Afflicted

We started off small; just thirteen of us. Twelve Afflicted, all infected directly by the Host. Directly is a bit misleading, I guess. We never met him. Never saw him. He said the work was to important to risk. I woke up one morning with a small silver case, the kind you would carry cigarettes in, resting on my chest. Inside was a small syringe filled with blood and a note, written in blood, which I can only assume was the Host's.

Greetings, my young Afflicted. Today you begin a new life - a life that starts with a simple injection.

Of course it wasn't a choice. It was a command - the culmination of years of planning and careful selection. The twelve of us had been chosen for our resilience to airborn disease and our willingness to carry one. There were other criteria, but none of it mattered if we couldn't accept the Affliction without dying.

I plucked the syringe from its silver case and plunged the short needle into my shoulder.