Typhoid Mary, Poz McBeefy

[muscmtl]

a bit of sex, but mostly Poz Sci Fi

 

 

Typhoid Mary, Poz McBeefy

 

Everyone knows me as McBeefy, kind of superhero name since like them, I save lives. What I am doing right now, me, an epidemiologist, could not happen in real life, but the definition of “real life” has evolved over the past four weeks. What was inconceivable in January 2017 is my new normal in February. The Rock, Hollywood’s new Arnold, has inserted his 6’4” frame and 270 pounds of muscle in a sling where he fully intends to take all the abuse I deem fit to inflict, as long as my HIV positive sperm goes up his non-lubricated anus: lube prevents micro fissures and could jeopardize pozzing. The thirty other men in the room, all one hundred percent straight, muscular and famous, with at least half of them delightfully homophobic (i.e. NBA douchebags), are there to witness the seeding and pozzing. Here I am, a fifty-one-year-old poz gay guy, reliving the wedding nights of medieval kings who had to prove to an audience that coitus occurred. Too bad this is an s/m room and not a canopy bed since my straight court could check for traces of blood on pure white linen sheets, but hey, they can always sniff the floor under the sling.

I hear gasps and see some men stop the most homophobic among them from killing me with their bare hands. I understand their rage, after all, I am bitch slapping the Rock’s face while screaming: “you want my poz juice you fukin whore?” I growl with pleasure in evaluating the effort it takes the Rock to tame the demon ruling his alpha mind, which would have led him to do something stupid like resist, or grab my wrist in midair. This man began his life as a professional wrestler and unlike most of the NBA male barbies in the room, he had learned to take it.

I kick Mark Walberg with my left foot when sensing that his licking of my balls slows down, glad to feel how quickly he readjusts both his technique and pace. He is the lucky one in the group, the next in line to be pozzed by me. I suddenly shout “now” and Walberg grabs a camera and zooms in on my phallus, well lit by expert lighting. All the heads, especially the Rock, turn toward a giant TV that shows my ejaculating phallus in real-time. My pulsating dick, evidence that seeding, and by extension pozzing, is occurring, occupies the entire screen. The only demand of the men who were handpicked for the making of this video was that there is undeniable proof since, being men, they knew that just like women, men often faked ejaculation.

I ruin everything by kissing the Rock, the worst act between men, but the stakes are too high and the man in the sling turns out to be more incredible than I could have ever imagined. The Rock knows that I am the key to saving civilization and passionately proceeds to kiss me back, no gag reflex, sending the loudest signal possible to all heterosexual men who, by the grace of god, or most likely nature, are still alive.

Here I am, not only dancing with wolves but inseminating them. In order to understand how this is possible, I have to backtrack to four days ago, where I explained my plan at a TedEx presentation. I insisted that it took place in New-York because that’s where the highest concentration of survivors lived. I wanted to honor one of new-York’s sickest citizens: Typhoid Mary. The US public health, what was left of it, vehemently objected, considering that even though the infection rate was in decline the danger was still too high. They knew that a conference by me would attract everyone.

They were right because I was World famous by then: the first human to not only survive Vega but develop a cure, or more precisely a form of protection. Vega had practically killed every human on the planet, except the pozs, the beautiful pozs, men and women who were HIV positive. Nothing extraordinary, just your basic immunology, like those whose alpha thalassemia protects against malaria.

The first case of Vega appeared on YouTube in January 4^th 2017. The video showed a tattooed Jersey Shore muscle douchebag, as he was coined on social media, screaming and making grand gestures on the beach in Atlantic City. The video went viral because this macho boy’s faggy dance ended by him dying on the sand. His death made the local news as the pathologist who examined him declared that he did not die of drug overdose but of something else, something the pathologist could not identify. The next morning six similar videos appeared on YouTube and by mid-afternoon it had reached five thousands. The world took pause when the screaming/dancing disease was attacking and killing old men with arthritis, pregnant women and celebrities. The third day, warning sirens were heard all over the world. Information about the epidemic was scarce as scientists had no idea how it spread or why it was killing its victims so fast. The disease took control of a person’s mind, making them shout and move with grand gestures, incapable of stopping. According to the WHO, only vegan and longtime vegetarians were succumbing, which is why journalists came up with name Vega.

