Immune

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It was the day of her death. Not that Mariana was ill. She was perfectly healthy. One hundred percent well. But she was going to die.

She was ready.

A young woman, barely an adult, made her decision. For nearly two days, she stayed in one room, watching the end of the world. At least to her, it was the end.

She prepared to leave. What would happen once she stepped outside her home was a mystery. Her tourist attraction village had gone from peaceful and serene to nothing less than hell on Earth. Streets splattered with blood, armed soldiers fighting the enemy, men and women in medical space suits.

Her primary focus for two days was Franz Vargas. He ran the bake shop in town and was the first person that told her about the illness. She was picking up a bread order and he was closing shop early for the day.

He warned her that people were falling ill at the snap of a finger. He conveyed that he believed it was more than likely something in the water. How ignorant and absurd. Falling ill at the snap of a finger was a ludicrous exaggeration.

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