Jonan Derric was a man of many convictions. He believed that people who hunted endangered species of mammals to use their body parts for folk aphrodisiacs should get thrown in jail en masse. Snorting rhino horns didn’t make you horny, power did. As far as Jonan was concerned, power was the ultimate aphrodisiac, and that was because power led to control, and nothing was sexier than control. Control was like happiness, only more useful, more reliable, and—in the grand scheme of things—far more precious. His elevation to the elite ranks of a CMT’s underlings was but the first step to becoming a medical legend, and the next step was fait accompli. The influx of new patients gave Dr. Derric plenty to do while his medical minions were busy at work implementing his brilliant plans. Yes, it was frustrating to have to have to wander from room to room while he waited for the mass examination room to be readied for his experiments, but the end result would be completely worth the wait. Besides, the time ended up passing him by in the blink of an eye.

The notification that the set-up of Dr. Derric’s new laboratory was finally complete came not from a nurse, but a janitor; Larry the Janitor, as the man’s ID badge plainly indicated. Jonan had the feeling he’d seen Larry before, most likely somewhere near the edge of his vision. This didn’t surprise him. Like the Todds or the Ruperts, the Larrys of the world were creatures forever consigned to lurk in the shadows, ignored by the many. This particular Larry, though… he was one of the rare exceptions. Larry the Janitor had an extraordinary, imposing physique. It wordlessly announced his presence. Even Jonan felt intimidated. This was a man who should have been a professional wrestler, or a model, or an actor in a porno or an action flick.

It was only when Larry spoke that Jonan finally understood why the man was stuck as a lowly janitor.

“The room’s ready for you, Dr. Derric,” Larry said. “E57. Plenty of space there.”

Larry’s teeth were horrendous. Scary, even.

“Thanks,” Jonan said. “You should see a dentist about your…” Jonan moved his finger around his mouth like it was a toothbrush.

Larry smiled. It was a gruesome sight. “People tell me that all the time.” The man grumbled and sighed. “I just wish I could afford it.”

Jonan nodded in understanding. Healthcare was expensive; good healthcare, even more so.

The two men went their separate ways.

For the next hour or so, time melted into a viscous slurry that blurred Jonan’s moments together. Jonan’s goal was simple enough: find suitable candidates for his treatment experiments and escort them to E57. Unfortunately, he kept getting interrupted by the worst kinds of idiots: powerful, wealthy idiots. The frightful subcutaneous filaments that developed as the Green Death progressed were utterly unmistakable to anyone with even the slightest bit of medical training. This, of course, meant that anyone with a premium health insurance package immediately rushed to the nearest hospital as soon as they spotted or merely thought they spotted even the slightest blemish on their skin came in, cough or no cough. The expected to get first-class treatment, and—much to Jonan’s dismay—it was his job to make sure they got what they paid for.

Jonan had vanishingly little patience for that particular personality type, and happily shooed them away, but not before asking them if they’d be willing to pay him extra in a display of preëmptive thanks. Bribery might have been illegal, but there was nothing stopping a patient from gifting their physician with money, goods, or services out of sheer gratitude. Even though Jonan would have preferred to call orderlies to toss the asshats out on their petards, the money he fleeced off them could immediately be used to purchase extra medical supplies. As Jonan knew well, those purchases couldn’t happen soon enough. It wasn’t going to be long before the combined effects of panic buyers, price gougers, and supply chain degradation raised the prices of basic medical supplies to the point that only a trillionaire could afford them. Besides, ordering supplies in advance would make it all the more likely that Jonan would go down in history as a hero—and that, alongside treating patients, was the whole point of all this.

It was while Jonan was en route to check up on one of his rich idiot patients that a nurse reached out to him with an age-weathered arm.

“Dr. Derric,” the elderly nurse said, “there’s another patient for you.”

Jonan held out his PortaCon so that the nurse could wave her hand over the scanner. As she did, the patients on her queue up on Jonan’s screen—name, photo-identification, and all. She tapped one.

“There you go,” she said, “all yours.”

A new patient profile—Frank Isafobe—popped into being at the top of Jonan’s list. Tzaban, but with lighter skin.

Probably a second-generation immigrant, he thought.

“I hope this isn’t another bad egg,” Jonan said.

The nurse shook her head. “No, this one’s pretty severe.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” Jonan said. He started to walk off, when the old woman tapped him on the shoulder for a second time.

“If you’re on the lookout for bad eggs, I guess it’s my duty to warn you.”

