid the virus. It may not seem like much. But trust me. It’s the most important thing any of us can do right now.”

“What about David?” Laura asks. “What about my husband?”

Sofía doesn’t answer.

---

After Sofía leaves the room, Laura puts on the fresh clothes that Becka laid out for her and descends the stairs to the ground floor. Toward the voices.

The house is a spacious, modern two-story with an open-floor plan. Not that different from Laura’s house, except it overlooks nothing but a rocky desert and distant wooded hills — and the living room resembles a bustling control center. At least thirty people mill about, coming and going, typing on their laptops or conferring in small groups, their expressions somber and intent. The smell of coffee and antiseptics hangs in the air.

Laura scans the backs of people’s heads; finds the small, round scar on every exposed neck. So they were all infected at one point and got the drug. Just like Sofía said.

An array of large, bright flat screens take up one wall, each tuned to a different channel. The sound is off, and captions run across the top of each screen.

People glance her way, but no one stops her as Laura crosses to the screens. Up close, she makes out a handful of news channels, a debate on the Senate floor, several corporate meetings, a court session. All apparently streaming live, with flickering data graphs superimposed at the bottom.

“Why are you watching these?” Laura asks a brown-skinned man who studies the screens from behind a standing desk, his gaze shifting from channel to channel, then down to his laptop.

He turns to her, dark circles under his eyes. “You must be new. Welcome. I’m looking for patterns — in government proceedings, corporate decisions, court sentencing. Anything we can use to infer the spread of the infection, since we cannot track it directly.”

Laura swallows. None of it seems quite real. “And the data at the bottom?”

“Infection rates. Best-fit predictions for that sample. We’re focusing on the decision makers. Not very reliable but better than nothing.”

Laura glances around the room, a restless unease building inside her. Where is Becka? Where is Sofía? “So, what does it look like?” she asks the man.

“The infection has been spreading for months now,” he explains patiently, as if fielding questions from new arrivals was routine. Maybe it is. “Thankfully, the pattern still fits only direct, skin-to-skin transmission. Slower spread, easier to avoid. Our people can still go out in the field if they follow basic precautions. But if the virus mutates to airborne transmission…”

“Then what?”

“Then things will get tough. We’ll have to pull everyone back and go into lockdown. Or we could all get re-infected.”

Laura’s chest tightens. David.

Suddenly, she is certain: he needs the drug too. And fast.

Laura spots Sofía and Becka in the foyer and rushes toward them, ignoring the startled looks people throw her. “Sofía!”

“Laura,” Sofía says. “I see you met Chandra. Did he mention it’s his house? He —”

“Where’s my car?” Laura cuts in, her pulse hammering. “I need it. And my purse —”

“Laura, calm down.”

“No, I won’t calm down! My husband… I need to get home. You said I could leave. You gave me your word.”

Sofía sighs. “You can leave if you wish. But your car isn’t here. It’s parked in a safe place. We have to be cautious.” She turns to Becka. “Can you drop her off on your way?”

Becka frowns. “Laura, don’t do this. Don’t go back. Trust me.”

Becka is holding a large plastic bag filled with rags. No, not rags — a torn shirt, an old, dirty quilt. The same disguise she used on Laura.

Laura stares at the bag. “You don’t understand. I have no choice!”

And it’s true. She made David a promise too. To stand by him, no matter what happens, in sickness or in health. He saved her life. At twenty-two, a college dropout with a shitty job, she was spiraling down, retracing her mother’s steps into alcoholism. Falling in love with David made her feel alive again. His ambition was contagious. He gave her a purpose, a dream, a vision of what their life could be. They’ve been inseparable ever since.

Now David needs her, even if he doesn’t know it. She can’t turn her back on him, can’t walk away. No matter how much he changed, she still loves him.

---

The sheer size of her own house shocks Laura.

She pulls up to the locked electronic gate and stares at the building. It’s huge. Way too big for two people. She pictures all the spare bedrooms and bathrooms; the walk-in closets packed with clothes; the stacks of dishes in the kitchen cabinets. Two dozen people could easily live here; several families instead of one. What were she and David thinking? Nobody needs that much space, that much stuff.

