King of Zombie Heath

Day 35 - My doctor thinks I'm a racist, homophobic misogynist.

I asked her if she'd had any experience with this kind of thing where she came from and she said, what, you mean apocalyptic plagues and societal breakdown in Bristol? That threw me. "Let me think," she said, and rubbed her chin sarcastically. "During my Foundation Program there was a chlamydia outbreak in Southmead, which can be quite rough. Does that count?" I started stu-stu-stuttering, bu-bu-but... I thought... she interrupted me, waving ahand in my face, and said she knew exactly what I thought. Apparently, I'm a racist, homophobic misogynist, and had her down as a lesbian witch-doctor from Nigeria on some NGA funded Mickey Mouse work-experience exchange program. Okay, so I was off on a few points. Her name's Sharon, not Shiminege, and she's a neurologist with a first class degree from Cambridge, born in Bristol, and into Men, with a capital M, and sometimes, when the urge takes her, in the plural, although she does have hazy memories of at least one drunken same-sex encounter as an undergrad. She pointed at my room and told me that if I had a problem with her being a woman or black or occasionally bisexual she could always lock me back in with Eddie to keep me company.

I was taken aback. It's rare medical people talk to me like that, especially in that tone, and especially ones that barely reach my nipples and weigh about as much as a small sack of New Potatoes. I stood there struggling to assimilate all this new and conflicting information, gobsmacked by what I can only describe as her balls, slowly becoming aware of a strange new sensation flowing through my body. I felt - and I know it's supposed to be physically impossible for me, and yet I use the word in its true sense of "being emotionally affected by - chastened. My Bad swelled in my estimation, taking on an Amazonian stature that left me humbled. I think I told her whatever she decided was fine by me.

So we're all sitting on the sofa, except Nimby who just stares out of the window all the time looking for foxes and squirrels. I was at one end, Dick was rocking backwards and forwards in the middle, mumbling to himself, and Tubbs was at the other end looking pale and worried. He's come out of his shell since he's been talking to the plants and, it seems, to Dick. He wanted to know if it was true the aliens had tried to kill everybody and were coming to make the survivors into miners. (He doesn't do well in dark rooms and enclosed spaces. Unpleasant childhood experiences, I think, that he discounted rather violently on a young couple that reminded him of his parents.) My Bad sat on the arm of the sofa and stroked his head, running her fingers through his hair until it stood on end like one of those Troll dolls. She told him nobody had tried to kill anybody and whispered (so Dick couldn't hear) that he didn't have to worry about becoming a miner because there weren't really any aliens. There was, however, a virus that was very dangerous and had killed lots of people. Nobody knew much about it, except that it seemed to have originated in the Middle East before sweeping across Europe and Asia taking everyone by surprise. There was no cure, as yet, but she was hopeful. She hugged him and promised to look after him for as long as she could. Tubbs wanted to know how he'd know if he caught it. My Bad explained it was like the flu, but a bit worse, and those it didn't kill within a few days (about thirty percent, she told me later) were left in a confused state. Confused? Ha! That's not quite how she described it to me. Mind you, Tubbs was already scared enough so it was probably wise to leave out the deranged-killer-cannibal bit.

Was he going to get it? he asked. No, said Dick, stopping his rocking and jabbing a mauled fingernail in My Bad's direction. You used us as guinea pigs, didn't you, Doctor Mbadinuju. It wasn't a question. He stared at her, waiting for confirmation. My Bad was twirling her fingers in Tubbs' hair. She opened her mouth, as if to deny the charge, then thought better of it. She lowered her head and sighed. Yes, she admitted, looking up at Dick. Patients in this hospital, and others, had been used in clinical trials. The virus was spreading so fast, and people were dying so quickly, that there wasn't time to follow proper protocols. The scientists were working round the clock and anything that showed the slightest promise was pushed straight into Phase III trials. But there wasn't time to find volunteers, and someone somewhere made the decision to test candidate vaccines in prisons and hospitals. But I thought Mengele died in '79, quipped Dick. My Bad ignored him. Our ward was one of the last groups to be assessed, she said, and we just happened to be lucky. Very, said Dick, grinding his teeth. Because you gave us the disease after you gave us the vaccination, didn't you. My Bad hung her head. I think she blushed, but it's hard to know for sure. Yes, she admitted. How else to test the vaccine? So I was right. It wasn't a mosquito that bit the lymph node in my elbow. The lying bastards.

