Dr. Gregoire delivered the news that no cure would be found at around 9:00am, although he was done mutilating Sarah at around 5’ish. He spent most of the time after that cleaning the room of blood, disposing of the body, and coming up with a story in his head. The story thus far was that Sarah died from the disease somehow. Not the most clever story, but it seemed to convince General Bergenson.

“And so you see, General, the disease is highly communicable--should infect roughly 48% of the population without a hitch after it’s been diluted in the real world. But in the concentrated form here in the lab it has a 99.4% communicability rate. There really is no other option--a cure simply can’t be found.”

“So what are you suggesting, Gregoire? That we kill 20 American Citizens in cold blood?”

“Not in cold blood--for the good of the nation. And it’s 13 American Citizens. They’re too dangerous to let live, sir.”

The General paced back and forth. He pulled out a cigar and began fumbling in his pockets for a lighter.

“Sir, this is a no-smoking sect--”

“Fuck off, prick. There’s more dangerous things in the air than cigar smoke,” Bergenson said, lighting the cigar and taking a large puff of it. The room fell deathly silent for almost 5 minutes before the General nodded.

Death befell the unsuspecting victims of this product of the Cold War. Not in the form of poison gas or the guillotine or any of the traditional weapons of wanton slaughter used in modern warfare. This time death took the form of Dr. Gregoire’s cat, Fluffy. No use wasting taxpayer money on something they could get for free. The scientists killed by Fluffy were listed as AWOL and their families were fined by the US Government. There was no struggle. Like a tank mowing down an Afghan Calvary. Rocks against cannons. Mice against razor sharp claws.