FUTURES

INFECTIOUS FUTURES
Stories of the post-antibiotic apocalypse
of saline hanging just outside the cage of his bed – and Gregor slept.
When he awoke, the room was full of robots.
They were the big cuddly kind, made of special silicone, coated like
condoms in anti-evo agent. They floated into the room like clouds of
meringue, and like any dessert left out in the open air, they were surrounded
by bees.
“We have a solution,” the robots said. There were two of them. He
couldn’t tell which one was doing the talking. “Pun intended,” they added.
“You see?” his mother asked. She moved so quickly now. More quickly
than she ever had when she was alive. Like a monster in a dream. You could
run as fast as you could and she would always be there, just behind you.
“They won’t even touch you with their own hands. That’s how disgusting you
are.”
“We’re going to insulate your implant with a nano-silver infusion,” the
robots said. “It’s both a barrier and an anti-bacterial agent. The silver is so
concentrated that nothing can grow there. And it’ll form a wall around the
implant. The infection is spreading like a wildfire. We’ll seal the implant
completely, and starve the local infection of any oxygen or nutrients. Then
we’ll run the rest of your blood through a dialysis unit and hope for the best.
Okay?”
“Oh, naturally.” The thing that was his mother rolled its eyes. “Of course
that will work.”
“We just need you to sign this,” the robots said.
His hands wouldn’t move.
“You’re too swollen, of course,” the robots said. “Blink once for yes and
twice for no.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Pathetic,” his mother whispered.
The bees hummed around him. They danced and spiralled, spinning
down and down and down, ever closer to the thudding centre of pain under
his skin. They landed on him and he screamed. Pain shivered through his
nerves. He was going to die here. He saw that now. It was why his mother
was here. She was here to take him away.
The bees hummed. He smelled burning. And then something putrid filled
the room. A sick, awful smell of sweet rot. His rot. His death. It rose in the
air, thick and foul, so close he could taste it. He wondered suddenly if the
tiny drone bees could lay eggs inside him like flies did. Why not? Biomimicry
was hot now. Why not push it a little further? Why not just let him
incubate little robot maggots, let them chew away at his dying flesh until
there was nothing left?
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