You see, when the scientists had thought that the only smallpox around was in a very very small box kept securely closed, they were wrong.
When you come into the clinic today, seven people have already died. A nurse is missing. He's probably gone, too. You think that his name was Simon.
You're probably gone too, because every time you start talking, your words keep running together and together until you start saying dadadadadadadadada and then you have to drink some more, so that you can start euthanizing again.
What a funny word, you think. What a funny world.
: a short story by Chris Klimas
[Type 'about' for information about this story.]
Release 2 / Serial number 980217 / Inform v6.14 Library 6/7
Cinderblocks painted white surround you. The sick smell of disinfectant hangs in the stale air. Overhead is a single light that has two settings: dim for before, bright afterwards. And off. A steel table, left over from biology dissections at the community college, is in the center of the room. It's cold in here, but the thermostat near the door says it's 76. The main hallway is to the south.
Another victim lies on the steel table. His face is unrecognizable, bloated with pustules blooming pink and red. Disease is written all over his body. He's naked; it's that much worse.
>