Across the world, I imagine, there were a lot of people who were busy acclimating to working remotely. They’d have to adjust to communicating to and collaborating with their colleagues through videophone calls, teleconferences, and the works, instead of at the office or by the fabled water cooler. It was all part of the ongoing desperate efforts to stymie NFP-20’s spread.

After the surgery disaster, E Ward’s CMT sat in an emergency session. Drs. Arbond and Nowston were phoning in from consoles in the operating theater and from a Pathology lab, respectively. It made me wonder: who, really, was working remotely? Was it Cassius, speaking to us through the console mounted on the wall of our familiar conference room? Was it Dr. Nowston, at the counter in his lab, going over samples old and new—not to mention Ileene’s abominable fetus? Or was it Ani, Heggy, Jonan, Dr. Horosha, and myself, dressed up the wazoo in PPE, seated in chairs spread out across the room like some kind of conceptual art display?

Everyone but Cassius, I thought.

I swallowed hard. The taste of chocolate and nuts clung to my tongue. I’d gotten a snack on the way to our conference room. With all this stress and guilt, I was having more difficulty than usual staving off the urge to stuff my face full of food. I figured if I was going to have to eat, it would be better to do so in small bursts rather than gigantic portions.

If a stranger had walked into the conference room, at a glance, Ani and I would probably have given the strongest signs of being unable to bear the unbearable. Dr. Lokanok kept trying to reach beneath her PPE visor to adjust her face-mask—doubtless to let out the moisture it trapped against her face—but every time, she stopped herself, clenching her fingers in frustration. Ani kept fidgeting in place, adjusting her position on her seat, turning her eyes furtively from one person to the next, glancing over at the spectral blue holographic projections of Cassius and Brand, the former standing, the latter seated.

But if Ani was motion, then I was stillness. I was stuck staring downward at no one and nothing in particular, lost in a moment that simply refused to end; the cardboard shell of a failed stoic. Every few seconds, a plume of spores erupted from the center of the table, conjured by my increasingly overactive imagination.

Jonan was the first to break the silence.

“So…” he said, letting his words trail off, “are we going to talk about it… or what?”

Dr. Marteneiss mashed her gloved fingers together and pursed her lips. It gave the impression that she was rolling her words around in her mouth, making sure they tasted just right. But Ani spoke out before she had a chance to reply.

“Are we certain that that gas—”

“—Spores,” Brand interjected, glancing up from the holographic projection of his microscope.

Ani rolled her eyes. “Are we sure that these spores are NFP-20’s mode of transition?”

“If you recall what Dr. Skorbinka said during the autopsy,” Brand said, “given NFP-20’s fungal etiology, and the predominance of respiratory symptoms among the majority of those infected—particularly in the earliest stages of disease progression—it’s all but certain that—”

“—People,” Cassius stopped the conversation in its tracks. “We’ve got ourselves a natural experiment over here. If those goddamn spores are the killers we think they are, we’ll find out soon enough.”

Behind him, out of sight, one of the other surgeons was already beginning to cough abnormally.

Dr. Arbond shook his head. “We’re already dealing with one worst case scenario. But that don’t cut it. We gotta consider all the fuckin’ worst case scenarios, and—assumin’ the spores are infectious—the worst case scenario is that all the Type Two cases are like Mrs. Elbock here.”

While Cassius was being rendered holographically by the conference room’s projector, his call was still coming through on one of the larger consoles mounted on the wall. The console he was using in the operating theater was mounted on a wheeled stand, and he rolled the stand over to the operating table and pointed the console’s camera at Merritt, giving us a view of her thoracic cavity.

Ani looked away. After a couple of seconds, even Heggy had trouble keeping her eyes on it.

“Please,” Ani pled, shaking her head, “enough. We’ve seen enough!”

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Cassius turned the console away from the horrid sight.

“If that’s how you feel,” Jonan said, “I recommend against looking at the footage from the autopsy of Ileene’s fetus.” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “Talk about nightmare fuel,” he whispered.

“From what we’ve found here,” Cassius continued, “and from what Drs. Nowston, Skorbinka, Horosha and Howle have determined in their examination of Miss Plotsky’s fuckin’ mutant baby, it seems Merritt is—I kid you not—developing…”

Both Cassiuses—the one on the console and the blue, flickering hologram on the wall by the door—looked over to holographic Brand. “Skorbinka, what’d you call it?”

Both the Brand in the console on the opposite wall and his holographic double moved out of the way as Mistelann stepped into view. “Conidiophores,” the mycologist explained. “These produce conidia: spores.”

Cassius nodded. “Yes. Merritt’s lungs—or, whatever you wanna fuckin’ call ‘em now—it looks like they’re developing into a sac chock-filled with those conidiophores.”

