VILE

published in Bloodletter Magazine Issue 5: Rage - September 2025

          A torso lies on the sidewalk next to a trash can. Pigeons pick at the exposed bones, tearing off bits of muscle. Blood pools around the meat, and everyone walks around it. No one stops to look anymore. The sick fall daily.
    The injections didn’t work. Their veins, swollen with black, clotted blood, burst when the needles touched them. The pills didn’t work, either. The radiation tore through their diseased bodies, turning their insides into a viscous liquid. The lobotomies almost worked. Almost.
          The torso on the ground is swarming with flies. It’s fresh, maybe a few hours old. The Biohazard Disposal Authority will come soon and clean up the mess. Someone tosses a cup towards the trash can and misses. The cup bounces off the torso and liquid splashes. Everyone keeps walking. 
          The city is crawling with people. We wear bright green masks, signaling that we are healthy. We all carry on, live our lives. Stop for coffee on the way to work, push quarters into the washing machines at the laundromat. After the quarantines were lifted we all fell back into our routines. I step over part of a hand on my way to the train.
          Uniformed guards stand in straight lines at the edge of the sidewalks, four here, three there. The Biosecurity Enforcement Command was created to keep us safe, they say. The officers wear armor that covers them head to toe and carry heavy guns, pointed forward, ready to shoot. Officially, they have never killed a healthy citizen.

          The gallery is cool and quiet. People observe the art, the wood floors creaking as they walk. The white walls are lined with photographs shot on film. The photos are 5 feet tall and 8 feet wide, printed on sheets of aluminum, mounted with screws. They’re intimate, a story told in 10 parts, a spotlight positioned above each one. In the middle of the gallery, the focal point looms. The image is tender, captured with an expert eye.
          The subject stands in black and white. She faces the camera, chin down, eyes forward. Her arms are wrapped around her slender chest in an embrace, fingers tearing deep into her flesh. Her teeth are bared and blood drips from her lips. Her eyes are black and weeping, filled with rage and pain. The collection is untitled, and has sold for 48 million dollars.

          The day passes swiftly. Spring blooms outside, warm and balmy. The golden sun slips down behind the buildings. Pink flowers yawn on low tree branches, dripping petals. Grass sprouts up from cracks in the sidewalk. A BDA truck rumbles past, the stench ripping through the breeze. Women carry brown bags filled with fresh bread from the bakery next door, sunhats bobbing as they walk. I lock the gallery door and pull the metal grates over the windows. Someone has written Lonely are the living dead in red spray paint across them in a jagged hand. I toss the keys into my bag.
          A man staggers down the sidewalk toward me, a bottle of brown liquid dangling from his fingers. His mouth is open in a gap toothed grin and his arms sway above his head, his green mask hanging off his wrist. He sings a love song at the top of his lungs, bare feet slapping the pavement, bare chest covered in scabs and dirt. His eyes are bright and clear. A BEC officer moves in front of him, gun drawn, and yells for him to halt. The man keeps his hands in the air and stops dead, his grin gone. The officer pushes the man to his knees and fires a bullet into his head, point blank. The man's body falls with a dull thud as the officer walks back to his post. I step around the body and walk home. 

          The kitchen is warm and fragrant. There are chilies simmering in butter on the stove. Diced shallots and minced garlic rest on the cutting board. When the chilies are soft, I toss them in the pot. As the garlic turns golden I pour in coconut cream,  breathing in the rich steam that fills the air. I stir in paprika and cinnamon until the sauce is a lovely shade of red. I fold paneer into the curry and spoon it over rice in a bowl. A record plays softly in the background, but I can’t hear it over the gunfire. 
          I wash the dishes quickly and settle onto the couch with a glass of wine and today’s newspaper. There’s a photo of the president on the front. He is a stern looking man with heavy brows and dark eyes. His frown fills the page, and he looks off camera with disdain.  The headline reads Bishop Heralds A New Era. The article describes the latest unification led by President Bishop. There are few nations now that are not part of The Universal Commonwealth. Bishop has united the world in a way that no other leader has before. This will be his fourth term.
          I flip to the Arts section. There’s an article about the photographs that hang in the gallery. In it, the author describes the collection as a love letter.  They say that the photos rub you raw. The gallery is cited at the end of the article, the address and my name listed next to information for booking viewings. My email has been flooded with congratulations all day. This is a huge success, and I’m grateful. I read the article once more, finish my wine, and go to bed.