“Oh?”

“Word is,” the old nurse lowered her voice to a whisper, “Mabel Gunblister has been sighted on the premises.”

Jonan narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

“You know the face on the dartboard in the locker room next to Lounge 2?”

“I vaguely recall something to that effect being there.” He did a double take. “Wait, that’s Mabel?”

The nurse nodded. “That’s the one.”

Concern blossomed on Jonan’s face. “Please don’t tell me you hate her more than me. Say it isn’t so.”

The old woman snorted and smirked. “You’re not even in the running.”

“Now I just have to meet her,” he said. “Thanks for letting me know.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Jonan continued on his way. He tapped the Map icon next to his newest patient’s profile picture. The screen immediately showed him the best route to the patient’s room. He got there without any trouble. Well, almost.

Most of the hospital’s Wards—both Letter and Number—had rows of seats scattered around them to give people places to sit. Many of these were close to small waiting areas, the kind where the best moments of teary-eyed doctor-patient commotion played out on TV medical dramas. E Ward’s seats were nearly filled. The people seated in them bore varying shades of misery. But, as Jonan walked to Mr. Isafobe’s room, one group stood out to him among the rest. They were a family of three: the two parents along with their wheelchair-bound adult daughter. The poor woman was a frail invalid, lost to the world behind an impenetrable mental fog, punctuated by a spasming limb or the occasional drooling-lipped moan.

Fuck, Jonan thought. The sight struck far too close for comfort. It made the hair on his neck stand on end. He stepped into Frank Isafobe’s room as quickly as he could, and sighed in relief as he closed the door behind him.

Dr. Derric approached the patient’s bedside. Troublingly, Mr. Isafobe was still in his day clothes: a dark blue polo shirt and khaki shorts. The fuzzy, pale tan socks on the middle-aged man’s feet were only a shade or two lighter than his skin. His face was round and clean-shaven, and sported a short, bristly mustache, though the skin was pallid. His eyes shifted sluggishly over to Dr. Derric.

Jonan scanned his PortaCon over Mr. Isafobe’s right hand. The console communicated wirelessly with the citizen’s chip embedded in the man’s hand. All of Mr. Isafobe’s vitals appeared on the screen after a momentary whirl of the loading icon.

“Hello, Mr. Isafobe,” Jonan said. “I’m Dr. Derric, and I take it that you’re not feeling too well.”

Mr. Isafobe chuckled, and then immediately regretted it. Agony rolled him onto his side and curled him halfway into the fetal position as a violent coughing fit wracked his body. Jonan didn’t need a stethoscope to recognize the telltale sound of a lower respiratory infection: wet and crunchy, like rice crispies in milk.

Tears wept from Mr. Isafobe’s bloodshot eyes. He panted for breath.

“I was out at the beach,” he said, “walking, just walking. It was,” he coughed, and moaned, “it is such a beautiful day out there. And then…”

His gaze rolled over to Jonan.

The case file on Dr. Derric’s console succinctly summarized the rest:

Patient found lying unconscious on the sand down by South Beach.

“Is my family coming?”

Jonan swallowed. “I don’t know for sure, but,” he arched his eyebrows up, “I’ll bet they’re trying their best.”

Aside from the pneumonia Jonan took note of a lone subcutaneous filament—dark and slender—reaching up over his collar like a careless tattoo. The filament was surrounded by a cloud of discoloration, like something between varicose veins and a healing bruise. Similar discolored patches had begun to form on Mr. Isafobe’s forearms, though they were free of any filaments, at least for the time being. Jonan had no idea what any of it meant, and the knowledge that he didn’t thrilled him. It frightened him, of course, but it also thrilled him.

Greatness was forged at the edge of the unknown—that was what Jonan believed. And greatness was his endgame.

“Doctor… it’s so hard to breathe.”

Jonan nodded. “You have pneumonia,” he said. “I—”

—Another coughing fit wracked Mr. Isafobe’s body. Bits of green sputum splattered on the bedsheets and on Jonan’s PPE gown.

A glance at the monitor by the man’s bedside showed Mr. Isafobe had a peripheral oxygen saturation level of 88%. Mr. Isafobe’s fingers had yet to show any signs of cyanosis—though they were somewhat pale—which meant his breathing difficulties had to be a recent development.

“What?” He shuddered as he drew in breath. “But… I was…” he panted, “a day ago, I was fine.”

“Pneumonia can sneak up on a person like that,” Jonan said, “though not in people like yourself—middle-aged, and in good health.”

