THE FOLLOWING IS THE PROPERTY OF ABRAR HAIDER. IT IS THE LATEST DRAFT OF A NOT YET PUBLISHED SHORT STORY.

Dr. Akeisha Palta always spent her lunch hour behind her desk, eating the seran-wrapped foods she brought from home. It had been this way for months, a weekday practice of going to work, saying hi to no one, getting into the lab, running tests, getting results, eating lunch alone, and then more lab work until she went home. Today was just another of those days.

Her colleagues had invited her to join them once, on her first day with the company. The conversation was revolved around work, about the latest epidemic that terrorized some part of the world, and whether they could get a fresh blood sample for their research. They were curious about her, asking her if she liked the city, the southern heat, and what her research was focused on. She answered honestly to each question. She never liked the city because of the crowds, but the warmth was welcome compared to the midwestern cold, all The topic of her research seemed to put them on edge, though.

She wanted to work with viruses, not vaccines. Her idea was to find a way to repurpose viruses, maybe reprogram the molecular machinery within the protein coat that made it helpful, or at least, harmless. Panacea, the company that employed them all, must have seen some merit in what few published papers she had, and called her.

Her new colleagues gave her a look, and Palta realized she must have gave them the impression of one of those researchers, the ones that spent their entire lives pursuing some high goal, only to learn that it was physically impossible at the end of their wasted careers. They invited her again the next day, out of politeness, but she declined, out of politeness. They did not ask her again.

        Now she ate whatever leftovers she had from last night’s dinner. She left the door open in case someone needed her for something, but no one ever did. Other people in white lab coats passed by the doors and occasionally glanced in, but everyone seemed to be in a rush to go somewhere, so Palta never stopped them for idle chit chat. The company hated idle chit chat. She settled for the conversations that occasionally slipped into her room, as she did now, listening to her neighbors who were never bothered by the rules.

        “Do you think this will be the one that we can’t stop?” asked Redford, referring to what was probably another epidemic surging up somewhere in the world and sending a vague threat to all of its inhabitants.

        “We stopped the last one.” answered Pascoe.

        “It only takes one, though, to pass through and cause hell. This one might be it.”

        “Doubt it. I heard that the guys upstairs already have it covered.” he was referring to the vaccine department. “Should have it part of the next set of vaccines.”

“Damn, they work fast.” and he was right.

Panacea, the vaccine service that gave them their jobs, would send out a package to its subscribers containing all the latest preventive measures against viruses. Not all of them were necessary according to some doctors, but Panacea argued that their approach prevented future diseases from spreading through a patented shotgun approach.

        “Dr. Palta?” asked a man walking into her office, breaking her attention away from the people next door.

        “Yes?” she got up from her chair and brushed the saran wrap into bin by her desk before holding up her hand. “What can I help you with, Mr. Hill?”

        Her employer grabbed her hand and gave it a quick shake. He was wearing his signature oxblood suit and tie. From his jacket pocket he nonchalantly took out a bottle of sanitizer that he took out and spread onto his hands without even looking away from Palta. He ran the company well, but knew little of science it was based on. He felt completely fine with it so long as progress was being made into making something to counter this flash disease or that one, research was underway, and vaccines were being sent to those who needed them. His was a good cause, for sure.

“How are you doing, Dr. Palta?” He asked. “You’ve been spending a lot of time in the lab, we’ve heard. We’ve looked at your work file and have to let you know we like you a lot. Sure, you’ve got fewer papers out than the average researcher here, but what you do have impressed the boys upstairs. So much, in fact, that they want you to know about an opening upstairs, and Dr. Berault here wants you to fill it.”

Palta hadn’t even noticed the small man behind Mr. Hill. He wore a white lab coat like hers, though his seemed much older and almost reached his below his knees. Berault quickly nodded and smiled, but seemed to stare past Palta, whose upheld hand he did not notice.

        “I’m sorry, I’ve only worked a few months here. Which department would I be working for?”

        Both she and Mr. Hill waited for Berault to answer, but his gaze remained fixed on a blank space on the wall until Hill gave a loud cough. “Vaccine research.” answered Berault, breaking out of his trance. “We’re a small but dedicated department, but it has nothing too different from what you have going on here. You’ll be taking over my work. We deal mostly with epidemic prevention and vaccine development, but I dealt specifically with viruses, so you can say we have a lot in common.” and he gave a toothy grin.

Mr. Hill went into the details. She’d get her own lab in the department, on the higher floors where the offices had windows, and she would have people working under her, basically a dream come true for any researcher. It pleased Palta to know that her work was finally being recognized, but she didn’t believe in her luck. “Do I have time to think this over?”