          It starts as a tickle in the corner of your eye. That tickle becomes an itch. Then the burning starts. It comes quickly, the agony. You won’t have time to say your goodbyes. 

          The torso is gone this morning, the sidewalk has been sprayed down. The sun shines overhead, bright and warm. I walk towards the train, coffee in hand. On the way I pass a BEC officer conducting an ocular exam on a scared looking tourist. He slides the needle in and pulls back on the plunger. Brilliant red blood fills the syringe. He yanks the needle out and hands back her passport. She walks off with her head down, tears streaming down her face. The officer caps the needle and tosses it into a nearby trash can. 
          The train platform is crowded with bodies. The air is stale and humid underground. A man shoves past me, his shoulder pushing into mine. A girl holds out dirty hands asking for coins and people look past her. The woman next to me scratches her eye. 
          The train pulls up, brakes screeching. The doors open and people rush out. A rancid smell hits me, thick and metallic. Everyone on the platform files into the car, hands covering their faces over their masks. I stand behind the man who shoved me, close to the doors. The car is packed tight around an open pocket at the far end. In the middle, there is a woman standing alone, rocking back and forth with the motion of the train. The passengers have given her a wide berth. 
          Her left arm is missing. She holds her right hand over the wound, but thick, black blood oozes out regardless. Her hand is missing its index finger. Mucus drips down her cheeks, running from her bruised, bloodshot eyes. Her skin slides off her naked body in fat, heaping wads. She chews something between her jaws. She is panting like a dying animal. The conductor announces my stop, and I step out.

          It isn’t a virus. It's not something you can catch. The vaccines failed, administered to the masses as a kind of placebo. Masks were mandated, and then quarantines were enforced. The illness remained. The truth is that no one knows why it happens. There is no cause, only the inevitable end.

          The park is teeming with life. Children dash across the lawn, squealing with laughter, dripping with ice cream. People have laid out blankets and set up picnic lunches of bright fruits and soft cheeses. The trees dance in the breeze, little brown birds singing sweetly from their branches. The sun beams warm rays. A violinist plays a melody for spare change. The morning passes peacefully.
          I toss the paper in my bag and stand. I hear him, his jagged breathing and pleas for help, before I see him. He’s next to the fountain, his eyes bloodshot and bruised. He crawls on his hands and knees toward a couple who are lounging in the grass. They see him coming and stand, grabbing their things and hurrying in the opposite direction. The man yells after them, spit flying from his mouth. He says please, please I want to live. He wipes mucus from his cheeks and sobs. Two BEC officers rush over and lift him by his arms, his feet dragging as they haul him away into an armored truck. I keep walking. 
          There are three private viewings scheduled at the gallery today. I take my time opening, vacuuming the floors and cleaning the windows. I see dust moats floating in the spotlight beams, so I grab a feather duster and run it gently over the photographs, brushing dust from my eyes as I go. I have just finished when the first appointment arrives. 
          He is a tall man in an expensive suit. I open the door for him and welcome him in. He shakes my hand warmly and moves quickly to the back of the gallery towards the photos. I leave him to it. When his 30 minutes are up, he comes back to the desk, his eyes glistening with excitement. He wonders about the artist, who she is and how she captured such exquisite photos of the subject. I explain that the artist has requested that she remain anonymous. That the photos are on display under the condition that no questions be answered. The man nods, and thanks me for my time.
          The artist was her subject’s lover. That's how she shot the photos.