Not five days passed that epidemiologists had to revise their prognostics. Vega was one hundred percent deadly, vegan and vegetarians were simply dying more quickly but omnivores were no longer protected. No one knew if it was bacteria, a virus or a prion, but it was similar to the toxin that the jewel wasp injects in the brain of insects to transform them into slaves. Vega targeted the brain and caused such profound hysteria that the victim exhausted themselves with screams and grand gestures, ultimately dying of dehydration. Vega was not deadly per say, its side effects were.

You knew someone had Vega when they abruptly became extremely claustrophobic, breaking doors and windows if they were kept inside, willing to die just to get outside. By week two of the Vega pandemic, the streets of the world were filled with the dead bodies of men, women and children. The vegans, the first batch to die, were already decomposing.

The natural immunity of pozs did not take me long to discover, twenty-five years of epidemiology allows one’s brain to see connections where others would not. On day six of the epidemic, I was sitting on my back porch of my New-York flat in Chelsea (between 6th and 8th Avenues, from West 18th to 22^nd, the highest concentration of gay male whores on the planet) when my upstairs neighbors rushed down the stairs screaming and shaking. I always lock my patio doors when I step out, even if I just want to take a bit of sun on my porch, so running back in was not an option. One of the lovely side effects of Vega, besides the yelling and gestural dance moves, is the insatiable need to grab and hold another human, any human, the first one you see. The only way for the infected to stop the screaming and shaking, a cure that would that last five minutes.

I jumped over the railing and foolishly ran across the backyard to an alley leading to the street, where I was group hugged by so many screamers I froze and let it happen. It was not as if I could escape.

No flesh eating zombie, no crushing monster machines, just human contact where an infected would find peace. Five to ten minutes later the shaking started again and each let go of his/her embrace, which allowed other screamers to reach my skin. The episode lasted for eight hours, long enough for all surrounding screamers to get their human contact fix. By late at night, I was surrounded with a wall of dead bodies, so cramped it made it impossible for other screamers to reach me. I dropped down on two twinks, the first of my dead huggers, exhausted and incapable of moving, ready for Vega to do its damage. I remember thinking that never in my life had by been surrounded by so many gay men, which would have been heaven had they been alive.

By sunrise I had figured out that I was immune to Vega. Pure instinct! Not one hundred percent sure since experts had estimated that some victim took days before the symptoms appeared. I climbed over the wall of dead bodies and took a long breath when witnessing the carnage. No blood or torn limbs, just a sea of lifeless bodies, piled up over one another as far as the eyes could see. My movements attracted the attention of faraway screamers but there was no way they could reach me. I looked up and saw two of my neighbors at the windows of their respective apartments, both men who had been poz since the 1985, like me, both still alive. “Can it be?” I remember whispering.

  I began walking the streets of New-York, carefully avoiding the screamers by snaking around the dead bodies. I ended up in front of the Stonewall memorial where something extraordinary occurred. Forty seven years after the riots that helped launch gay rights, the homos were at it again, this time on the verge of saving the entire planet. I saw no less than fifty of my poz brothers, those beautiful promiscuous barebacking sluts I had come to idolize as an epidemiologist, in awe of human’s immune diversity, none of us remembering wearing a condom because we never embraced unnatural sex. These men that had shared my secret poz-whore-life had naturally gathered at the Stonewall. Their arms out, letting the screamers hug them, quelling the victims’ demons for a few minutes, until they let go and slowly died.

I knew each of them personally, the ideal group of subjects for an epidemiologist. I did not have to waste with interviews and spread sheets; I had all the information I needed. As long as you were HIV positive, even with an undetectable load, you were immune to Vega. The following hours were insane, The best way to describe a secret group of men who had known before scientists, and the world, that safe sex was dangerous, that the only immune sound choice was to get it, get treated and get over it, was that of a coven of witches that possessed enough magic to never fall prey to idiotic medical ideas such as reinfection or transmission through oral sex. Beautiful bathhouse sluts that have had all the sex they wanted while swimming in a sea of viruses for over twenty years. Made total biological sense that this group would be immune.

