“There’s also no reason to think that we’re not,” Yulia said. “You said you haven’t seen anything like this before.”
“We should have left it alone,” one of Maksim’s assistants said, pointing to Dave. “Everything will be your fault. I have a family. We all have families.”
Later that evening, Maksim assigned everyone to dining and common area groups.
“If you can’t be civil with each other, this is the way it has to be,” he said. “I will not tolerate arguments. We have enough to deal with right now.”
Lately, I can’t help but think about all the times the team was covered in mud and water from the crater, of the jury-rigged clean lab, the respirators that probably need their air filter cartridges replaced. I question Dave’s decision to inject the virus into a rat, one of history’s most notorious vectors for disease. We’re told to report anything out of the ordinary. We’re told the quarantine is to be extended and to expect supply drops every two weeks. We’re told biohazard medical teams will be sent if necessary. I fall asleep every night video-chatting with my family, telling fairy tales to Yumi: And they all lived happily ever after. I wake up half expecting to find something wrong—a fever, a stiff neck, a rash. I examine every inch of my body in the mirror. We are all waiting for nothing or everything. I dream of going home and holding my family, telling Yumi that her mother has saved her. I dream of the last trip Clara took with us, flying over the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, watching the last remaining wild caribou migrate. When Dave tells me he has a splitting headache, I tell him to take his own advice and not jump to any conclusions. But I tell him this while standing across the room. When Yulia says she has a stomachache, I tell her to drink tea. We’ll be okay, I say, but I see the fear in her eyes. Dave tests positive for the new virus with both saliva and blood samples. I don’t know if there’s anything I can do to help Yulia. In the real world, people comfort themselves with ignorance, politics, and faith, but here in the domes only hard numbers matter. She has stopped running, her portrait of the research team left unfinished. We keep telling ourselves we’re going to complete our work and go home—some days I even believe this. I put on my daughter’s snow gear, take the dogū figurine with me, and walk out onto the tundra, picture Clara there beside me beneath the aurora. I don’t take the ATV. I walk the mile to the crater’s edge. I imagine the virus and anything else the ice has kept hidden from us being sucked into the figurine, its stone belly filled with all that can harm us. I tell my daughter I love her and throw the dogū into the crater, waiting for all that has been unburied to be retaken into the earth. I walk back to the outpost. I can barely breathe.
City of Laughter
I had been trying to land a paying stand-up gig in Los Angeles when the Arctic plague arrived in America, infecting the children and the weak. For almost two years I paid the bills as a sanitation worker, cleaning abandoned offices and shuttered schools, while at night I tried to fill dive bars with laughter in exchange for drinks. But seriously, folks, I’d say. Tough crowd. Patrons would applaud out of politeness, to maintain the illusion keeping them whole. I had all but given up hope for real comedy work when my manager called me for the first time in months.
“Have you heard of a euthanasia park?” he asked. It was early in the morning. I was pulling on my janitorial coveralls.
I paused. Of course I had. Everyone scoffed when the governor first announced plans for an amusement park that could gently end children’s pain—roller coasters capable of lulling their passengers into unconsciousness before stopping their hearts. Critics called the proposal perverse, accused the state of giving up on the next generation.
“Yes,” I said. “I mean, I’ve seen the debates on the news.”
“You’ve also probably seen the plague projections. Parents are desperate,” he said. “My niece, my nephew. Hospitals can barely keep up with the treatments. There’s a waiting list at the funeral home. I don't know if you know anyone who has been affected.”
“I think my second cousin is in the hospital,” I said. “But not really.”
“Anyway, some billionaire dot-com type who lost his son bankrolled a prototype euthanasia park on the site of an old prison between here and the Bay Area. They’ve been in operation for six months.”
“Okay, what’s this have to do with me?”
“Business is picking up for them and if these recent reports about the virus mutating and infecting adults are true, then this place is going to be booming. They need staff.”