Free 9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev by Unknown

of mucus during
     violent bouts. The head aches so poundingly that it feels it must burst if only to
     release the incessantly-building pressure. Curtains and blinds are drawn tightly shut;
     gaps are filled with tape or bin bags or towels: anything that will block the last
     of the light, that piercing, blinding, hating light.
    Sleep is the only refuge, but not even that comes easily. Burning, icy, sweating,
     shivering fevers take hold, causing delirium and fitful wakefulness. Stomachs cramp
     as bodies muster their last defences and desperately try to eject invading organisms
     through whatever channels seem expedient. By now, the hosts are too weak to get out
     of bed for the toilet, and many slip into the last stages lying in their own shit
     and piss and vomit.
    When the wracking, hacking cough at last breaks, it is too little too late for any
     relief to be enjoyed. For around now the brain barricades itself for a last stand
     and the host withdraws quietly into a coma.
    The last few hours are calm, peaceful, almost serene. The only sound now made by the
     body is shallow, irregular breathing; the only movements are the soft rise and fall
     of the chest, the occasional flutter of crusted eyelids and the odd involuntary spasm
     caused perhaps by a deep dream of happier times.
    Breathing becomes more ragged, wetter, as though air is being forced through a throatful
     of water. When the water becomes too much, too dense, the breathing ceases.
    An averagely fit, middle-aged person takes around six days from that first tickle
     to be felt at the back of the throat to expel that last breath. The very young, elderly
     and infirm may succumb within three days; the very fit within eight. But succumb nearly
     everyone will, drowned in their own bodily fluids.
    * * * * *
    Milandra sat at her computer, reading the last of the responses she had received to
     the e-mail she had sent over twenty-four hours ago. It had taken her most of the night
     to plough through them all.
    The Deputies had amused themselves reading books from Milandra’s vast collection or
     watching DVDs or playing video games or monitoring the internet on tablets or iphones.
     Although sorely depleted, their mental energy could easily cope without further depletion
     with the mundanity of watching films or reading books.
    They interrupted their activities frequently to snack. This was particularly true
     for Milandra. Her psychic power had been boosted by the Deputies’, but she had nevertheless
     taken the biggest hit. As she sat and read the last of the e-mails, she munched absentmindedly
     from a jumbo bag of salted peanuts. She could feel her levels of psychic energy refilling
     slowly, oh so slowly, but nevertheless steadily, like filling a swimming pool with
     a garden hose. Sunlight would be the better cure, but she was confined to quarters
     until this was over. It would take probably another twenty-four hours and a lot more
     food before she would feel mentally strong enough to attempt another Commune; not
     that she foresaw any reason to have to.
    Occasionally, now that it was late morning, Milandra glanced out of her window at
     Central Park. Another cold but dry day had brought out the usual crowds of tourists
     and locals, taking in the wintry air, scarves and gloves and thick overcoats very
     much the order of the day. At present, it looked like any other Saturday morning in
     Central Park. Give it a few days and she doubted very much that the scene from her
     window would present any appearances of normality.
    Milandra sighed and looked back at the computer screen. The list of e-mail addresses
     to the left of the screen that had been shrinking as replies were received had now
     been reduced to one.
    A voice spoke from immediately behind her.
    “Is that the one we’ve lost?” It was Grant.
    Milandra nodded. “That’s the one.”
    Grant bent forward to peer over her shoulder. “[email protected],” he read. “Who
     is it?”
    “Peter