We began sharing information and it was clear that there were still people out there that had not been infected, negative that is. I needed to get the poz message out, and fast. Problem was that the millions, and I do mean millions, of dead bodies in the streets rendered useless any means of transport.

“How’s this for moving around?”

“Nava,” I whispered, looking at the girl stepping down from a fire truck she drove over cadavers as if they were tiny birds. She was a Prime just like me, a name those who got infected with HIV in the early eighties called themselves. Prime sounds so much better, and sexier, than long-time-survivor. When I first met Nava she was a hot guy. Her transition caused quite a shock since she he never once showed any sign that a woman dying to come out. More extraordinary, Nava managed to get all her hormones and surgery paid by the state of Nevada because she was poz, that he threatened to kill himself if he did not become a woman, and that he was a Navaho (if a Cherokee could become Cher, a Navaho became Nava)  which meant that fluency in genders was his ancestral right. All this to say that when Nava reappeared in New-York in the mid 90’s, the stunning man was now a hot woman, who had sworn off pants.

“How the hell did you learn to drive a fire truck?”

“Girrrl…”

That was Nava’s answer to everything. I had no idea how when she became a fireman, but I had learned that if it was possible, Nava could do it. Fire trucks was exactly what we needed and Nava selected a group of brave pozs to and thought them the basic of why firemen are so gay sexy. Here we were, commandeering several fire trucks, spreading outward from Stonewall to cover a large area of Manhattan, running over so many dead bodies that the asphalt became as slippery as ice, each of us working in pair: one driving and the other using the loud speakers to spread the good word.

Pozs were immune and they needed to get out of hiding pronto. This led to funny situations, like a sixty year old New-York socialite, her face redone by years of facelift, stepping out of her central park luxury apartment, all dressed up with her Chanel jacket and wearing ridiculous high heel shoes, finding out that she was poz. Fighting the truth was impossible, even for a hot Hasidic Jew, who walked over to two tall drag queens in the lower east side, asking “what was going on?” and being met with large smiles and the traditional “girrrrl..”

I became the natural leader, distributing orders, meeting no oppositions. I am six-foot and have been packing on the muscles for years with the help of lovely steroids paid by the government since poor little me had HIV. One of the fun facts about aids in the 1990: bugchasers, men who wanted to seroconvert, become poz, so they could get their steroids for free. My current poz army included men and women of all sizes, age, race and backgrounds, homeless to billionaires, illiterate to Nobel Prize candidates. Somehow, a fifty year old muscle bearded poz gay epidemiologist was the man for the job and whatever I said, they did.

Clues about the spread and transmission of Vega were coming in too fast for me to process and devise a quarantine protocol. Vega hit the planet just six days ago and no matter what my poz peers, doctors and researchers, said, Vega’s propagation strategy was still a mystery. Only two facts were clear: pozs were immune and there were still neg survivors out there.

My first order was to send all the poz as far as possible and find all the neg survivors and ask them to stay inside, not move since whatever they were doing, it worked. The second order was to raid all pharmacies and get all the HIV medication and store it in one place. At that moment, the best defense against Vega was to keep the pozs alive. I found myself having to deal with a lot of egos in crisis, men and women who had no idea that they were pozs and who begged get on the drugs immediately. I objected because none of them needed treatment at this moment since aids was slow to develop. More importantly, I needed a group of untreated pozs to assess if the viral load affected aids’ immunity to Vega.

One thing apocalyptic zombie TV shows don’t show you is how the virus is never the main threat. See, if you suddenly don’t have enough people around, then everything breaks down. Forget government, police or hospitals, the most important aspect of modern life is the news and if there is no one around to tell you what is going on then there is no news. Survivors could go outdoor and start asking questions. Vega forced anyone with a pulse to hide. Information was a priority and again pozs came to the rescue, well in New-York that is. A lot of pozs worked in the media industry and it took only eight hours to stream live news bulletins from the major networks. We also set up cars with recorded messages that they would blast out of speakers all over the city.