“The same structure is present in Ileene’s fetus,” Brand said.

“Please, no pictures,” Ani begged.

Brand kept talking. “Like Mistelann suggested during the initial examination, it’s only natural to assume this serves a reproductive function, just like all fungal spore production.”

Dr. Derric spoke up. “And the point of all this is…?” He gyrated his hand.

“Given all the interinvolvement developing between the spore-lung and Merritt’s upper respiratory tract,” Cassius said, “if the damned spores can spread the disease, then she and every other Type Two out there is a motherfuckin’ biohazard.”

I whimpered, and then moaned piteously. “Oh God…”

Dr. Arbond pointed his thumb and index finger at me, smirking sardonically. “That’s the spirit.” But then he sighed, coughed, and frowned. “While I’ve heard that the neuropsychiatric symptom screening Dr. Howle advocated has been a big help in identifying Type Two cases, if there’s even the slightest possibility that these spore-organs might be forming inside Type Two cases early in the progression of the disease, then we need a way to test for Type Two, and fast.”

“Cassius,” Heggy said, “I agree with you, but… aren’t you barking up the wrong tree? We ain’t got any diagnostic tests for this disease, let alone ones that differentiate between types.”

“That’s the thing,” Dr. Arbond replied, “I think we do. When we cut into Merritt, the mutant tissue magically grows in to repair the wound—well, only if the wound is small, at any rate. Regardless, it’s fuckin’ nuts, and I haven’t heard of any similar crap going on with Type One patients. So, that might be our ticket to test-town. Make a small, superficial incision on an arm, and wait a minute or two. If the cut seals itself up, we’ll know we’ve got a Two on our hands. Easy as pie.”

Dr. Horosha spoke up. “If I may…”

“Go ahead, Dr. Horosha,” Heggy said.

Dr. Horosha leaned onto the table with his elbows and steepled his gloved fingers. “Going back to your examination of the worst-case-scenarios, Dr. Arbond,” he said, looking the surgeon in the eye, “there is another issue we must not overlook. From the perspective of public safety, I believe our primary concern needs to be the extraordinary causticity of concentrated NFP-20 spore aerosols.” Dr. Horosha briefly closed his eyes. “In my mind, there is no doubt that the spores are the primary mode of infection. All of the phlegm, sputum, and other exudates produced by Type One patients are tinged with the green streaks and specks that have given NFP-20 its macabre epithet: the Green Death. Although Type One infections produce smaller amounts of spores relative to what we have observed in Merritt Elbock, prudence demands that we assume the spores’ corrosive properties are a constant. This would explain the diverse manifestations of Type One infections we have seen, particularly the cutaneous forms.”

“H-How so?” I asked.

“If the spores are corrosive, they could easily break through the skin merely through prolonged physical contact. Worse still, physical barriers like clothing or PPE may be vulnerable to corrosive degradation, particularly if exposed to spores and spore-contaminated substances over a long period of time. Frequent changing of PPE and other protective equipment is an absolute must. Furthermore, we should consider using environmental controls to increase the ambient pH, particularly on surfaces. This would slow spore corrosion, and possibly prevent it altogether.”

Heggy nodded. “That’s an excellent suggestion. I’ll get Nurse Kaylin on it.”

“She’s back on duty already?” I asked.

Heggy nodded. “Jess said sitting still just made it worse.” Dr. Marteneiss sighed. “Anyhow, Nurse Kaylin will spread the information faster than wildfire. I also think Director Hobwell we be pleased to hear this, and seek to put it in force elsewhere.”

“So,” Jonan said, lightly slapping his palms on the tabletop, “in addition to acid spores, we’re going to have to line up one by one and check if we’re all still human.” He waggled his eyebrows. “It’s classic sci-fi horror. It’s like in the film, The Stranger.”

Dr. Horosha regarded Jonan with puzzlement but then moved on. “It will take a bit of time to set up an appropriately sanitary testing environment, but,” he turned to face Cassius, “I agree, Dr. Arbond, this could work. At the very least, it might lessen NFP-20’s rampant morbidity.”

“So,” I began, my voice quavering, “we’re just going to start cutting people open?”

The quaver sunk into my bones. It agglomerated in my gut and surged up in my blood in hot, piercing thorns. I rose to my feet, gesticulating in outrage.

I roared. “Do you—do you have any idea what kind of a psychological impact that—”

—But I cut myself off, stifling my emotions with a sudden breath.

I shook my head, averting my eyes. My throat squeezed shut, tightening like a vise. “I’m sorry. I…” I panted. My tongue was dry and fat inside my mouth. “I need some time. I—”

—I shook my head again and walked out into the hallway, biting my lip and failing to hold in my tears.