“The woman—it’s a suicide?” asks a man in military uniform. He has a rifle strapped to his body, which he uses to prod the hanging woman’s corpse. It swings like a pendulum, spreading the rotting aroma around the room.
The other man, the professor in a simple shirt and pants, cringes. “Please don’t do that,” he says quickly. He detests his companion. No respect for science, that one, just bloodlust simmering under the surface now that there are less and less of them to kill in the name of ‘protecting the civilians’. The professor hears the military man mutters something under his breath; he ignores it. Now, his priority is gathering data.
The body at his feet is of a man in his early thirties, died of blood loss. Of all the victims of the creatures he had encountered, the professor has never seen one so neatly consumed. Indeed, the cut of his upper left arm is jagged, the flesh shredded and ripped by hands and teeth, but the fact remains that it is just his arm; the rest of him is intact.
The professor looks up to the hanging woman. His lover, perhaps? He stands—slowly, his old bones do not allow him the same mobility they used to—to examine the body.
Woman, early thirties, died of asphyxiation. That part is easy. Guilt or grief, perhaps, over having attacked her lover. And yet, the professor feels like there is a bigger story there.
But there is always a story, the professor reminds himself. He does not have time for everyone. Now that the plague is contained and the remaining patients are controlled, his task is to gather the numbers. That is what these two will become, too: numbers.
He writes down several lines, takes several pictures, and leaves the little town house.
YOU ARE READING
II
Science FictionThe PR release says, "We have this under control," then follows the statement with vaguely scientific-sounding words. No one really buys it. That proves to be a wise decision. Never trust the official statement about something that is far too suspic...