Luckily, the epidemic was just a couple of days old so television cables and satellites were still operating, which meant that people could still manifest themselves threw social medias. By the ninth day of Vega I had calculated that out of the twenty millions people in New-York, five thousands poz would be responsible to feed and bring water to twenty thousand negs, still sequestered in their apartments.

“Nuclear!” Leave it to the French to get the world’s priorities in order. On the morning of the tenth day, the poz phenomenon had been discovered all over the world and ongoing Skype conferences were maintained between countries where the only items on the agenda were a) coordinate research to find a cure, and how to feed the survivors if a cure took months. I have to admit that this planetary cooperation was exhilarating; strangers coming up with brilliant, and for once out of the box, ideas practically every minute. It all came crashing down when a French woman in her early thirties managed to invade the Elyzee, France’s White House, and take over a Skype chat room by screaming “nuclear.”

See, that’s the crucial bit of information all the apocalypse show don’t bother to tell you: human survival is impossible for more than a month because if the planet’s five hundred nuclear plants are not maintained, they will melt down and earth’s living organisms will die in a nuclear winter. Pozs to the rescue, again. The nuclear problem was a nightmare. Imagine figuring out a way to get pozs to far away nuclear plants (you try finding pozs in Utah), considering the billions of cadavers lining the street, not to mention gather enough nuclear plants experts still alive that could help. Somehow by day 12, most for the world’s uranium rods had been cooled down and we could go back the basics of saving humanity.

This brings me to my TedX presentation in New-York. People were still dying which meant that Vega had found a way to break through walls. Research would take time, too much time, mostly because there wasn’t enough scientists around. I had the solution, but I knew it would take a hell of a lot of convincing, which is why I opted for a TedX format, a simple way to contact the World as it would be streamed, radioed, and televised everywhere.

Nava was the genius behind the presentation, standing beside me with a ridiculously short red sequins dress, one foot in front of the other, like a price-is-right girl. I began by asking if there were any vegan in the crowd and even though they had become the new poster child for the plague, I got a courageous skinny hippy, a thirty-two year old girl, to stand up. Nava went to get her, smiling at hot guys as she contorted herself between the seats, aware that the most important part of a presentation was the demented clown that would bring laughs when things got too serious. I then asked if there were any 80 years old that had smoked and drank all their lives, and this time got two hands going up: a woman and a man. Nava did her tricks again, playing with her middle part, telling the man her penis just vanished because he was so old. This presentation was for ordinary folks and not epidemiologists so Nava strongly suggested that I follow the advice of Oscar Wilde: “in matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity, is the vital thing.”

I had been surrounded by wonderful people, aunts and uncles, who never gave a second thought about their health, indulging in all the smoking and alcoholism their bodies could endure, following the only true life moto: “fuck it if I die at forty.” As an epidemiologist, I had always been fascinated by those people that laughed at risks and screed the odds. I never got funding to study alcoholic-red-meat-eating-smokers, who just would not die, because public health was about risks, not solutions.

I looked at my skinny vegan girl then turned to my two eighty years old and asked that each light up a cigarette. They were about to look in their pockets when Nava quickly showed a black and white scene of Betty Davis and Paul Henreid exchanging cigarettes on the screen behind us, and reenacted it with my two smokers. I got the reaction I was hoping of from my vegan girl: horror and three steps in the opposite direction.

“Skip back to two months ago,” I said addressing the crowd. “Everyone would have crucified these two smokers and hailed the healthy vegan girl as a hero for trying to run away from certain death. And yet, no one would have bothered to ask: if smoking and drinking was so dangerous, how the hell can a man and a woman live to be eighty years old, and worst, show no sign of immediate death. Why did they survive? How dare they go past forty years old?”

I paused and winked to Nava.

