Contagion.

I am walking to the station to catch a train that will take me home when the wave of nausea hits, sending me crashing to the ground and causing my prawn fried rice lunch to spew forth drenching the lower legs of the group of passers-by who have gathered around me, phones at the ready to record my discomfiture.

As I scramble to my feet the crowd moves back, mouths open, something between horror and amazement evident on their faces as they turn, en masse and flee down the street, tripping over each other in their effort to get away. Looking in the wing mirror of an adjacent car I am horrified to see angry, red, oozing boils covering every inch of my face and neck giving me the look of some extra in the Walking Dead. Behind me, I see six men in Hazmat suits proceeding in my direction, and I cover my face with my scarf and hail a passing taxi. I’ve seen too many deadly pandemic movies to let them take me. I have to get home and work this out with my naturopath.

"I think they've gone," Marie said, her head turned, her breath hot on my ear as she dabbed at my open sores with some of her grandmother’s special concoction. The men in the Hazmat suits had arrived at the house looking for me after I’d fled the scene. Thank gawd for an Irish housekeeper with a natural suspicion of authority and a dismissive disposition. But no, they’d just gone around the back and came bursting through the door, tasers at the ready.

So I’m in the containment centre strapped to a gurney, surrounded by doctors in full biohazard gear poking, prodding and speaking in hushed tones, while one unsuited, earnest-looking individual assures me that the outbreak has already been contained without anyone else being infected and they’ve developed a vaccine with which he has already been treated.

Before I can process this information and what it means for my situation I notice the red mark on his face which, as I stare at it dumbfounded, quickly turns into a boil ready to pop. He looks at me, I look at him and we shriek loudly in unison. Just then, Marie appears brandishing her granny’s balm and begins applying it liberally to his weeping wounds, handing me a mirror to see my now unmarked visage. Thank gawd for an Irish housekeeper with a granny who makes pox-dissolving ointment.

Posted in response to @mariannewest's weekend freewrite challenge
The drawing is my own