Lost Immunity by Daniel Kalla (free reads TXT) 📕

up with responses to his comment, almost all in agreement. The like-minded people on the site see the emergence of this outbreak as more than just coincidence.

A private message from Cole pops up on his screen. “Well said, dude! Eventually they’re going to figure out what dangers this new toxin poses.”

“Agree,” Max replies.

“Like always, though, it’ll take months or years to find out what exactly that is.”

“I hear you.”

“If only we could tip the scales now somehow. Before it’s too fucking late.”

Max stares at the screen. Cole is right. All the social media posts and marches in the world won’t accomplish anything.

Maybe words aren’t enough this time?

He grabs his phone and calls Yolanda. “Why didn’t you tell me about this new vaccine?” he asks as soon as she picks up.

“That’s why I’ve been texting and calling you!” she replies in a slight whine. “You wouldn’t answer.”

As doting and sweet as Yolanda is, especially toward Jack, her neediness still grates. “Work’s been crazy. And I’ve had Jack all week.”

“I get it,” she says, acquiescing too easily, as usual.

“Yolanda, I need to know everything about this new vaccine and your office’s vaccination campaign.”

“Why?”

“Come on. Right after the HPV debacle? They’re going to force another vaccine on the public? This one totally unproven. You know how I feel about this.”

“This meningitis is awful. It’s killing kids, Max. Sometimes in just a few hours.”

“How do you know this vaccine will do anything to prevent that?”

“I… I don’t.”

“And how do you know it won’t end up hurting or killing even more children?”

“They wouldn’t release it if it wasn’t safe.”

“Really?” Max scoffs. “I thought I’d already proven to you that just hasn’t been the case in the past.”

“Maybe. I guess.”

“Listen, beautiful, I need one more favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you think you could get your hands on a few vials for me?”

“Steal the vaccine?” Yolanda’s voice cracks.

“No, no,” he says soothingly. “I just need the empty vials.”

CHAPTER 24

The gymnasium is absolutely packed, and Nathan assumes the lineup out front—which had already formed by the time he arrived two hours before the clinic opened—must still snake around the block.

People in Seattle are scared. The news of the latest meningitis death, the boy from the ball game, has hit the city hard, especially in the emotional aftermath of the damage left by COVID-19. Someone posted a video online of him collapsing with convulsions at the Mariners game the previous afternoon, and it instantly went viral. The social media site has since pulled the clip down, but the damage was done. Nathan couldn’t resist viewing it. Even beyond the voyeur’s guilt, it was hard to watch. But he can’t help picturing it again now.

The video was shot on a cell phone at the ballpark, under cloudless blue skies. The camera panned back and forth across the packed seats and private boxes from the perspective of somewhere in the bleachers above. Suddenly, in the left corner of the frame, there was a frenzy of movement in one of the boxes. A tinny scream followed, and a man shouted, “Call 911!” The camera zoomed in on the box. The people inside encircled a boy who lay on his back. His arms and legs twitched and jerked wildly, and his head flopped side to side as he thrashed on the ground. The video ended seconds after someone dropped down to his knees and hovered over the boy, obscuring him.

Nathan shakes off the disturbing memory, focusing instead on the activity around him. He wouldn’t have missed this inaugural Neissovax immunization clinic for anything, but he’s aware he’s only in the way of the people doing the actual work. He stands as unobtrusively as he can behind the desks and watches with a mix of admiration, pride, and worry.

The front of the line spits a steady stream of people to the first of the five desks to free up for the next inoculation. Each desk is crewed by two public-health nurses. The first one explains the impending vaccination to the next person in line, and then gets each patient, or the guardian, to sign a consent form. Meanwhile, the second nurse draws up the vaccine under the watchful eye of a Delaware staff member, labels the syringe with a sticker, and then injects it into the exposed left upper shoulder of the recipient. Every tenth patient also has blood drawn—Nathan understands it will be used later in a comparison of the pre- and postvaccination antibody levels.

Aside from a few tears, one panic attack, and two teenagers who fainted immediately after the blood draw, the clinic seems to be proceeding smoothly. Nathan has noticed that most of the clients make it through the process from consent to vaccination in under ten minutes, usually closer to five.

And yet, the line keeps growing.

As Nathan scans the room, he can’t help wondering which of the recipients will later log Seattle Public Health’s website to report adverse events. Last night in his hotel room, he spent ages on the web page reviewing the self-reporting form set up specifically for Neissovax. The local form is even more nebulous than the national VAERS one. Anyone can log on and claim any possible reaction, without proof or validation. Nathan regards the whole thing as a beacon for loonies, hypochondriacs, and, especially, scammers. He believes it inevitable that people will try to milk the system for money, attention, or both. He understands that Delaware would have faced scrutiny no matter when or where Neissovax was eventually released, but with all the media attention on the vaccine and the focus this website will generate, he’s fearful of the negative impact it might have on Neissovax’s natural trajectory.

“Bet you wouldn’t have pictured yourself standing here a few days ago,” someone says.

Nathan turns to see Lisa at his side, looking very much in charge, and, he notes, attractive in a navy pantsuit. “Actually, I was kind of picturing myself in Quebec,” he says.

“Quebec?”

“Family road trip.”

“Oh.” Lisa looks around the room. “You had to cancel