The Pandora Index (Older work)

Red (2)

Vladimir Roche

An annoying buzz drew me out of my daydreaming. I looked away from my paints and scanned the room for the source of the noise. In the far corner of the room, a small wasp was thrashing around in a frenzy. It must have flown through the open window. Wondering what a wasp was doing this late in the year, I sighed and walked over to it. It had taken notice of me and started hovering in front of my face, trying to identify me as a threat. I quickly reached up and snatched it out of the air. It vibrated and stung my closed fist.

"I envy you, you know." I mumbled. "Y-you get to live your short life with a simple goal of survival, i-ignorant to how much of a lie this world is."

I felt the wasp pop in the palm of my hand. I opened my hand and looked at the grey stain that had used to be a living creature. I don't enjoy the insects of Georgia, they're too loud, especially in summer, the screaming cicadas actually force me to stay indoors with all the windows tightly sealed with tape. That's why fall and winter are my favorite seasons.

I wiped my hand across my pants and walked back over to my paintings. I hate my ability. I've hated it ever since I had gotten it so long ago. I looked out the window into the reddening forest. I remember that day, it was a cold fall day like today.

I was only ten at the time, but I remember it perfectly. The virus had spread across Russia, the virus was known as the "Instant Death Disease," or "IDD" because it could kill you within an hour of catching it. They virus was transmitted by being in close contact with an infected corpse and my mother was a nurse at a hospital, she died within the first week of working with the infected. A single centimeter of exposed wrist was enough to kill her. My father and I couldn't even give her a proper funeral, we could only use the last of our money to get on an old smuggler ship bound to America from the east coast. When I told him how I felt about leaving mother here, in this cesspool of despair, he told me the same words his father told him when they had to leave France, "We will have to stay strong no mater who we leave behind."

International travel from the quarantine zone was Illegal, so normal transportation was not an option. We had to stand shoulder to shoulder with strangers in a dark smelly room and pray that no one had accidentally brought the virus onto the ship.

Fortunately, there wasn't any problems during the trip other than sore legs and bruised elbows. The sun was setting when we reached the American state of California. All the other refugees began going their separate ways, except three of my father's business friends who had managed to get their own tickets. I hadn't met them before, but I had no reason to dislike them. We made our way to a nearby city, its towers dwarfed the tallest buildings that were in my small town. I didn't bother remembering the name of the city, it'd just be another bad memory.

I shivered as I thought of what my town might look like now. I didn't have many friends back in Russia, they never cared about me, some bullies even took the liberty of giving me the nickname "Roach." They would throw my lunch onto the ground and order me to eat it. If I refused they would beat me until I was too sore to move. I would refuse to eat it no matter the pain, I don't know if it was due to a twisted sense of pride, or maybe I though if finally gave in, no one would talk to me. Even after this though, I still worried for them.

I still do.

One of my father's friends had scouted ahead of us, he said that he had found a bullet-train depot. Once we got there we felt completely alienated, I think some people might have been suspicious of us. My father pointed up at a destination chart and told us we need to go as far inland as possible. The train we needed to go on was in the blue station. I'd been completely colorblind since birth, so all I could do was follow my father through the crowd of silver androids and grey faces.