1st 5 Pages June Workshop - Stryker Rev 2

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

  
Pitch:

Seventeen-year-old Hiromi is determined to find a vaccine for the Konadai virus before more people turn into tentacle-tongued mutants. Armed with knowledge as a virology intern, she convinces her childhood friend Kenji into going to their island city’s ruins with her, hoping that his fire-magic abilities will keep them safe while she collects infected tissue samples.

Discovering their mutual friend is bitten but showing no signs of infection, Hiromi considers he’s immune and could be the miracle they need. Then, she realizes extracting the cure could cost their friend his life. Hiromi and Kenji struggle with the decision of sacrificing their friend to save thousands or surrendering a chance for a cure.

Pages:

“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 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 Dr. Anette Hanshaw strolls in, focused on the tablet she’s carrying, with 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 and 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. People would rather stay at home than watch their loved ones suffer.

Paramedics bring people here to die. Every vaccine we create becomes useless within weeks thanks to the virus’ genetic makeup constantly changing. I’ve been an intern for five months 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. As the infection rate increases, the overall life expectancy drops. When I was born, teens working in the medical field was rare. Now, it’s expected. It’s one of the reasons Monanie Academy first opened. Once I turned fifteen, I joined the virology program. The motto was Join the Future of Caara Island.

My father always wanted me to give back to the community, to help as much as possible. Here I am, two years later, trying to make him proud.

“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 is stern.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What have you 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 the first year in the academy.

“Ma’am, we both know the disease makes little sense. It’s been sixty years since scientists accidentally created the virus—”

“I asked what you’ve learned.”

I sigh, flipping back a few pages. “The airborne strain is aggressive, affecting those with…um…weaker immune systems. Especially infants and the elderly.”

The words cling to my throat.

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

Anette nods, turning back to the microscope. “Good. We need to keep all this in mind when experimenting with the infected tissue samples.”

It’s hard not to keep it in mind. Out of everything I’ve learned, one lesson stands out: tampering with our DNA and mahou leads to flesh-hungry mutants. Or as some call them, Konadai. The gods created us with the gifts of mental manipulation, fire, lightning, and energy but failed to give earlier scientists enough intelligence to not use mahou with experiments.

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 corkscrew curled 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. 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.

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. She knows 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.

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

I move away from the desk and open the door. Another researcher stands in the sterile hallway with her frizzy orange hair pulled up into a messy bun. Dark circles under her bloodshot eyes make her appear much older.

“Two men and a child arrived moments ago. She…the little girl looked like my niece before she died.” The cup of coffee in her shaking hand almost spills.

My fingers dig into the doorframe. The Konadai Virus claimed three more victims and we’re years away from finding a cure.

Anette joins me at the door.