Laura is driving her convertible again, with her purse on the seat beside her. Even the cash is back in her wallet, replaced in full without her asking.

She tries her entry code, but the gate doesn’t budge. She buzzes the intercom. No answer.

Two cameras perch on the opposite sides of the gate, their cold, watchful eyes aimed at the driveway. Straight at her. Is David watching right now?

“David! Are you there? Let me in!” she shouts at the camera.

Nothing.

She slams out of the car and stalks to the gate — and winces in pain when her palms touch it. The iron bars twist and cross like feral vines, with sharp-edged leaves and prickly thorns she never noticed before today. No way to grip the iron with your hand; no place to set your foot to climb over. A barbed wire, so thin it’s nearly invisible, tops the tall fence that surrounds the property. All designed to keep intruders out. But she’s not an intruder!

“David! Please.”

Still no answer. He’s not here, she decides.

Of course — the final walkthrough!

She’s already turning when the Dobermans burst into the driveway. They rise on their hind legs and paw at the gate from the other side, howling and snapping at each other.

Laura jumps back, gags at the foul smell. The dogs are in bad shape. Thinner, their skulls and ribs sharply outlined under the coats matted with dirt and crusted with blood. One dog lost an eye; the other limps badly, both front legs covered with festering sores. The dogs curl their blue lips and bare their teeth, a mad, starved look in their eyes.

How could her husband let this happen? He used to love the dogs.

She needs to get inside and feed them, clean their wounds, take care of them.

But not yet. She has to find David first.

---

The apartment buildings that David’s company is buying are in the old manufacturing district. The last factories went out of business years ago, taking the best, stable jobs with them. But many workers and their families stayed behind. Where else would they go? There was temporary work in the city, and a subway to get there. As long as the rent stayed cheap, they could manage.

But now the developers are here.

Laura drives by several busy, dusty construction sites. A massive warehouse is being converted to an upscale indoor market; an old courtyard will hold chic boutiques, spas, and cafes, with paved sidewalks and outside seating; the steel frame of a new medical center stands three stories tall.

The jarring, bruising cacophony of drills, hammers, and bulldozers pounds down on Laura like a fist.

But the sight that awaits her after she turns into David’s street hurts even more.

Groups of people huddle together in front of the three buildings like victims of some horrible disaster. Elderly couples clutching each other; parents with crying babies in their arms and small kids clinging to their legs; men and women stumbling about or standing frozen. Cheap suitcases, cardboard boxes, and bulging trash bags litter the cracked sidewalk, and tall piles of chairs, tables, lamps, dressers, and couches cover the dead lawn.

Shame crawls up Laura’s arms and legs like red ants, her whole body smarting from it. She knew about the evictions — but she never imagined that.

David, what have you done?

The street ahead is closed to traffic. A cement barrier blocks the lane. But four luxury convertibles, their roofs up to stop the dust, stand parked beyond it. One of them is David’s.

Laura drives up to the barrier, gets out of the car. Starts walking.

David. She needs to find him. Convince him. Save him. Her fingers grip the car key so tightly, the metal cuts into her palm.

Several police in full combat gear guard each building entrance, and more cordon the street. Three large, unmarked vans stand off to the side, their back doors thrown open like hungry mouths. Waiting to swallow the evicted families and take them — where?

A policeman starts toward Laura. “The street is closed!”

But Laura slips past him. Several businesspeople have just exited the nearest building — the developers, done with their final walkthrough. She rushes toward a tall man in a light gray suit. “David!”

Some people on the sidewalk stir and press closer. But the police shield the developers, clearing their path as they walk.

The developers never react, as if the evicted families and the police weren’t there. They look only at one another, talking and nodding as they walk. When they get to their parked luxury cars, they form a circle and shake hands.

Laura hurries toward the group. “David!”

This time, David turns. His eyes widen when he sees her, and he takes a step in her direction. But someone from the group speaks to him and his face closes down, a stranger’s face again. He shoots Laura a warning look: I don’t want you here. Then he turns away, gets into his car, and drives away.

