Chapter Text
LANDON
My name is Landon Kirby and I am dying.
It happened so fast. Seventy eight minutes and forty nine seconds to be exact. That’s how long it took the school to isolate me, test me and get my results, call my family and for the CDC to show up and whisk me away to one of those death houses. Okay okay, they’re called Institutes not death houses, but they might as well be. Let me go back a little bit, about six months ago, a mutated string of the TRIAD virus was discovered in Serbia, one that was highly volatile and could only infect teenagers. Their scientists discovered that the virus had a more aggressive approach. Instead of just affecting a person’s nervous system, it also targets the immune system and several vital organs as well. Once a person was infected, their life span decreased to a maximum of twenty one days. Just three weeks left to live, depending if their bodies had the strength to fight for that long. They call this one TRIAD-3, or T-3 for short. Unfortunately, Serbia’s government was too slow to act because about two months after it was discovered, that particular string happened to make its way across seas and onto U.S. soil.
I’m sure you can imagine the type of chaos that caused, and since our government sucks at being proactive and keeping the masses informed, that virus spread like wildfire. What was their plan to counteract all of this? They created “safe houses” for the infected, allowing them to be ripped from their lives and quarantined with a bunch of strangers, while they “worked” on a cure. Basically, in order to help the economy recover from the first TRIAD outbreak and lock down, instead of having everyone go back into isolation, they’re just rounding us up and throwing us all away. It’s what gives them the reason for being able to propagate the “problem solved” agenda. At least until a genius comes along with the cure, or until the last of the infected dies. Great plan huh?
Can you guess who still happens to be a teenager and is currently breathing on U.S. soil? If you guessed this guy, then today’s your lucky day, because you get absolutely nothing for guessing correctly. Anyways, that’s the reason I’m here now saying goodbye to my family and checking into Fatum House. It’s the closest teen hospice to my city and the facility where a dozen of my classmates had come to die already.
Once the doors to the Institute close behind me, I’m shuffled into a series of rooms. First to be stripped of any contraband, such as my shoes because they have laces on them, and my dog tags my brother gave to me when I first started high school. Next came the shower, which felt more like a chemical wash (I’m being sarcastic obviously). Then, last but not least, the new wardrobe. Every “patient” that gets admitted into these Institutes all have to sport the same attire, the same boring gray jumpsuit, same hospital slippers and the same clunky bracelet. I’ve been told it’s so that we’re all seen as equals and none of us can claim any hierarchy over each other. It’s all a bunch of bull, they really think the same clothes and jewelry is what’s going to stop us from forming the typical high school cliques? We may be dying but we’re still teenagers.
“I’m sure you’ll find yourself most comfortable here, Landon.” The nurse I had been following tells me. She had short, black hair and dark brown, compassionate eyes, along with the bags that came along with working at these Institutes. It was the first words anyone had spoken to me since entering this god forsaken place. The first words that weren’t commands, that is. Up until this point it was “hand over your shoes” and “scrub yourself completely” and “your bracelet must be worn at all times” and I was already tired of this place.
“I’d rather die being surrounded by people I care about. Not a bunch of strangers.” I muttered as she continued giving me the tour.
“Everyone feels that way in the beginning, but not having to deal with the weight of everyone's sorrow for the next three weeks, makes things easier on everyone.” She responded, her voice full of exhaustion. I didn’t catch her name when she introduced herself, I was a bit preoccupied with the fact that I only have twenty one days or so left to live. I took a quick glance at her badge and read her name, Emma Tig. After her comment I decided to keep quiet, letting her show me around the facility and grounds, letting her do her job that she so clearly wishes she hadn’t been stuck with. Finally, she leads me to a room that’s cramped like a utility closet, only slightly bigger. A room with a single bed, a tiny desk, an old reading lamp and a thin wardrobe for storing clean pairs of this lovely jumpsuit.
“During your stay here, this will be your room. Keep in mind that while the dormitories are gender neutral, there is a curfew and a constant patrol unit. Any kind of illicit activity will not be tolerated. Lastly, your bracelet must be worn at all times, it records vital information that is uploaded to the American Medical Association database. That information will allow the nation’s scientists to monitor the behavior of the T-3 virus. Understood?” Nurse Emma explains as I step into the room and lay on the lumpy single bed. I don’t answer right away so she pushes once more.
“Is that understood, Mr. Kirby?” She asks and I groan. I hate being called that. I’m not a “mister” I’m a kid. Why do adults use titles such as Miss and Mister when addressing teenagers? The title doesn’t make me more grown up, nor does it actually bestow all the privileges that title comes with it.
“Let me get this straight. We’re all dying and because all the patients here are teenagers with raging hormones, you’re afraid that we’d have daily sex orgies, which is why you have a curfew and security guards in place? Regardless of the fact that this virus will physically deteriorate us and cause us constant pain, hindering us from ever being in the mood? Alright, so no hanky panky for me. Oh, and don’t take off the bracelet or else I don’t get dessert. Did I get everything correct?” I answered her, allowing my annoyance to show itself in my tone. She had no witty comeback or any energy to snap at me either. She simply looks at me and gives me an answer that feels practiced.
“Yes Mr. Kirby, because despite what you think, you’re all human and will try anything that’ll distract you from the pain. However, overexertion can speed up the process for the virus to shut down your organs. Say what you will but some of us still hope for the cure to arrive in time.” Nurse Emma replies before going to leave but I respond just before she shuts the door.
“In order for a cure to arrive in time, it has to exist first. Last I checked, there isn’t any.” I said. Nurse Emma looks back at me and nods but it’s not in the form of agreement, only that she’s acknowledged the words I’ve said.
“It’s free time right now but in an hour we have our afternoon group sessions in the main foyer. Someone will be by later to take you down when the time comes.” She said before closing the door behind her and leaving me alone to my thoughts.
My name is Landon Kirby. I am seventeen and was in my second semester of my senior year at Mystic Falls High. I was the team captain for our town’s main D&D competitive team, the Phoenix Raiders. I was going to graduate in two months and head off to Berkeley to study music. I was full of hopes and dreams of the future. Two hours and fifty one minutes later, I am no longer that person. Everything of who I was and who I wanted to be had been evicted to make room for this virus.
I am Landon Kirby. I am seventeen. I have been infected with T-3. I am dying faster.