“You guys carnivore right?” I said looking at my alcoholic smokers, knowing that the answer would be yes since I had yet to meet an alcoholic smoker who liked tofu.

Nava came back on the stage with two steaks, cooked rare. The guy operating the camera zoomed in on the face of my vegan, more horror. I did not offer my two octogenarian forks or knives, just their fingers and teeth. They looked awful, spitting and coughing, ready to die at any minute, but then again, I had been surround by aunts and uncles having heart attack at diners, wait a few seconds, and grab desert once their pulse was back to normal. I kept bombarding my vegan girl with questions, hoping she would have an explanation for the death-defying stunt she was witnessing. The best OMG reaction I got from the crowd was when I explained that my two eighty years old, because of their age, were raised on food saturated with pesticides such as DDT. Some people objected but a quick video silenced them. If you were a child during the forties and the fifties, you loaded up on pesticides.

“Look at them,” I said turning to my octogenarian who were taking puffs between bites, the sides of their lips red with blood, stubbornly going on with life.

The words “what does natural mean?” flashed on the screen as I thanked my three panelists and asked Nava to escort them back to their seats. I went on to explain how the concepts of risks and nature could never be reconciled. My example might have been crude but it was clear, and efficient. I materialized two humans, a man and a woman, who had the highest odds of early death, their compound risk being so high that all epidemiological models predicted that they would be in the grave by age fifty.

“Nature does not give a dam about risk. Nature,” I declared, “operates on another level.”

I went on to display letters from medieval time where men and woman wrote about how they got the plague and days later got out of bed. The focus of the great plague had always been on the victims but never on its most amazing data, that one-third of everyone who got the plague survived. “Good ol’ immunity.”

By then, the assistance had figured out where I was heading. My next slide was a color picture of HIV. I looked at a man in the audience, a distinguished gentleman in his seventies, and asked him if he would stand up. He refused, as I expected, so my next slide was of him, a picture taken in 1986, at a time when he was the lead epidemiologist for ActUp: my arched nemesis. In normal times, this man had the power to shut me down and lock me up, but at my conference, where the world considered me to be the savior, his words carried no weight. He looked straight at me with such defiance that it made crushing him sweeter.

I went on to tell the story of my clash with ActUp as a young epidemiologist during the first blimps of the Aids epidemic. I kept asking annoying questions like “why don’t we all have it?” by we I men gay men. If HIV was transmittable orally they every gay guy would have tested positive and yet, when the test was available, a higher proportion of gay men tested negative, which made no sense if HIV was that easy to get. ActUp quickly thanked me of my services: they wanted to scare the population rather than educate. To this day, I know of hundreds of strict tops that have never used a condom, have filled thousands of gay men with their sperm and still test negative.

I then gave a quick bio of my poz life. Got it when I was twenty-one and spent the next three years taking care of grown up friends dying, three of them in my tiny apartment and in my arms, all the while waiting for the disease to get me. About five years later, as death was still nowhere in sight, I discovered the letters I talked about earlier while working on my doctorate about the black plague. This made my epidemiological brain wonders. Fifteen years went by where I had no symptoms and no viral load. Nature and risk had clashed again, ActUp wanted me dead but Nature said: “Hell No.” I did get on the HIV cocktails when virus asserted itself, but not before discovering something marvelous: barebacking.

The next slides were my best ones and Nava used her hands to frame the screen as if she was selling a Maserati, making naughty faces at videos and images of hot musclemen from Chicago IML, where gay muscle horny pigs gathered every year to elect Mister International Leather. Since its beginning, IML had been a big excuse for all the poz visionaries to do away with safe sex and revert to natural sex. I first attended IML in 1995 and freaked out when I got back home, having barebacked with at least one hundred guys, being mad at myself, letting the “risk” narrative poison my brain. A year passed and nothing. I went back to IML and found all the same men, a thousand of them, none of them sicker, all thriving. I had discovered my clan, my family. By 2001/2002 thanks to barebacking websites, being poz had become something to celebrate, honor, and share. A secret community of a million men worldwide had perversely discovered Nature’s truth, one that had been the law since life and diseases appeared: get it, get treated and get over it.

