The Doctor

“Don’t touch me. Keep your distance.” I’ve heard that everyday now for nine months. Doesn’t make things easy when you’re the town’s GP. First it was the fires, then it was the virus, everything has turned to shit in Maui after the president was reelected. Ok, he probably has nothing to do with it, but we need to blame someone, don't we?

I put on my PPE bunny suit and wait at the Kihei pier for the boat to arrive. 

“Second boat this month.” the Sergeant says. 

Locked and loaded,” I say, showing him my assault rifle and giving him a hint of a salute, even though military ranks no longer exist.

“Good stance, doc.”

Besides being able to hold a rifle, I’m here to do spotting. Being the town's GP, people think I'm the best person at detecting who has been infected. What I don’t tell those people is that the virus is invisible, and we don't have any medical supplies or way to detect it. And, since we’ve run out of insulin last month, I’ve lost much of the feeling in my fingers. And my toes? We've lost our connection weeks ago. One day at a time. I need to carry on. I have a duty to my patients. 

The boat nears the doct. The men onboard are pointing guns back at us. It makes sense, they are as suspicious of us as we are of them. They don’t know whether the virus has taken hold here.

They look nervous. That's a good sign. I hold my numb finger well away from the trigger of my AR-15. 

When the takeover began, it was easy to spot them. The freelancers. The first thing they lost was self-care. All they did was work. There spent no time looking in the mirror, all they wanted to do was to book billable hours. We normal people used to work eight hours a day, they could work twenty. But lately the GigGuru’s AI has injected more of a human touch into the virus, leaving just enough human instinct for them to fly under the radar, unless one is very, very discerning.

A man on the front of the incoming boat shouts, “Honolulu medical supply run! Captain Johnson from Tripler AMC.”

The Sergeant gives a proper military salute to the boat. “Sargent Jaworski.”

“Are we good to dock, Sergeant?” 

“All good here, Captain.” The Sergeant nods, and signals the others to tie up the incoming boat.

A moment later, Captain Johnson jumps off. I study his face closely. Well defined cheekbones. We’ve all on a starvation diet these days.

He notices my stare. “Hey. Chill out.We’re friendlies.”

I keep my distance. GigGuru’s virus is so large it doesn’t spread easily. It can’t travel through the air without its high molecular weight making it drop to the ground. How it infects people, no one is exactly sure.

Every story that changes history begins with a spark. An event so small and insignificant, no one noticed it at the time. Hitler giving his first speech on a corner in Vienna. The CIA attaching a missile to a drone in Afghanistan in 2002.

The AI apocalypse started with something even smaller. In 2020, GigGuru, a freelance company, sent health supplements to its workforce. They saw the programmers who received free Yerba Mate pills booked 12% more hours. The creatives who received Green Tea Extract had higher customer satisfaction scores. It worked so well GigGuru hired data scientists to expand their biohealth program. The scientists expanded the system to program to giving freelancers suggestions on how to receive ADHD prescriptions.

The next year, they requested their DNA samples.

**

“We’ve been vaccinated,” Captain Johnson says. “The military lab in Honolulu has come up with new tech. We’re here to bring it to you.”

The Captain holds out his hand for a handshake. I instinctively back off.

“Why didn’t you let us know about this over the radio?” the Sergeant asks.

“Operational secrecy.”

The Sergeant nods. Apparently this makes sense to him.

The Captain and his men haul crates of medical equipment off the boat. They take over our abandoned ice cream parlor at the end of the pier. Someone yanks the starting cord on the generator they brought. The lights turn on. They begin plugging in all the medical equipment. The rumble of the generator and the displays lighting up signals modern civilization, something we are all longing for.

I feel it's my duty to safeguard the best interest of my patients.

“What if GigGugu alters the virus?” I ask the Captain.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

I look to the Sergeant for his opinion.

The Sergeant looks uneasy, but he defers to the Captain. The scale of the military presence in Honolulu is hundreds of times greater than ours. And, what do we have to lose?

“I’ll go first,” the Sergeant says. He leads from the front.

I stand back and him receive a series of medical checks. They take a vial out of a freezer box and give him an injection in the shoulder.

“Don’t feel a thing,” he says with a big grin. The one he gives us when we are all worried about something.

Everyone in our community receives their injection before me. I watch them closely for side effects. I can give aid if needed.

Finally, it's my turn and I sit down. Captain Johnson takes my blood pressure and oxygen levels with the jury-rigged equipment. I don’t recognize some of the machines that they’ve put together.

“Your blood pressure is running a bit high, but everything else is normal. How have you been feeling lately?”

“A little off, but hanging in there.” I feel my ribs poking out from my aloha shirt.

“Any symptoms?” he asks.

I stare at my toes. The ones I can't feel. It wouldn't help to complain about diabetes right now, so I say nothing. I’ll ask later if they have any insulin on Honolulu. “All good,” I say.

“This man is a great patient.” The Captain looks at all his equipment and winks at his crew in the room.

I stand up from my chair, and he gives me a hug. I want to shed a tear as I haven’t been hugged by anyone for years. I think of my daughter and how much I miss her. She’s in California, it's probably too late, but I think there’s still hope.

“Thank you for your service, Doctor,” the Captain says. He hugs me even tighter, his arms almost crushing me. Someone comes up close behind me. I feel a sting in my buttocks. “He’s the only one infected,” I hear him say, before everything goes dark.