These scientists, they've been working on this for a while. Wearing the full body
condom of a bio-suit, they worked on strands of DNA. These scientists went into the
Brazilian rainforests to extract the venom from the ancient Zule-Mantu spider. They
cut and paste from the Bubonic Plague and Tuberculosis.

This is sci-fi shit right here.

These scientists were making this stew of deadly diseases since the 50's. These
scientists where in a race. Their competitors were Israel and Russia. Evil red
hammer and sickle and soothing baby blue star.

"Better Dead
Than Red"

Israel and Russia wanted to take center stage in this production of mass destruction.
I'm talking about America when I mention these scientists. These killers. These
pawns.

The American scientists were the first to perfect "Sethoran". Those test monkeys
didn't even last sixty seconds. This virus, "Sethoran", it attacks the human body in
any possible way. It absorbs through the skin. It can be inhaled. It can be
ingested. It cannot be destroyed. Those scientist were so clever. Fire only made it
spread faster. Water couldn't dilute it. There was nothing that could break down the
composition of this . . . thing. "Sethoran".

The monkeys died coughing and screaming.

If it's any consolation, "Sethoran" was tested on humans too.

Deep within the confines of this place lie heaps of people. Vagrants. Drifters.
Whatever you want to call them. These people had no ties. No family. No friends.
No one to become concerned when she wasn't at work and a janitor was wiping up
her remains. Nothing. Not even a cat.

These scientists sent out flyers, recruiting people to test drugs. Call this number to
test the new miracle treatment for AIDS. The cure for Multiple Sclerosis. Penis
growth formula. Diet pills. People will sign up for anything.

One day, a child turned up, asking for his mother. His name was Jamie and he was
five years old. His mother had been given the tour of the facility and he was bored.
Jamie was perfectly healthy. He lived in Wichita, Kansas with his mother, Samantha.
Samantha had been gone for a while and he needed something to do.

Martha Johnson-- they were all called Johnson-- Doctor Johnson quit when the men
in green wanted her to inject him with the newest mutation. She was going to tell
the media. The men in green didn't like this. They could have given chase before
she would have gotten very far. Instead, the green men made a call to the gates.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," the MP at the gate would tell her.

These could be the gates of Area 51.

"There must be something wrong with your I.D. card." This is what the MP would
say while he was trying to decide what exactly to shoot her with. He had dreamed of
this scenario since he had been given this post. He thought that, maybe, this was a
secret testing facility and, one day, a scientist who developed morals would run away
and it would be his job to 'eliminate the threat'. "Try swiping your card again. Make
sure that the magnetic strip is down and on the right face." Private Grube had been
dreaming of this day for so long. And he couldn't even figure out which gun to use.

These could be the big metal doors to a compound carved into the Nevadan rock.

Doctor Johnson would swipe her card again. It went through this time. But the
gates never opened. The car never moved. Before Dr. Johnson could even flinch,
Private Grube un-holstered his weapon, a Glock 9mm semi-automatic, and unloaded
every bullet into the un-suspecting woman's head.

This is the Maynard Testing Facility; and people have been here so long, that they
have forgotten exactly where it is. In real life, it's the bad guys who win.

"Sethoran" mutated by itself. Usually, viruses mutate to become immune to the
various vaccines prepared for them. "Sethoran" changed several times as it invaded
its host.

First, the point of injection swelled to look like a spider bite or a bee sting. Then the
subject's veins started to become red. In this stage, the subject complained of
shortness of breath and began to perspire heavily. The virus works its way into the
heart and attacks it. Picture sugar in an engine. Tiny crystals forming in the
thousands of tiny bits and pieces of machinery and halting every movement. Except
it's not as quick as sugar in the gas tank. Or as sweet. If an engine with sugar in it
had a voice, it would scream like Jamie had.

The subject described a sharp pain in his chest. He knew it was his heart. Jamie
was five years old and he already knew where his heart was. On the epidermis, the
skin, cysts started to appear. These cysts looked like pimples. But they were black
and purple.