          It might start with a finger or two. It's different for everyone, but it will happen. That finger leads to your hand, that hand leads to your arm. There’s no stopping once it starts. You’ll live long enough to finish yourself off.

          Spring comes and goes, and summer swelters. The photography collection has been packed up and shipped to the buyer. There’s a new exhibit being installed.
          Workers in white uniforms carry the pieces in one at a time, carefully mounting them on their bases and drilling them in. The statues are made of stone and the ashes of the sick. They are figures of the human form, grotesquely twisted into unnatural shapes. Bits of bone speckle the surfaces, little imperfections on the polished stone.
          The figures evolve in a kind of dance around the room, each pose flowing into the next. The first figure stands tall, a human being on two legs, the gentle slopes of its body natural and relaxed. Slowly, the figures bend and contort, becoming something less than human.
          Standing on the ladder, I position the spotlights over each figure. The white stone is illuminated in their glow, the bits of bone casting small shadows. The light plays with the harsh angles of the figures, and they come alive. 

          The sick fall daily. There is no cure. 

          I wake up to the morning sun pouring through the windows, well rested and content. A squad of BEC officers march down the block below, their heavy footsteps in perfect sync. A tank rolls down the cobblestone street, followed by an armored truck. The voice over the intercom announces a sundown curfew- anyone caught outside after dark will be shot on sight. 
          The sick have overrun the city. It happens every so often. The curfew will allow the officers to clear out as many infected as they can, but that won’t stop the citizens from protesting. What do they care if the bodies pile up so long as their businesses remain open, so long as they have access to their creature comforts. 
          I hurry to the market hoping to beat the crowd, but a line has already formed down the block. I take my place behind an elderly couple who whisper to each other. Officers stand at the ready in case looting breaks out. This kind of lockdown puts everyone on edge. 
          The line moves quickly enough, and soon I’m allowed to enter. I rush through the aisles, grabbing items from what’s left on the shelves. The produce is all but gone, but I do find a few tomatoes still on the vine and a large eggplant. The elderly couple walk slowly through the aisles, arm in arm. The woman has her head down and the man guides her. She is trying to hide the mucus that oozes from her eyes, but it’s flowing too quickly, she can’t wipe it away fast enough. The man pulls her along, moving as fast as he can, which isn’t fast at all. She will be dead before tonight. 
          I pay for my items and carry them home, passing a body that has been chained to a tree. The head lolls to the side, and the feet are missing. The body twitches and the head howls, it fights the chains and snaps its teeth. The tongue has already been bitten off and swallowed. 

          The fires have been burning day and night. The bodies of the dead are thrown into them at a steady pace. The ashes are dumped into mass graves. The city crackles with constant gunfire. Riots have broken out, buildings have been burned, healthy citizens have been executed. 
          I have contented myself inside. The metal shutters over the windows don’t allow any light through, but they haven’t cut the power yet. The TV is on at all times, each channel announcing the date, the time, the death toll. I have been locked in for 17 days. The woman on the screen assures me that the outbreak is being controlled. That it will be over soon. 

          In the end, the body fails. The organs no longer function, but by then it doesn’t matter. The damage is done. Sometimes they bleed out first, but not always. Sometimes the jaw goes slack, and the consumption stops, but not until the body has been disfigured beyond repair. The Bite, they call it. The Bite.

          The curfew has been lifted, the riots have stopped. All said, over 300,000 have perished in one way or another. Those of us who have survived fall back into stride quickly, buying our morning coffees and riding the trains. Our green masks signal that we are healthy, that we are willing to obey.
          This morning is particularly beautiful. The air is sweet and the sun beams. The first blooms of spring peek their yellow heads above the ground. There isn’t a cloud in the sky.
          A man sits on the corner, a cardboard sign in his lap. It reads it must just be some curse. His blind eyes are raised to the sky. He seems at peace.