VACCINATION CENTRE, BRUSHTOWN – 23 JULY 2021

It was a scorching day. Sandra wore her favourite colourful dress. She believed she had to look good, no matter the circumstances.

If I go down, I go down in style, she thought cynically as she left the house that morning.

Sandra stepped through the open glass doors of Brushtown’s cultural centre, now temporarily repurposed as a vaccination hub. She could scarcely believe she was about to receive her second dose. She had always made a point of doing the precise opposite of whatever the Gauls expected or demanded, yet here she was.

She had skipped her first scheduled appointment. Later, she rang the centre with a fabricated tale of never having received the invitation for her StellaZed shot. The real motive was simpler: she wanted to holiday with her mother in the South of Gaul. To cross the border, though, she needed the full vaccination record — like a dog with its passport.

The nurses had been remarkably accommodating, suggesting an alternative date with almost eager kindness. Their helpfulness was easy to explain – they had quotas to meet. Every anti-vaxxer who changed their mind was a victory; the staff welcomed them without the usual Gaul bureaucracy or scolding.

Her first jab, StellaZed, had caused no side effects. Sandra assumed the second would be harmless, too. In her naivety, she had convinced herself the mandatory vaccine was little more than a placebo — an experiment to test how obediently people would submit to the system. Then, two weeks before the appointment, a letter arrived stating the second dose would be ByWell. That news unsettled her. ByWell had acquired a grim reputation.

After Albion exhausted its StellaZed supplies and switched to ByWell for the rest of its population, reports flooded in of heart seizures across all age groups. The most notorious case involved a twenty-year-old, fit young footballer collapsing and dying mid-game — just days after his ByWell shot.

Though the government tried to suppress the stories, the news spread anyway. People began to suspect a link between sudden cardiac arrest and the ByWell vaccine.

These should have been compelling reasons to walk away. They were. Yet Sandra ignored the warnings. Fear and doubt trapped her in a cruel dilemma: refuse the jab and risk succumbing to the virus, given her fragile health; accept it and court complications — or worse, drop dead one day like that young athlete. In the end, the lure of the South of Gaul proved stronger than self-preservation.

The trip shimmered in her daydreams. The vaccine was the only remaining hurdle before boarding the tour bus.

After three exhausting years in her previous job, she had been sacked. The role had drained her mentally and physically. Soon afterwards, she found new work — work she enjoyed, work that gave her life purpose. Her new boss was odd and impassive, but he valued her contributions and paid promptly. Still, she needed this holiday. She had earned it, and — most importantly — it was already paid for.

A supervisor stood just inside the doors, greeting arrivals by pressing a white joystick-like thermometer to their foreheads. Normal temperature: proceed. Elevated: diverted aside.

The walk from home in the mounting summer heat had left Sandra flushed. Two people ahead of her were stopped and led away. Anxiety surged as the device pressed against her sweaty brow. Then came the approving beep and a green light. Safe — for now.

She continued down the hallway into the great hall, once used for exhibitions and performances. The space was unrecognisable: stripped of its village charm, the cocktail bar gone, replaced by two long registration tables manned by three masked women.

A low metal fence cordoned off the blue-curtained vaccination cabins from the newcomers. Nine stalls stood in three rows. Sandra watched people enter and exit.

She approached one of the masked registrars, presented her invitation and ID. The woman nodded, located Sandra’s uncommon family name in the ledger, ticked it off, and directed her to join the queue. Another staff member guided her to the correct spot, enforcing the one-metre gap from the man ahead.

Sandra had time — and opportunity — to leave. The thought circled endlessly as she waited. Around her, people filed submissively into the stalls, baring arms for an injection of dubious origin from a company with a tarnished name.

The line advanced. Soon she stood behind the fence. The tall man ahead vanished behind a heavy blue curtain.

There’s still time, she told herself.

She could abandon the queue, holiday locally instead. But she stayed. Before she could reconsider, another curtain parted. Her turn. The supervisor beckoned.

Still time.

No one would stop her. Yet, like docile livestock, she stepped inside. The nurse swabbed her left shoulder and prattled on about the numbers vaccinated that day, the campaign’s roaring success — as if trying to indoctrinate her. Sandra knew better. She also knew it was too late.

After the injection, recipients waited fifteen minutes in a designated area at the back of the hall — a precaution against immediate reactions. The vintage seating had been swapped for plastic chairs spaced a metre apart.

Sandra followed directions to the waiting zone. Plenty of empty seats, but the supervisor assigned her one.

Soon sweat beaded on her skin; the mask clung uncomfortably. An overwhelming urge seized her: tear off the absurd muzzle and flee. Her legs began to jitter restlessly against the plastic seat. She was on the verge of standing when the exit door opened.

A tall, broad-shouldered man entered. His arrival stirred unease among the supervisors, yet none dared approach the intimidating bald giant. A menacing stare and a low hiss between clenched teeth were enough to make them retreat.

He carried a large black sports bag. He took a chair from the waiting area, dragged it to the corner near the exit, sat, and placed the bag beside him. His bright blue eyes swept the room — and locked briefly with Sandra’s. Horror gripped her: even if she waited out the fifteen minutes, she would not leave.

The man conducted himself as though he belonged there, as though no one would depart until those piercing eyes found their target.

Sandra was nervous by nature; his presence amplified her anxiety to near panic. His cold gaze sent literal shivers through her; her body trembled uncontrollably.

Then there was the Persian-looking man opposite her, constantly clearing his throat to catch her eye — which only drew the bald man’s attention. The giant rose, strode down their aisle, bent slightly to scrutinise the young man’s face, his back to Sandra. His shirt rode up just enough to reveal a shiny metal object tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

A confrontation erupted. The Persian took offence at the bald man’s maskless face and berated him for flouting safety rules. The giant ignored the shouting, simply staring until the younger man’s fury peaked. Sandra wanted to warn him of the danger, but her chattering teeth silenced her.

The hall felt remarkably cold for a sweltering July day.

No one else appeared to notice the sudden chill.

The Persian kept yelling. Supervisors hovered at a distance, attempting to de-escalate. No one saw Sandra slide from her chair to the floor, face draining of colour as cold sweat broke across her brow. She raised a trembling hand, pointing toward the bald man — desperate to alert the room.

But the crowd’s eyes remained fixed on the argument.

Only Sandra saw the hand reaching for the gleaming object at his waist. Whatever came next, she would not witness it. Everything faded to black.

***