Ricky dropped his heavy body onto the already sagging couch. He clicked the television to life before bringing a bent Camel from his pocket. With a snap of his fingers, a flame grew underneath the cigarette.

Ricky inhaled deeply. Reruns of Family Guy blared on the screen. Ricky had been taking it easy since the disease hit his town. He hadn’t any family left before Strain 7. No loss there.

So what if people died? It wasn’t his problem. He flipped the channel. Now static. Flip. Static. Ricky sighed.

Crash!

The door of his apartment came thundering down. Masked bio-hazard crew rushed in and grabbed both of Ricky’s arms. “Hey what the hell?” he protested. Another man wearing a gas mask walked in.

“Ricky Solez?” the man questioned. “Yeah, what’s it to ya?” he responded. The man glanced around the apartment. He gestured to the bio-hazard crew with a wave of his hand.

One pulled out a greasy syringe and thrust it into Ricky’s arm. Ricky struggled to pull free as he was lifted into a drug-induced coma. *