by Keith Graham
When Artie Gallaud was twelve years old, his parents dragged him to the doctor. “Dr. Fiston, He’s doing disgusting things alone in his room,” his mother said. Artie’s father just looked embarrassed and didn’t say anything.
“Look what I found stuffed under his mattress,” Mrs. Gallaud waved a magazine under Dr. Fiston’s nose. She held it still long enough for the doctor to see the cover.
“I see what you mean,” the doctor said, “this is a problem. He’s going to need a shot.”
“I should say so!” yelled Artie’s mother, her face red with anger. “I thought that he was inoculated against things like this.” Again, she shook the magazine at the doctor. “The treatments were supposed to be good for ten years.”
Artie sat on the edge of the examination table with a sullen expression on his face. Dr. Fiston listened to little Artie’s heart and looked into his eyes, and then waved what looked like an airport metal detector around the boy’s body. The doctor read the results on a computer screen and made notes in Artie’s file. He shook his head, clicking his tongue.
The doctor pulled out an ampule and filled a small syringe with dark blue liquid.
“There’s a new virus going around,” he explained as he tapped the syringe to get rid of the bubbles, “This kind of virus was designed to be therapeutic. They are engineered to treat things like ADD, hyperactivity or depression. The one that Artie has contracted is designed specifically for indoctrination. Luckily,” he said as he swabbed Artie’s arm with alcohol, “I think we found it in time. This is the antidote, but it only works if injected early. It’s a good thing, because this one seems to be very infectious.”
Dr. Fiston injected Artie in his bicep and squeezed in the blue liquid. He patted Artie’s arm and carefully placed a band-aid over the injection site. When he was finished, he took a lollipop from a drawer and handed it to the boy.
“Take a seat,” the doctor said to the Gallaud family, stripping the latex gloves from his hands, “I’ll give you a prescription for a basic antiviral agent. You’ll have to come back for a booster in six months.”
Fiston scribbled on a prescription pad.
“Will he ever go back to…” Mrs. Gallaud gulped, “back to normal again?”
“That’s hard to say,” Fiston explained, “He’s probably going to be all right. Today, these designer viruses are all too common. Offshore labs are releasing new ones on a daily basis. Most are too complex to last for long. The technicians are all trying to tweak human behavior. They want to engineer the better human through subcellular manipulation. Unfortunately, in the world of designer viruses, money determines what a better human is.”
“Everyone has experienced a designer virus at one time or another. After a day or two of an unexplained craving for Dr. Pepper, you go back to coffee. You might find yourself in the local Jehovah’s Witness tabernacle without remembering how you got there, but eventually your body rejects the virus. This virus is a bad one, but it might have passed on its own.”
“How did he catch it?”
“Kids don’t wash their hands before they eat. They sneeze and wipe their noses on their sleeves. They are a greenhouse garden for engineered viruses.”
“But it is so disgusting!” wailed Mrs. Gallaud.
“Yes, the political Indoctrination Viruses are troubling,” he agreed, “Political Action Groups have much more at stake and much more money to spend. It is strictly illegal, but that does not stop the special interests. Someone releases a new political virus every few days, especial around elections, and some are insidious. I’ve seen extreme cases where the whole psyche is permanently altered.”
Mrs. Gallaud hid her face in her hands. “Please God,” she prayed, “Anything but this.”
“Now, now Mrs. Gallaud, it’s not the worst thing in the world. It will pass. As he gets older, he will learn to make up his own mind based on issues and facts. He’ll learn to ignore these urges based on vague feelings, subconscious motives, and frivolous promises.”
Dr. Fiston stood up and Mr. Gallaud followed suit, reaching out to shake the Doctor’s hand. “Thanks, Doc,” Mr. Gallaud said.
Mrs. Gallaud stood up. The large handkerchief she used to dry her tears obscured her face. She grabbed little Artie’s arm and left the doctor’s office with her husband and son.
A few seconds later, Mr. Gallaud poked his head back in the office door.
“Doctor,” he said, “may I see that magazine for a moment?”
Doctor Fiston handed the object to Gallaud. Mr. Gallaud unfolded it and read the masthead.
It read “MAGA, The Voice of the Majority.”
Both men looked at the headlines on the front of the magazine for a second. Then Gallaud folded it into thirds and stuffed it into his inside jacket pocket.
“I think I’ll hold on to this,” he smiled sheepishly. He turned and ran from the office to help his wife and child to the car.
Dr. Fiston immediately went to the sink and began to wash his hands with the strongest antiseptic soap that he had. Yes, he thought as he scrubbed, this virus is dangerous, very dangerous, indeed. He continued washing for several minutes.
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