        Mr. Hill chimed in, “Of course! Take your time. Actually, take the rest of the day off to think it over. Take whatever you have going on here and take it upstairs. Give my office a call when you reach a decision. We hope you accept, right, Dr. Berault?”

        “Yes, yes.” and then his eyes went elsewhere again.

        Mr. Hill shook her hand again, automatically taking out his sanitizer again. Berault gave her a quick nod and followed after Mr. Hill, leaving Palta alone in her office to figure out what she should do for the rest of the day. She slumped into her chair and let her thoughts try to wrap themselves around her insane luck.

        Why her? It wasn’t because she knew somebody. In fact, she hardly knew anyone, and no one seemed to remember her as anyone special. All the information the company had on her could fit on a few sheets of paper that Mr. Hill could have gone over in just a few minutes. She only recently obtained her doctorate, and her research wasn’t well-known or well-liked. She considered going home

Walking down the bright hallway, she heard the voices of her colleagues

        “I just heard that Palta is getting Dr. Berault’s job.”

        “Her? Why?”

        “I know, right?”

        “I don’t think she even went to his retirement party.”

        “Would you have even noticed her if she did?”

        Palta pretended to not hear them and took the elevator up to Dr. Berault’s level which was situated close to the top of Pathacea. The security guards who waited in front of the elevator waved her through. She found the man having a heated exchange with another researcher, a much older man who must have been in his sixties. They turned calm when they caught sight of her walking towards them.

The other researcher excused himself, leaving the Palta with the old man. Berault shook her outstretched hand. his was wet with sweat, but Palta resisted the urge to wipe her hand on her lab coat, which seemed dirty compared to theirs.

Berault sighed. “Hill hates my guts,” he said when he was sure no one else was around. “Would you like me to explain why he’s going to hate yours?”

        Palta nodded. Berault beckoned her to follow him to his office, talking while they walked alongside one another. “He’s an old man--I am, too, but he keeps to old ideas. Right now, he has a steady business going, but I’m more a man for new ideas like yours.”

        “Really?” asked Palta, still doubting that anyone ever took her research seriously.

“Yes, really. I’ve worked with viruses for the last two decades. I remember when these all these epidemics started. While so many people won’t go near them, you and I appreciate them for their potential instead of what they currently are.”

Berault’s office was at least three times the size of hers. Shelves went along the wall, filled with books or models of microscopic figures. “This,” he said, gesturing around the room as if it were filled with treasure, “will be yours, should you accept the job.”

They sat down and Berault asked Palta what she would do if she took the position. She had ideas, and she let them stammer out. She would look into supplanting the inside of viruses, the molecular machinery that made them malignant as they were, with something harmless, maybe even helpful to humans. She named the papers she read that supported her idea, but Berault had gone back to looking into the distance behind Palta. Realizing that the lack of attention was probably the reason why the old man was retiring, she told him goodbye and left.

        Palta went to her office to collect her things. The job sounded like a dream, and there was no reason for her to stay in the one she already had. She was moving up in the world. Passing by Redford, who had gone back to gossiping with someone else from down the hall. She heard Berault’s name being said and paused to listen.“Why is he retiring?” the other person asked.

        “They say he’s retiring, but, apparently he got into a fight with Mr. Hill. About what I don’t know, but the guys at the top told them to not make it look bad for the public. I mean, who gets fired from the vaccine business?”

There was a lull in the gossip.

        “I bet they were pissed because Berault never wears gloves in the lab.” They laughted.

After an excursion to the bathroom where she washed her hands red, Palta returned to her office with a box. A few books, lab notes, the coffee maker she hid from view under her desk, and the name plate she hung on her door all fit in the box with room to spare. Without them, the room kept no sign of her ever being there. Her colleagues would probably forget that she once worked here when someone else came along. Walking out to the parking lot and unlocking her old camry, she climbed in and threw the box onto the passenger seat. She drove towards home, getting there in twenty minutes through empty streets rather than the hour it took with traffic.

        Her apartment was a studio room that she could have upgraded from if she had wanted to, but never felt the need to. A single bed with two stacked pillows. Just enough room for her to fit, though she had to let her feet hang off the edge to feel comfortable. An office station that served also as a television stand took up one of the walls. She left her lab coat on her chair and went to the kitchen she kept in the corner of the room and made herself a snack.

        She should call someone, but who? The friends she had in college used to call her often, but their lives began to exclude hers when she moved away from the midwest. The dresses she kept for the world outside the lab hung in the corner of her closet, unworn for who knows how long. Her father would still be at work, and her stepmother never talked to her. She sent her father a text message telling him to call her when he was off of work.. With nothing else to do, Palta turned on the television.

