Humanity Gone After the Plague - By Derek Deremer Page 0,1

am engulfed in a math problem, my mind temporarily stops worrying what will happen tomorrow, next week, next month. Or next year. If there will be a next year. Finishing my senior year looked bleak.

I move from the beige carpeting up into the comfort of the couch, bringing my work into my lap. My sister looks over from the dining room table. In front of her is a small cake she had prepared earlier that morning. Our dad loves the chocolate cake that my sister makes. She somehow added mint cookies to the recipe and it was to die for, but now it seems that someone is living for it. Our father woke up yesterday; a grotesque redness had emerged up from under his shirt and onto his neck. We had prayed that he wasn’t going to get it. Today, he woke up with a 104 degree temperature. Now, he is resting in between vomiting episodes.

Tomorrow, he will be dead.

My sister found comfort in preparing the cake and possibly letting him enjoy it the best he could before he slipped away. I want, or rather we want, to do more, but we can't. The hospital is overwhelmed with patients and is no longer accepting anyone. Yesterday, I drove down and pleaded my case to the nurse at the front. After shoving through the sidewalks and pushing my way into the busy lobby, I made it to the hospital desk. She looked at me with sad eyes and just said, “Keep him comfortable.” I hadn't been kidding myself; not even a single recorded patient had recovered. Every woman or man who took ill was dead within three days. Mysteriously however, no one under the age of nineteen has gotten sick. Not even a single child has fallen ill. My dad begged us to just drop him off at one of the Red Cross's “sick” tents that were up all over the city, but we refused. The tents were in pitiful condition and it was just somewhere else for him to die. We are going to stay a family as long as possible. It isn't going to be much longer anyway.

My sister, Jocelyn, sets down the icing and walks over behind me, placing her hands on the back of the couch. Jo, as dad and I call her, gazes at the television. The news has been trying to keep the country updated, but everyone is dying. On the screen, a newswoman looks back blankly at us. She seems to have more make-up than normal and beads of sweat roll down her face. Her teal blouse looks worn. She is dying too, but she works on. I imagine people like her are barely keeping the city together. Her words are labored as they escape her fatigued body:

“It has just entered the newsroom that another estimated sixty million deaths have been confirmed across the U.S. Some reports indicate this number is even higher. A rough poll seems to show that nine out of every ten adults is or has been infected and doctors believe all adults will succumb. Children have been shown resistant to the plague, even with direct exposure. Despite America still being in quarantine, foreign aid continues to pour in from Canada and the UK. However, they still aren't letting anyone leave the country and have set up military roadblocks along all major roadways. Unconfirmed reports have said that even patrols and fences have begun to appear at the border between these roads. Canada is not taking any chances on the disease spreading to its land. There are still no reported instances of the disease in any other country. Mexico, on the other hand, lacks the resources to prevent the mass immigration of children and unaffected adults into their country.

“If you or someone you love has become infected, the remaining doctors are encouraging you to stay at home. Hospitals are beginning to shut down across the nation as doctors and nurses are becoming scarce.” The newscaster already seems tired from talking. She coughs. Her eyes turn from the camera to her left. She seems to be listening to someone. I share a glance with my sister before the newscaster returns her eyes to the screen. The newscaster’s bloodshot eyes are now filled with tears.

“My manager has just informed me that this will be our last broadcast. Nearly all of us at the station, including myself, have begun to show symptoms. We have done our best to continue to keep you informed of