1st 5 Pages June Workshop- Stryker Rev 1

Name: Elisa Stryker
Genre: Young Adult Science Fantasy
Title: KONADAI

“If it can be created, it can be destroyed,” I mutter, staring at the data filling the holographic panel.

Then again, I’m sure the gods said the same thing about us.

The intercom emits a loud beep, snapping me from my thoughts. A calm, almost robotic voice pages one of the many doctors. My lab is isolated on the sixth floor, away from the coughing patients and scurrying medical staff. I prefer it this way. Cultivating a cure for the virus ravaging our island city requires me to tuck away the reality of the disease’s horror in my mind, rather than watching people die from it—especially those I know.

The door swings open and in strolls Dr. Anette Hanshaw, focused on the tablet she’s carrying, a manila folder tucked under her arm.

As I straighten myself in my chair, she drops the file onto my desk; another unwelcome addition to the ever-growing mountain of assigned labor. My chest tightens as I glance down at the stack of pages.

“Here are some paper files since you refuse to use tablets.” Anette’s unbuttoned lab coat reveals a red silk blouse, its color in stark contrast to her dark skin.
 

Paper doesn’t require power to operate.

I didn’t sign up for the mentorship to be buried under mundane work. I’m here to be a virologist, not a secretary.

Blowing my bangs out of my face, I shove the papers aside and grab my notebook from the drawer. I tap a pen against my lips as I let out a long breath, none of my stress exhaled with it.

“Five patients diagnosed with the Konadai Virus were pronounced dead by the time I left the cafeteria.” Anette slides into her chair and pulls on a pair of gloves before filing through a box of microscope slides. “The families didn’t bother to show up.”

Most families don’t.

The time from infection to death is an average of four hours. Family members would rather stay at home than watch their loved ones suffer. I’m not sure why paramedics continue to bring people here to die. Each time we create a new beta vaccine, the virus’ genetic makeup changes. I became an intern five months ago and seen three vaccines fail.

The new deaths bring the toll to over four hundred and thirty this year, and it’s only June. The toll raises each year, and that’s only the reported numbers.

I glance at the next page in the notebook. Not only is the disease spreading more rapidly, but the life overall expectancy is dropping. When I was born, teens working in this field was rare. Now, it’s expected. It’s one of the reasons Monanie Academy first opened. At age fifteen, I signed up for the virology internship program. The motto was Join the Future of Caara Island—one of the last inhabitable places on this ruined Earth. Here I am, two years later, working my way up the scientific ladder.

“Are you going over last week’s notes?” Anette asks, staring into the microscope.

I’m far past last week’s anything.

“Hiromi?” Her voice stern.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What you’ve learned so far?”

“Nothing I didn’t already know,” I mumble.

Anette glares at me, but it’s true. The project she assigned is old news. I learned most of it during my first year in the academy on the medical branch.

“Ma’am, most of this makes little to no sense. It’s been sixty years since scientists accidentally created the virus. It’s is mutating and every vaccine we create becomes useless within weeks.”

“I’m asking what you have learned,” Anette says.

I sigh heavily, flipping back a few pages. “A strain of the virus is airborne. Those with…umm…weaker immune systems, including infants and the elderly, are the most vulnerable.”

The words cling to my throat.

My father knew all of this and he still got sick.

Anette nods, turning back to the microscope. “Good. These are all the things we need to keep in mind when experimenting with the infected tissue samples.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It’s hard not to keep it in mind. Out of everything I’ve learned, tampering with our DNA and mahou leads to flesh-hungry mutants. We were created by four gods with mahou running through our veins—the gift of psychic abilities or the ability to produce fire, lightning, or energy waves from our fingertips. Yet the gods failed to give earlier scientists the intelligence to not mix mahou with science.

I scribble a few lines of data into my notebook, underlining we humans are idiots.

The analyzer beeps, flashing little sparks of light over the small screen. A cutesy melody plays to get our attention. Some of the other researchers think it’s a nice way to brighten the outcome. To me, it’s the tune of defeat.

A list of results riddled with red marks shoots out of the front of the machine.

Sitting in her desk chair, Anette glides over to the glass-topped table. One of the plastic wheels clicks as it spins. She groans through clenched teeth and looks over her shoulder at me, shaking her head.
  

Another failed test.

“Do we have any more virus samples?”

Before I can speak, Anette pushes away from the analyzer toward the three-foot-tall, sterilized freezer. She swings open the door and a cold fog swirls out, dissipating into the warm air as she leans down.

“No, that was the last batch we had. We should have some of the first and second stage samples left over.”

Anette closes the freezer door, tapping her fingers on the side. She removes the blue latex gloves and scratches at the hairnet covering her short dark hair.
   

“No, Hiromi.” She says my name like I’m the one who burned through all the samples. “I need full-blown Konadai infection samples. We’ll work on the first stage next week.”

“Right, sorry.” I bite my lip to keep from saying anything more, but we should work on the first stage now. If we can slow down the virus’ progression, we might save lives—or at least allow people to live a bit longer than four hours.

But what do I know? My current assignment is to study the stack of cell cultures for abnormities, not question my mentor. Pay attention to the calendar, she’ll say if I utter a word against her schedule. I’m the professional. You’re my intern. I roll my eyes at the thought of it. She kindly reminds me of who I am so much, I can recite her little speech word for word. I’d rather gouge my eyes out with forceps.

“I need you to transfer the papers I handed you into digital format,” Anette says.

I nod, knowing she’s not looking at me. Do this. Do that. It never ends.

One thing I’ve learned is to stay in my place. According to Anette, that place is following her around with a notebook and a smile. She treats me as if I'm some uneducated volunteer. I’m proficient in the common viruses, such as the flu, unlike the other teens in training who are only now learning the cure for the common cold.

Someone knocks on the door.

Anette, without looking up, motions for me to answer it.

I move away from the desk and walk to the entrance. Another researcher stands in the sterile hallway. Dark circles under her eyes make her appear much older, and her frizzy orange hair is pulled up into a messy bun.