The fiery eyes of my ActUp nemesis were all I needed to take it to the next level. I began a multi Skype session with friends from all over America and Europe. Men I had the privilege of breeding, self-proclaimed cumdumps that had been doing their best to get inseminated for decades. Each began telling his personal cumdump story, the conversation quickly turning into a competition where each wanted some gold medal having collected the most sperm, going as far as supporting their allegations with videos and selfies.

I thanked each of them and stopped the live chats. It was turning into a pissing context and I getting away from the message. I kept photos on the screens of my four cumdump panelists and turned to the crowd, asking the audience to look at each of these men and asked that they described what they saw. Just like my eighty years old smoking alcoholic carnivores, these men were proof that risk and nature did not mix, each should have been dead, but instead were gorgeous, muscular and profoundly happy. Especially now that they were in charge of their designated group of survivors.

So how did I get to do a poz video where I seroconvert straight alpha male movie and professional sports stars? Because of what happened next. I had just brought up on the screen a photo of Marry Mallon and was about to make a link between HIV positive men and Typhoid Mary when several screams were heard from people in the audience, suddenly standing up with their cell phones in the air. In one of the most cynical reversal of fortune human history had ever witnessed, the anti-gay nations had just doomed humanity.

Remember the nuclear problem and how most nations solved the problem with the help of poz? Turned out that many countries did not. Homophobic states like Russia, China, North Korea, and all the Middle East were now paying the price for their conservative way of thinking. When the first poz appeared in the streets of Moscow, Beijing, Pyongyang, Riyadh, Singapore and so on, the locals, rather than embrace their saviors, saw this as a sign of God to kill the homos, now that they finally came out of hiding. The few men and women working for AIDS organizations in these countries had been frantically texting about these atrocities for weeks but no one paid attention. On the day of my TedX presentation, one of them sent a video of a dark cloud forming over a nuclear plant in Saint-Petersburg. The video went viral and within ten minutes, similar videos were shared from Iran, China and India.

My brain began to race as I stood on the stage, Nava standing by my side with dread in her eyes, both of us understanding that time was our greatest enemy. I used the audience and their extended network to come up with a plan. Within half an hour, the following facts had triumphed. Every nuclear plant between Warsaw and Japan were doomed and if Vega did not kill the entire human race, radiations would. Atmospheric models were run and experts agreed that only two spots on the planet would be shielded, well relatively shielded, because of Earth’s atmospheric currents. Australia and the northern part of the province of Quebec.

The solution: everyone who was still alive in Europe and the Americas needed to move to Northern Quebec, the rest should head for Australia. In order to achieve this unprecedented exodus, we needed a massive amount of pozs. There was enough evidence to support that survivors who had remained barricaded in their house were not catching the disease from their poz liaison. I still had no idea how Vega was transmitted but inaction meant certain death. There were whole families to move over thousands of miles. The solution resided in pozzing one person per family.

“Mass infection.” That was my brilliant solution, an idea too appalling to be accepted at face value. The instant I discovered that poz were immune, I encouraged all the poz to stack up on their meds but stop taking them. HIV is a beautiful virus, one of the slowest to evolve, often taking years to manifest, and even with high viral loads, still allows the carrier to continue with his/her day to day activity. Weeks, even months of no meds would not impact the health of poz, no matter what ActUp and the medical establishment said.

 

So here you have it. The Typhoid Mary/Poz McBeefy talk allowed for all the grownups, and not the dogma obsessed religious and political groups, to analyze, asses and act in record time. We had a month, five weeks at the most, before the nuclear fall outs reached us. The most efficient way to give aids was to have a poz ejaculate in a neg’s anus, having scratched the inside of the rectum to make sure it would enter the blood stream. Direct blood contact was not that efficient, unlike what had been advertised because HIV likes it hot. There was no time to discuss or propose alternatives, and I made sure ActUp and dogmatic doctors were silenced. Poz men needed to seed other men, end of.