        Twenty-hours of worldwide coverage, with a news anchor dedicated to telling viewers every ten minutes that the three epidemics in the eastern half of the world have not yet made it across the Atlantic. Smiling wide, the news anchor urged viewers to keep subscribed to our vaccinations from companies like Pathacea, Palta’s employer, or to get subscriptions if we haven’t. After all, no one in the States should start bleeding from their orifices, or getting blackened varicose veins in the tips of our toes, or skin festering and peeling away from their bodies. Leave all of that to those outside America, said the news anchor, and he laughed.

        The phone rang. It was her dad, asking how her day had gone and why she got off early. Palta told him she landed a promotion. Her father congratulated her, saying that he loved her from across the country, and assured her that her mother did, too, but he had to get back to work. They would call her again later and talk longer, he promised.

        Half an hour after her father’s call, the phone rang again, though this time, it was Mr. Hill’s voice on the speaker.

        “Hello, Dr. Palta. Dr. Berault suggested that we all have dinner together celebrate his retirement along with your promotion.” he talked like she had already accepted the spot. “It’ll be my treat for both of you.”

        “Sure, what time and where?” Palta replied.

        Mr. Hill gave her the address to a high end restaurant in the city, a forty minute drive. He also insisted on sending a car over, but Palta declined. She took out one of her better dresses and got ready.

        The restaurant was the sort she couldn’t afford to dine at on her own dime. She drove past the valet service, avoiding any proximity to the shiny metal beasts that had engines that purred instead of the embarrassing guttural call made by her dingy motorized cart. The man working just beyond the entrance almost raised his eyebrow when Palta came in through the door, but nodded and asked her to follow when she mentioned Mr. Hill.

They were waiting for her in a private room, and Palta felt a bit more at ease when she saw that doctor Berault also seemed unaccustomed to such lavish settings. Only Mr. Hill looked right at home. The two of them seemed much smaller with their coats off. The food had already been set, but they had not started without her. Palta sat across from Dr. Berault, and, for the most part, simply listened to the animated talk Mr. Hill made about Panacea and the rest of the world.

The latest tests showed that another disease was starting to spread, this time in the southern part of the Americas. The medical community were up in arms and it seemed that, ultimately, they would be able enough to contain its spread. Coincidentally, subscribers to Panacea monthly vaccinations have increased by ten percent over the last quarter. This was good news for everyone, for more people would have better defense against many diseases that might chance entry into the States, and Panacea would be getting more resources for research, but Palta was getting tired of hearing it. Berault, from his side of the table, cleared his throat loud enough for the Mr. Hill to pause in his speal.

        “We should discuss the other business that we have with Dr. Palta,” he announced, “for I believe she has a right to know from the start what her job might entail.”

        Hill glared at Berault through the ensuing silence, daring him to speak again, but then he let out a sigh and started again.

“Dr. Palta--Akeisha,” her first name coming from his mouth sounded wrong, “Panacea is a humanitarian organization, of course, but it cannot run on charity and good will. We are a business, and we can only exist when there is a demand for what we produce. Demand has an unpredictable tendency to fluctuate, so at times when there is little demand, and so few people want vaccinations, we lose our resources, we lose out on research, and then everyone suffers in the long run. We don’t want people to suffer.”

“When my father started this company with Dr. Berault, he had a dream to eradicate disease. When I started running it, I learned the hard truth. You can’t. It’s impossible. New diseases will always crop up in this country or another, that’s just how it works, and we’ll never have enough demand to combat whatever disease is lurking out there, waiting to strike..” Hill had stopped looking at Palta entirely, switching from talk to recitation. “But if you can create that demand, you will always have resources to give people what protection they need. So that’s what we do, for the benefit of all. We make some new disease, set it off somewhere safe, and then give people the protection against it over here.”

Berault shook his head, rasping

Mr. Hill piped up again with more zeal, “It is much safer this way, for our country, for its citizens, for us. For the world, too, when you think about it. No one seemed to care about those other countries until they got sick. Now they get all the medical attention they need.”

“We’re the cure,” whispered Berault, “but we spread the disease.”

        “Now wait just a damn minute!” yelled Mr. Hill. “There is absolutely no solid evidence that would hold up in court that even remotely suggests we had anything to do with those countries besides sending out vaccines for old diseases.”

        From where Palta sat, she saw one old man trying to justify the countless deaths of innocents while sitting at a five-star restaurant, while another old man wracked with guilt tried to confess his mortal sins. It was more absurd that they thought she would take part in it, but that was part of the plan, wasn’t it? Get the new girl to join. She’s smart enough to do the job, but if she tries to get out and squeal, who would even listen to her? No friends around here, no one who would believe her if she said a word, but if she joins, everyone wins except those who didn’t even know they were part of a sick game.

        “Please,” he said, “you could HTRWSJTRGSG

        “There are perks