“But what about the government? According to the news, they have vaccines in the works…” Ella trails off because they’re both looking at her like she’s a little kid who just asked if Santa Claus can pay the electric bill.
Leanne sighs. “Yeah, well, the thing about this particular president is that he and his cronies are big into free enterprise, which means they can’t legally use the existing vaccine, which means they’re trying to create a new one out of nothing with a skeleton crew because he already fired everyone who isn’t an idiot. You can’t count on the government.”
“Ever!” River adds, and Leanne smirks fondly.
“So that’s why it has to happen the old-fashioned way. My friend taught me the process, and I can teach it to other people who have the education and equipment. There are dozens of grad students and doctors spreading it like this all over the world, constantly on the move. The hard part is getting people to believe us, because if we make it too public, they shut it down.”
“But I’ve got a ton of fans who’re on board,” River says, leaning in, “so we’re having good luck doing pop-up shops. We show up, vaccinate as many people as we can, and get the hell out. Stick around too long, and your equipment gets confiscated. We were at USF last night, and there were so many people lined up that we’re now out of both vaccines and infected blood.”
The microwave dinged several minutes ago. River fetches the soup and places it along with a spoon and a napkin on the counter before Ella. “Stir it, or you’ll burn yourself,” they warn.
And it’s a good thing, too, because she totally would’ve burned herself. She stirs the soup, blows on it, and sips, grateful beyond measure for what feels like real food served at the correct temperature, even if it came from a can. After a few slurps settle comfortably on a bed of crackers in her griping stomach, she’s ready to talk.
“So let me get this straight. You’re going to take my blood, and then you’re going to go back into your creepy plastic room and make a vaccine? And inject me with it?”
“Not inject. It’s done more like smallpox, with a bifurcated needle. But yes, the rest of that is true, even if you continue to make everything sound ten times more weird and dangerous than it really is.” Leanne glances back worriedly. “Is it the plastic that’s freaking you out? I have to keep the samples as clean as possible.”
Ella softens a little. Whether it’s because the soup is warming up her belly or because Leanne seems like someone’s grandmother who’s embarrassed because she didn’t dust above the doors, she isn’t sure. Some tiny voice in the back of her head wonders if they’ve drugged her, but she watched River heat up the food, and…well, she really does want to trust them. They’re nice. They took care of her. She tried to kill them—even messed up River’s face—and they not only don’t hold it against her but understand completely. And they know the answers to questions the internet couldn’t give when Ella had grown accustomed to always finding the answers on the internet.
She remembers the day her mother found her birth control pills and freaked out about it, and Ella had to explain that she’d learned everything she needed to know online, had made her own appointment and known exactly how to talk to the doctor.
“But that’s a mom’s job!” her mom wailed, failing to hold back tears.
Ella, awash with guilt, hadn’t known how to explain to her mom that everything she said when attempting to parent had so much baggage, so many emotions attached and stories from her own terrible childhood. Ella just wanted some things to be on her own terms. She wanted no-nonsense answers, not tears and speeches about becoming a woman and being irresponsible and lifelong mistakes and tales about growing up under Nana. The thing about raising kids who have to be the adult in the relationship is that you can’t be surprised when they act like adults.
With the Violence, however, there’s a startling lack of real information. Tons of fake news, memes and bot attacks, lists of the right yoga poses or essential oils to keep it away, organic fair trade mosquito nets, preachers and politicians shouting and pointing fingers. Hundreds of think pieces about the meaning of violence in today’s society, the separation of body and mind, man’s descent as an animal, Democrat versus Republican and the right to bear arms or beat people to death with your bare hands, and what it’s like to shelter in place for a new reason when everyone was still barely recovered from the Covid exhaustion.
With Covid, there was a constant influx of information from around the world, but this time there aren’t many statistics or reports or charts. No one really knows what the numbers are. The thing about the Violence is that it happens between two people and in the aftermath, one person is often dead and the other person confused and flooded with shame and grief and fear. The Violence is hard to capture on a camera, and when it is, the person who clicked RECORD doesn’t usually live to post it.
If Leanne and River aren’t lying, there’s actually hope.
Not only can it be cured—apparently so easily that it can be done in a shitty old RV—but individual outbreaks can be stopped by regular people with no real equipment, just the strength to touch and contain someone brimming with intent to kill.
It’s beautiful and terrifying, but isn’t hope in a dark time always that way?
“Does it hurt?” Ella asks between big spoonfuls of soup. “The vaccine.”
Leanne leans forward, alight like someone who’s just spotted a butterfly. “Do you know anything about smallpox?”
“Something about cows, milkmaids, and scars? I read the Outlander books.”
“Fair enough. For the vaccine, we basically make little cuts and rub in some junk. So it’s not the quick poke of a shot. You have to sit there, and you’ll have a scar. But that’s actually kind of cool, because then you can prove you’ve been vaccinated. Roughly. It looks a lot like the smallpox scar. And you won’t get a fancy card like the people who pay for the vaccine do.”
“They have a card?”
Leanne looks down and shakes her head like a bull with no one to charge. “That’s how rich people can prove they’re safe. That asshole pharma bro owns the vaccine, all the patents, and if you buy it from him for market price—”
“Like it’s a fucking lobster!” River breaks in.
“—then you get your own laminated card with your own special number on it. Like it’s a fucking Birkin or something. Like the useless garbage collectibles your great-grandfather buys on late-night TV that come with a certificate of authenticity.”
“My grandmother has that. The fancy vaccine.” Ella pauses. Sips some soup. “And also a couple of Birkins.”
River stares at her. “Your grandmother inoculated herself but not you?”
Ella looks down. How to explain her grandmother? It was easy before, but now that she knows about Grandpa Randall leaving…“It’s complicated. Anyway, she has my little sister, and my mom got the Violence and left, and I really need to find them. My mom and my sister.”