The first tests were so good that it had virologists reevaluate everything they knew about their domain. A negative man who was seeded in the morning could walk out by evening in the streets with no risk of catching Vega. It worked! We did not need to seroconvert everyone, nor did I want to, children and women were excluded. It was basic primitive biology, men would do the heavy lifting and women would take care of the kids.

My pozzing video went more than viral, it became a religious affair. I remember sweating like a pig cuming in the Rock’s ass, grabbing his neck and forcing him to kiss me while I slapped his ass. Of course, most of these personal indulgences were edited out of the video. HIV did not require S/M.

Nava was in charge or marketing and she used an old Uncle Sam’s WWII poster with the slogan “if he can, so can you” to introduce the first ever porn/public health campaign. The men I selected had achieved planetary fame so by the fourth day of its launching, fifteen percent of adult male world population was HIV positive. Nava, who had hired cyber thugs to infect the video will all types of lovely watchdogs, confirmed that certain parts of the video were being played over and over, by 100% straight men, who could not get enough close ups of my pulsating poz penis seeding the asses of the Rock, Mark Walberg, football, soccer and basketball stars, politicians and even a TV evangelist.

We still lost negs to Vega, but saved enough to command respect from the general population. Nava, the impossible trans girl who refused to wear pants, managed to transport the highest number of people because, for reasons I don’t care to know, this freak of nature had learned to fly a 747, and was instrumental in forcing neg pilots to become positive and join her. By the second week after the video, power grids were coming down which meant that fuel pumps were no longer working and planes, cars and trains (yup, we pozzed all the train conductors we could find) were useless.

I am ending this report from somewhere in the middle of the province of Quebec, close to one of their huge hydroelectric dams. The beauty of a viral apocalypse is that the entire manmade infrastructure is intact, an as is man’s science and technology. This part of Quebec may have been desolate but we knew how to build, gather and grow food, and take care of our health. In other words, we were ready to do a lot more than simply survive.

By the time the first deadly radioactive rains hit Europe and the Americas, the protected areas of Quebec and Australia harbored respectively three and five millions humans. Vega had killed 99.893% of the human population. The pozzing had stopped since Vega was no longer infecting anyone. We could all get back on our meds.

 

Nava moved in with me in one of the bunkers. We’re not lover, just exhausted. It’s a starry night in March and the aurora borealis are insane, apparently they love radioactive particles.  Nava and I are looking at one another, smiling, still trying to understand what had just happened. Maybe it’s the side effect of the birth of a new society, or the grace that falls upon a group of humans that leaped over the apocalypse, but what I feared most never happened; the eradication of all pozs. Quite the opposite in fact. All the Primes, live Nava and I, proudly wear our poz tattoos on our necks or shoulders, never meeting a disapproving gaze when showing up in public areas. I thought that the heterosexual men who were forced to become poz would be sadden by the fact that they would never father children, but there were so many to take care of, one of the strange infection pattern of Vega which tended to favor adults, that real fatherhood, the act of a man providing for the young, took precedent over the archaic progenitor need.

One last point. Our weather and nuclear scientists were wrong. This part of Quebec was protected from the nuclear fallout, but only for a time. Within fifty years, the planet would be a waste land. But not to worry, we already got people working on it.

[TTFN]

Shades of covid.

[Jona26]

I've only just seen this story - very prophetic!

[muscmtl]

On 8/25/2021 at 12:33 PM, Jona26 said:

I've only just seen this story - very prophetic!

Well thank you very much... 11 months later🙄🙄🙄 no wonder I m a failed author

[muscmtl]

On 4/1/2020 at 8:35 PM, TTFN said:

Shades of covid.

For a brief moment at the beginning of the pandemic there was this rumor that aids protected you from covid... which would have made my day, making me a nostradamus, but no, just a rumor. thank you anyway

[Jona26]

2 hours ago, muscmtl said:

Well thank you very much... 11 months later🙄🙄🙄 no wonder I m a failed author

I'm only sorry it wasnt sooner! 

An author is never failed - just yet to be published!🤣  Keep trying🤞🤞

Edited August 2, 2022 by Jona26
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