You could have killed us, said Dick. My Bad was almost in tears. Yes. She met his gaze and wiped her eyes. And yet here you are. Yes, said Dick, here we are. The Fantastic Four. Shame about the other... how many weren't so lucky, Doctor? My Bad's dark chocolate face paled to carob brown. She shrugged, turning over her palms as though seeking his comprehension. The powers that be weighed the needs of the species against the rights of the individual. It's harsh, it's cruel, but they did the only thing they could. You know they did, Richard. The future of the human race was - is - in danger. And, be honest, look around, you know full well that if we hadn't used you the virus would have killed you anyway. And us. She indicated her companions. Dick snorted in disgust. So Doctor, you infected us and waited to see if we'd die, then took the vaccine yourself when we didn't.

Wow. That stunned me. That was cold. Mordsley cold. My Bad was a mass murderess. The Queen of Evil. After her earlier outburst I was already a fan, but now I saw myself becoming a fawning sycophant, in spite of the conflictive thoughts about having been an unwitting victim of her biological roulette. It wasn't like that, she said. The system was breaking down, each day there were fewer and fewer people to keep the controls. I kept one dose of each test vaccine I received. When your blood tests came up negative, I took the sample to Suresh. My Bad indicated the non-descript, bespectacled, polyester zip-upped Pakistani whose name, she informed us, is Dr Suresh Biswas, an Indian who takes offense at being confused with a Pakistani. He's also a hindu and a has no official links to Wideheath. My Bad smuggled him in because he's a brainiac with a Ph.D in cellular and molecular biology.

Suresh copied the vaccine but there wasn't time to make much. We gave all we had to family and friends and brought them here. She sat quietly for a moment, allowing it all to sink in, then asked us what we'd have done. I almost blurted out that she'd done just fine, though she could have rid herself of the guilt trip by taking bets on who was going to survive and concentrating on her wins, but I kept my mouth shut. I'm learning. That kind of comment doesn't endear you to people. Even if those people used you in a fatal biological experiment. Dick just glared at her long and hard, then asked: Just how many did you infect? My Bad stared at him for as long as she could, then her eyes watered up and she looked away. More than enough to haunt my every waking moment until the day I die.

Tubbs saved everyone from one of those awkward silences. So what was going to happen to us now, he wanted to know. Nothing, said My Bad. She wiped her eyes and ruffled his hair and told him he was going to be OK. Things carry on the same as they are, she said. Just that we'll have to pull together and look after each other until things get back to normal. When will that be, he asked. My Bad explained that the pandemic, combined with the weather, had created a continent-wide crisis. Society, as we knew it, had disintegrated. Those that weren't dead or sick were with their families doing the best they could to stay alive. It could take some time, she said. Reading between the lines, the south east had become the Wild West. Where were the soldiers? Tubbs asked. Why haven't they come back? My Bad said she didn't know. Perhaps they'd found somewhere else to stay, or joined with other military groups and were trying to reestablish law and order. Why haven't they sent news, then? My Bad shrugged and said that most of the country was without electricity. They probably couldn't charge their cellphones, or the batteries on their radios were flat. The major knew we were safe, so chances were he was looking after people in much worse situations that us. Tubbs, like the moron his is, fell for it hook, line and sinker. He stood up, grinning, and excused himself, and said he had to go tell the coriander.

Me, I was thinking. Up until then, I hadn't really given our situation much thought. As long as I was warm and cosy with three meals a day, the world's problems weren't mine. But it was starting to dawn on me. Doc had abandoned us. Society had forgotten us. The government considered us expendable. There were no police, no Walts, no medical health reviews. Things weren't going back to normal so soon because seventy percent of the population was dead and most of the rest were half-starved, insentient lunatics with an insatiable craving for facial tissue. Our own doctor, a pillar of society, injected her patients with a lethal virus, killing god knows how many of them, under the pretext that it was for the greater good. Hell, crazy is the new norm. Out there, it's every man, woman and child for himself. The opportunities are unlimited. I've died and gone to heaven.

I have to get out of here. Although I can wait until the thermometers climb above zero.