The Cure
I pulled into my driveway in the early morning after my once-weekly shopping outing, getting supplies to see us through another week of Plague pandemic quarantining and isolation. I pulled off my mask, the half-face twin cartridge respirator that I used to spray weeds with at some point in time and that I now use for protection in exposed and uncontrollable social situations, like shopping, talking to lying politicians and going to orgies, and took a deep, non-chemical and non-virus infected breath. Aaaaaah. That was better. I took another deep breath and frowned. There was a funny smell in the air. Grabbing two bags of shopping out of the back of the car I walked up the stairs to the front door of our house, opened it and stepped through it. And stopped dead in my tracks. Metaphorically speaking, that is. A thick blanket of acrid blue-grey smoke hung in the house, smelling very suspicious indeed. Before me, sitting on the carpet, was my partner, Kiana. I...