Poisonous Advancements

He would have to go out. He needed to collect more of the ivy he had found in the forest just past the old donut shop downtown. His attempts to decipher why it was different, more predatory, more voracious than the other ivy strangling the city had so far proven fruitless.

His official directive was to refine the current treatment for rheumatoid arthritis. But no one ever really checked up on him anyway. There were scores of people researching better ways to use the poison ivy that plagued their lives, and developing new organisms that might cure the arthritic plague, apparently unconcerned that excessive genetic modifications were the cause of their ills.

Rice.

Something as seemingly harmless as rice.

A new rice, to make the world stronger – a new rice, to make the world healthy! However, in the frenzy surrounding technological advances and what they could mean for the human diet, something was missed.

Something small but dangerous.

The “as yet undiscovered” protein that was bred into the rice would be the world’s downfall. The results were almost immediate. Billions of dollars were shovelled into producing mass quantities of the wonder grain, and the prospect of no one going hungry again only added to the delirium. It was consumed en masse around the world, and for a brief moment, the world knew full bellies.

The results were almost immediate.

The pain began. Mild aches at first, rapidly becoming a debilitating burning of the joints. An autoimmune response felt around the world, rheumatoid arthritis overcame 25% of the human population.

Then 50%.

Then 75%.

Industry ground to a halt, blame was hurled about with reckless abandon, and the scramble to find a cure led to rushed treatments and fatal mistakes.

Poison ivy. Apparently, homeopaths believed poison ivy could be used to treat pain, and rheumatoid arthritis. Nothing else had worked, so why not, right? And it did work; 40% of sufferers experienced an improvement in their symptoms while using the poison ivy preparations.

The next step was obviously to go bigger. Poison ivy plants were genetically modified to grow bigger, faster, and with a higher concentration of the active ingredient that eased the suffering of so many.

They had not learned from their mistakes.

It grew too big, too fast, too deadly. The horticultural facilities became choked with ivy, the vines spilling onto the streets and overcoming the city. Foundations cracked as roots found their home within. Any contact with the plant was a one-way ticket to the aether. People sealed themselves within their homes to avoid the dreaded itch, but it was as inescapable as death.

Mass burns were initiated, resulting in a tidal wave of suffocation deaths. Oesophageal swelling. It was no longer a priority for the dead to rest in peace.

Governing structures crumbled under the weight of the ivy, with small groups rising to oversee territories under their own feeble governance. They were still looking for a cure, but most had stopped hoping for a life.

He was old. 24 years was a long time to live with the ivy. He was clever and careful. Tightly woven fabrics, every inch of skin covered. His research had proven quietly fruitful; countless distillations, mixtures, tinctures and a lot of animal testing had given him the key to a longer life.

An ointment that could fight the scourge.

Mass production would be difficult, if not impossible. He could hardly even remember how he had done it. He kept his limited supply in a small jar tucked away under a floorboard. If he had to leave his home, he would dispense a dollop into the heart-shaped locket he found in the forest past the old donut shop.

The poison ivy there was the cause of nightmares. It moved quickly. It watched and waited.

Armed with a machete, sample jars and his locket, he stepped over the fallen fence behind the shop, into the tangled wasteland of the forest downtown. In the dim light let through by the canopy of vines, he took a deep breath.

The ivy breathed in time.

All he needed was a few samples to take back with him. He was interested to see if the ivy that thrived in the undergrowth contained more or less of the active ingredient in his ointment than the poison ivy that basked in the sunlight.

Ensuring his gloves were secure, he began to hack. The ivy hissed, recoiling. A few swift strokes gave him the samples he needed.

Before the poison ivy could regroup, he turned on his heels and ran, shoving his sample jars into whatever pockets in his clothing he could reach. Almost at the fence, he skidded to a halt - there was a girl in the undergrowth.

A strategically placed swipe of his machete revealed the girl was alive.

Just.

Infected welts covered her skin, and her breathing was sparse and shallow. Her eyes were swollen shut, weeping a sickly yellow fluid. Her joints were swollen beyond use. The girl let out a feeble whimper.

It was obvious she did not have much time left.

The poison ivy rash was down her throat, in her ears and in her blood. His ointment could fix it, he was sure of it. But was this one child worth wasting his entire supply?

He was running out of time. The poison ivy had begun to snake around the girl’s weak body once again, her frail attempts to fight it lost beneath its strength.

There was nothing he could do.

Pulling his eyes away from the vines now obscuring the child’s body, he set off toward the old donut shop at a brisk pace, ignoring the whimpers that followed him.

Turning his eyes to the sky, he wondered if he would find a way to make his ointment available to more people.

He would not live long enough.