"Ring around the rosy
Pockets full of posies . . ."

The patient began to cough violently. The patient only had enough breath to realize
the cysts were spreading and becoming more pus filled. Some of them were leaking.
It couldn't hear anymore. There was a terrible ringing in its ear.

Jamie had those cysts. Those fucked up pimples all over his face and neck. Once
the boy was dead, the scientists came in for a closer look. Earlier on, the scientists
had come in while a woman was dying. Her name was Samantha or something
similar. Samantha pulled at their suits and tore a hole in one. The other scientists
fled and watched Samantha die as Amy Johnson threw herself around and screamed
bloody murder.

"That won't help you, Amy," Colonel Edwards said to her over the intercom. "You
are already dead."

This must have happened less than a half an hour ago. In a different room though.
The government had built many observation rooms for these scientists.

Dr. Johnson noticed that the boy's skin was spread paper-thin over the growth.
When he pressed it, the cyst popped. Followed by the rest of them. The team of
three was covered in blood and pus. Some tissue was also splattered around the
walls; parts of the boys face. Dr. Johnson—a different one—noticed that the cysts
had begun to eat at the boy's mandible and cranium.

Jamie was a piece of moldy bread now. On top of a heap of molded bread. Jamie
looked the way those monkeys did.

Jamie was a sport though. He lasted for twenty minutes. Doctor Jason Johnson let
out a gasp when the green custard of the boy's eye seeped out of its resting place.

In the confines of the Maynard Testing Facility, janitors squeegeed the pus of the
molded bread into drains in the corners of the room. The men in green cut a small
hole in the janitor's suit one day. They placed bets and watched the janitor through
the one-way glass. It was the green men who locked the scientists in their offices
and sounded in the alarms. They told the scientists that there was a breech in
security. Once the scientists had been herded into their little offices-- their cages--
the green men turned off the alarms (they were annoying) and got back to the
janitor in time to see his body explode. It was Colonel Edwards and his men who
came back around to execute each scientist. Splattered brain was so different from
pus and blood. After the last scientist was killed—Dr. Johnson, if you wanted to
know his name—they had a cigarette and admired the texture. Even the holes in Dr.
Johnson's head . . . Modern art. Tennis balls dipped in green and red paint and
thrown at a wall. Haikus of five, seven and five syllables that don't describe
anything in particular.

There would be no survivors. Only "Sethoran". The green men took all of the virus.
Every drop was removed. The green men compressed "Sethoran" into a container.
Colonel Edwards made a mistake. His men made a mistake. They compressed the
gas too much. The tanks that "Sethoran" were stored in had been used one too
many times. In an aero plane over Colorado, one of the tanks burst. Colonel Tom
Edwards and his men didn't hear this. They were too busy. . .

"Don't ask
Don't tell"

But when pieces of scrap metal flew into the cabin and ripped apart a Lieutenant,
they became concerned.

There is no anti-virus for "Sethoran". There is no cure. "Sethoran" cannot be
treated as the hundreds of separate viruses Dr. Johnson had put in it.

Sethoran had escaped.

In less than three months, most of the United States was infected. By the fifth
month of Sethoran's release, Europe was exposed. An "accident" in Israel occurred
and Sethoran was released into Palestine. Most of the inhabitants not yet infected
fled to islands. New Zealand. Australia. Hawaii. Sethoran followed them there.
Humans were destined to become extinct.

In North-Eastern China, near Harbin, monkeys fell from trees.

Most governments didn't even have time to declare an epidemic. They were already
dead. Like Jamie. Like Samantha. Like Dr. Amy Johnson.

Not like Sethoran. If Sethoran had a mouth with teeth and a tongue, complete with
vocals chords, it would laugh as it smashed through human bodies. It would blow
kisses to the crowd as people screamed in agony. It would clap its hands clean and
rest them on its hips as it admired its work. No one knew how alive Sethoran really
was.

It hadn't yet been a year, and it was already too late.