Affirmative Actions: A short-short story in the time of coronavirus

Assistant Professor Lily Sakai heads the infectious disease lab at Pennsylvania Institute of Technology.

After staring at The Letter, she finally had the courage to open it:

Dear Dr. Sakai,

While we acknowledge your brilliance and hard work, we regret to inform you that we have given our department's one tenure slot to someone else.

Sincerely,
Anthony Williams, Ph.D., Dean

In academia, it’s up or out; If you don’t get tenure, you lose your job and, as damaged merchandise, your career is essentially over after it had barely started. Even Lily's almond skin couldn't hide the furious blood rushing to her cheeks. 

Her only significant flaw had been her temper and now, with nothing to lose, it was unbridled. Aware that like all viruses, COVID-19 mutates, she tested 10 mutations with mice to identify the most virulent one, knowing that the world's efforts to create a vaccine wouldn’t work on a mutation. She then cultured a vial-full (billions of copies of the virus), and headed to San Francisco Airport's long-term parking lot that serves the international terminal. 

She got on at the first stop, opened her attaché case, and started reading journal articles. Despite the travel restrictions, because of the reduced bus service, by the last stop before reaching the terminal, the bus was nearly full. Shielded by the attache, she opened the vial. She wanted to die but, in the process, inflict maximum damage to humankind—She was the academic version of a suicide bomber.

In those final minutes from the last parking lot stop to the terminal, every passenger had inhaled a full dose of what she called, COVID-29. Now, all the passengers would fly off to far-flung destinations around the world.

She hopped on a plane to L.A. With flights cut back, the plane was full. She opened another vial, again shielded by her attaché case. 

She toured L.A, from the Magic Castle to Disneyland, Universal Studios to the Museum of Tolerance, where she aired another vial.  She ate at the finest restaurants as well as best holes in the wall. With nothing to lose, she tried mushrooms, acid and even heroin. 

One month later

There are worldwide reports of a new, mysterious form of  coronavirus, with deaths doubling every single day. Lily is one of the early dead. 

Atop the death and mayhem of COVID-19, the politely termed “social unrest” metastasized: mass looting, first of drug stores and supermarkets, then of homes. The health care system gradually was forced to shut down for lack of money and many health-care workers succumbing to the virus despite wearing PPEs. The internet and then all electricity died, in part the result of protestors who threw molotov cocktails and other IEDs into utility plants in response to ever-declining service. Then the water pumps stopped working altogether, so there was no water, the true staff of life. First they killed the dogs, then the old, then the disliked, then anyone they could.

One year later

All is dark.

In an underground compound, which had been stocked with a year’s worth of food, water, and other supplies, dozens of the commune's members lie dead. Three remain. Down to their last quart of water, they creep up with their pistols, only to see the post-apocalypse: burned and long-looted buildings, no people.

When one of them wasn’t looking, the other two, desperate, drank that last quart, trying to be quiet so he didn't hear. But he did. Shocked, angry, then terrified, he shot both of them in the face. 

He stared into the nothingness.