Merry

A Case Study in Cognitive Formatic Descent

A surge in absences meant she was in a different office for the day. It seemed a lot of people were, as the place was alive with more irritated shuffling and grumbling than she'd ever seen. Her temporary workspace seemed abandoned until she noticed everyone packed into one corner, all listening as a senior supervisor gave a grim speech regarding three office suicides that weekend. That's horrible, she thought, dismissing the fact almost instantly as she settled into her chair.

As her third call of the day ended the speaker in the office corner blared "Meredith Ferguson, please report to the manager's office." Her co-workers watched sidelong as she shuffled from the room hoping they wouldn't say a word, knowing somehow that they wouldn't.

The floor manager, Charlie Haggers was so featureless you might mistake him for a mannequin had he not droned on in that monotonous tone, making every statement into a ten-minute story, turning the most riveting insight into something synonymous with watching paint dry. It was frustrating at first, infuriating before long and now she felt an impatient tension rising as she made her way to his room. She soon found that today was no exception as she watched the thick moustache curl under his nose.

"Outbreak...many deaths...very tragic...cognitive formatic descent, they call it...not Glasgow though, not yet." Shit, she thought, I should probably listen to someone today, this outbreak sounds terrible. "Won't hit us as bad now," he continued, "not now we have a vaccine."

"Am I getting an injection?" She asked childishly.

"Only thing for it, I'm afraid. Or I can't let you work." He went on with the formalities, wording it like the jab wasn't mandatory when she knew full well that it was. She complied, following Haggers to a converted storage room where two men donning lab coats awaited them. If her nerves were intact she'd have felt the whole affair very unofficial. First they took a blood sample, explaining that another would be required in a week's time. Then the vaccine was administered in the same place as her tuberculosis shot, though in the opposite arm. Her arm was swabbed and she was promptly told to return to work.

The next few days saw Meredith continuing the same routine she always had. By the end of the third day she noticed yellowing around the needle's mark. Treating it like most issues in her life, she tried not to look at it. It wasn't until Friday morning, when she cooked breakfast again, that Rob caught a glimpse.

"The fuck is...Christ it's going black in the middle! Why haven't you said anything? Is it from the vaccine? I'm calling an ambulance. It's infected you idiot, clearly!"

Jasper laughed and prodded at it. "Idiot." He chuckled. With his free hand, Rob delivered a backhand slap to Jasper's temple which echoed around the kitchen.

"Hello?" Rob said to the phone in an overly-worried voice. ""We need an ambulance, my wife's arm is infected. No, we...yes, she's conscious. Yes, we have a car. Okay thank you." He put the phone away. "I'm driving you, come on."

Meredith didn't even see the hospital, having passed out halfway there. She didn't see Rob sprint inside with her wrapped in his arms, didn't see the doctors hook her up to a life-support grid. She didn't see the doctor return to the waiting area only ten minutes later to inform Rob of her passing. She didn't see the thousand emotions flood into Rob's face as he dropped to his knees, whimpering "Merry...Merry. No." She didn't see Jasper finally stop laughing.

*

Meredith awoke in a lone hospital bed in Glasgow's Royal Infirmary. She couldn't focus her sight. Every sense, in fact, seemed heightened and impaired all at once. She checked her arm: spotless. Strangely so. There should be scar tissue or something, she thought. She didn't know an infection could heal so quickly. But how quickly? How long had she been there?