It’s like a slap in the face, and Laura stumbles back, stunned. Somehow she makes it back to her own car, shoves the key in the ignition, starts the engine.

Who got the virus first, she or David? Who infected whom?

It changes nothing, of course. All that matters is that she got help and he didn’t. Not yet. And she’s the only one who can help him.

He’d do the same for her, she’s certain.   

Laura backs up the car and speeds away.

---

She drives to the drop-off point, a gravel parking lot along a wooded hiking trail outside the city limits. This is where Becka’s group left Laura’s car for three days; where they changed cars before driving into the city.

The dusty SUV Becka drove from the mansion is still here: a good sign. Laura pulls into the lot and parks her car. All she can do is wait.

The woods are fragrant with pine, spruce, and fir, and she inhales the scent, letting it comfort her. But when she closes her eyes, she sees David’s face. I don’t want you here. She knows he didn’t mean it, but it still hurts.

Becka’s city van pulls into the parking lot, tires crunching the gravel. Laura gets out of her car, hope and dread battling inside her. She’s about to beg for help. What if she’s refused?

The van’s engine turns off but the doors stay closed. Then Becka and two more people step out and walk over to Laura. The thin, dark-skinned woman is Talisha; the heavy, freckled man is Nate.

“You’re okay?” Becka’s concern is genuine, and Laura is thankful. It makes her ask easier.

“I need your help,” she says.

“Everything’s changed, Laura,” Becka says. “The mansion… isn’t safe anymore. We’re moving to another location. Tonight. All of us. You should come with us. Otherwise…” Becka trails off.

A chill grips Laura. “Why are you moving?”

Nate speaks up. “It’s the Congress. An emergency joint session. They scraped their whole agenda to vote on a new law. All social protections — unemployment, Medicare, Social Security — gone. The agencies permanently disbanded. The vote —” his voice cracks with anger — “was unanimous.”

“Don’t forget no more funding for schools, libraries, research, the arts,” Talisha adds bitterly. “Everything needs to bring a profit, even the roads. And if you don’t make a solid income, kiss your citizenship goodbye. It’s get rich — or get out.”

Laura feels lightheaded. This can’t be happening. Then the full meaning hits her. “A unanimous vote? You mean, all of them are infected?”

Talisha nods grimly. “Chandra thinks the virus mutated. Airborne transmission. We don’t know what else changed about the disease. Our drug may not even work on the new cases.”

Laura’s mind reels. Airborne transmission. New cases.

But David isn’t a new case. The drug will work on him. It has to work.

She reaches out blindly, her arm heavy like stone, digs her stiff fingers into Becka’s arm. “I need one dose. For my husband.”

But Becka shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Laura. The drug has to be injected —”

“Then you come with me! You inject it!”

“Only Sofía can do it,” Brenda says. “You need a proper anesthesia. If he moved half an inch, we could damage his spine.”

“But he needs my help!” Laura has never begged in her life, but she’s begging now. “We have to get him and bring him to Sofía. Like you brought me.I’ll do whatever you want!”

Becka, Talisha, and Nate fall silent, but she sees sympathy in their eyes and clings to the hope.

---

The old wig prickles Laura’s scalp, and the hot, dirty quilt over her legs pins her in place like lead. Both smell something awful, on top of her own nervous sweat, so she keeps her breath shallow. Her face and hands are smeared with dirt; her skin, not used to rough treatment, already breaking into a rash.  

But she endures it all gladly — gratefully — because it’s her last chance to save David.

Nobody gets the drug until they pass the compassion test. It’s the only way to gage the progression of the disease, and they can’t afford to waste a precious dose on someone for whom it’s too late.

Laura passed the compassion test herself three days ago. She was a target then — a potential recruit. Now it’s her turn to play the bait: the homeless woman, begging for cash.

The wide boulevard is lined with magnolia trees. Laura sits at the mouth of the private driveway to her house.

David will drive past here on his way home. He cannot miss her.

There are no dark alleys here, no places to hide. Becka, Brenda, and Nate are around the corner, pretending to fix a flat. They’re all taking a risk. As of today begging is illegal, punished by forced labor.