“I have it, don’t I?” Mr. Isafobe asked. “The disease.” His expression turned grim as he stared at the green sputum he’d coughed up. “The Green Death.”

“In all likelihood… yes.” Jonan nodded solemnly.

Mr. Isafobe fretted, shifting about in bed. He squeezed the railing on the bedside. “My girl’s birthday is tomorrow.” A tear glinted in his eye. “It’s gonna be… a pizza party.”

His breathing was steady but labored.

“We’re taking her to Len E. Lemming’s,” he said. “Ice cream cake, ball pit… bounce-house.”

“I can tell you right now,” Jonan said, “you’re not going to be able to go to the party.”

“There’s no way?”

“Not a chance in hell,” Jonan replied. He sighed. “Do you mind telling me your daughter’s name, Mr. Isafobe?”

Jonan winced as the man coughed up more sputum. As he did, Jonan took note that the previous gobs had crumbled like chalk dust after drying out. Mr. Isafobe’s movements smeared the dust over the wrinkles in his shirt.

“My girl’s Becca,” he said, panting. “And, please,” he smiled meekly, “call me Frank.”

Nodding, Jonan set his console down on one of the chairs by the wall behind him. “Well then, Frank,” he said, “I know it sucks to learn that you aren’t going to be able to attend Becca’s pizza party birthday. Right now, though, it’s my priority to ensure that you get to attend next year’s party, and many, many more to come, and I hope you’ll help me make this your priority, too.”

“Help? How?”

“I’ve got an offer for you, Frank, and I hope you’ll hear me out.”

Frank nodded, loudly clearing his throat. “I’m listening.”

As per the data on Jonan’s console and the label on the bag attached to Frank’s IV drip, Frank had been given the standard dose of zintomicin. As far as Jonan was concerned, expecting zintomicin to defeat the Green Death was like putting a piece of gauze on a severed head and calling it a day. It was so sad, Jonan nearly laughed.

“Right now, you’re on zintomicin. This is a standard-issue antifungal medication. With your permission, I would like to try something a little more creative.”

The tired man raised an eyebrow. “This some kind of experiment?”

“Absolutely,” Jonan nodded deeply, “and to be perfectly frank, Frank, you shouldn’t settle for anything less. Right now there are millions of people around the world who are just as sick as you are who are receiving meds like zintomicin, donazole, or endafungin. We’ll learn how effective those drugs are no matter what we do. That’s why it’s vital that we start experimenting with new or unusual treatments as soon as possible. Right now, we’ve got no data on how to fight NFP-20. With your permission, I’d like you to help me fix that, and help you in return.”

“What are you gonna do to me? Are there any side effects?”

“I want to try out a combination of miforol—a relatively new antifungal medication—and a little something called Granulocyte-Macrophage Colony-Stimulating Factor, or GM-CSF, for short.” Jonan raised a finger. “And before you ask, I’d like you to know that miforol actually has fewer side-effects than zintomicin or any of the other standard antifungals. Meanwhile, GM-CSF stimulates your body to produce more macrophages, which are a kind of white blood cell that digests dead germs and other debris and helps your immune system clear the infectious NFP crud out of your body.”

Frank nodded. “My head feels like it’s being sawed open” He coughed—not fitfully, just a single cough and two aftershocks. Even so, it made him wince. Frank’s eyes shut as he groaned in pain. “And the cough, it hurts so much,” he rasped. “I’ll do anything, Doctor, anything to make it stop.”

Jonan smiled. “That’s what I’m here for.”

As with his previous subjects, Dr. Derric had no intention of rolling Frank’s bed over to E57 all by himself. Picking up his console, Jonan tapped his way through to the WeElMed app’s tracking feature. This consisted of a map of the area which displayed Jonan’s location and the locations of his nurseish underlings by little copies of each person’s profile picture.

This time, it was Isabel’s turn. Jonan messaged her:

I have need of you.

The reply was rude and swift:

Certainly, Dr. Dickhead.

Jonan stood in place for about a minute—much to Frank’s puzzlement—watching his red-headed and silver-tongued underling beeline toward him. Isabel’s profile picture was of herself at the beach, wearing sunglasses and with a piña colada in her hand. Jonan thought she looked cute, though she was nothing compared to Ani.

“You made excellent time,” Jonan said, complementing the nurse as she arrived.

Isabel rolled her eyes. “Just shut up and tell me what to do already.”

“Gladly.”