Fear is an icy sliver in Laura’s heart. None of the others believe her husband can make it — they’re only here because they’ve lost loved ones too. But Laura can’t afford the doubt.

It is not too late for David. Deep down, he’s a kind man.

Other cars pass her. Cold eyes glare at her. But she ignores them.

Please, David. I love you. I know you. Help me, so I can help you.

And there he is.

The familiar convertible pulls up to the driveway, slowing down. David turns his head, and their eyes meet.

He clenches his jaw, battling with himself.

The magnolia leaves rustle.

Laura extends her hand.

But David looks away, and the car starts rolling up the driveway.

No.

Laura throws off the rug and rushes in front of the car. “David! It’s me!”

Shock twists David’s face. “What is this? You came to beg for money? You’ve really lost your mind.”

At least he still recognizes her.

Laura staggers to the driver’s side, her heart hammering and her wig askew. The gate is opening. “David, please. You have to come with me. Leave the car, leave everything. You’re not safe here.”

She leans forward and reaches for her husband.

“Get away from me!” he screams, and she can feel his hot breath on her face.

He slams on the gas, and as the convertible lunges forward, Laura reflexively steps back. Not fast enough. The momentum of the car puts her in a spin, and she loses her balance and falls.

By the time she gets back up, the gate clunks shut. David’s car is on the other side, speeding toward the garage. Several crows lift into the air, cawing in alarm.

“David!” Laura cries. “You’re sick! Greed is a disease! Please…”

She’s vaguely aware of footsteps approaching behind her when a stench makes her gag.

She clamps a hand over her mouth and scans the lawn inside the gate.

It takes her a second to grasp what she’s seeing — a pile of matted blue-black fur with guts spilling out. A bloodied hole where the heart used to be. A cloud of flies buzz over the carcass.

Laura stares at the dead dog. “No.” Her legs give out, and she sinks to her knees. “No.”

Then her mind clears. What about the other two dogs? Maybe she could still save them.

But Becka is already next to her, grabbing her arm and pulling her up. “We have to go.”

---

It’s night, the room dark except for gray moonlight pouring in through a small window, when Laura pulls back the old, itchy blanket she sleeps under and gets up from her cot.

She listens to the chorus of snores for a moment, then sneaks out the door, careful not to wake up the other women who sleep in the room with her. None of them can be trusted. This is why Laura’s cash and precious few pieces of jewelry are in a pouch she wears tucked under her shirt at all times.

The stone floor in the hallway is freezing under her bare feet, and regret stings her. Her old house had plush carpets and soft rugs everywhere. All the floors in this awful place are rough, dusty stone, but her shoes would make too much noise. She tiptoes to the kitchen.

The kitchen is as ugly and cramped as the rest of the house, and Laura’s chest tightens, the feeling of loss making it hard to breathe. She closes her eyes, and the memories of her beautiful kitchen rush in — the long marble counters, the crystal cabinets. She can almost hear the magnolia leaves rustling outside the window.

Her eyes sting from the injustice of it. She misses her house so much it hurts, like losing a limb.

Oddly, she never misses her husband, hardly thinks about him at all. She has no memory of the dogs.

It’s only the house, and the beautiful things in it, and the money in her bank account.

She desperately needs to go back. But she can’t leave without her car, and Sofía stole it from her, told Laura they needed to save gas for when they ran out of provisions and had to drive into the city. As if Laura had some obligation to share. She doesn’t. What did the group ever give her? The hard cot and itchy blanket? The horrid canned food that tastes like mud, with no flavor and no smell, so she can barely force herself to swallow it?

But they are all thieves here. Chandra and Becka and all the others. They only lured her in to steal from her.

They can’t keep her here against her will, though. She will get her car back and drive home. Whatever it takes.

She opens a silverware drawer and picks out a sharp carving knife.

---

Vera Brook is a neuroscientist turned speculative fiction writer. Her short fiction has appeared, among other places, in Analog, Cast of Wonders, Factor Four Magazine, Utopia Science Fiction, and — now twice — HyphenPunk. She is trying very hard to infuse her fiction with hope and optimism, but the world being what it is, dystopia still often wins out. Occasionally her stories grow into novels.

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