Jeremiah lowered himself into the milk bath, uncertain of the man he’d be when he emerged. It had been six months since the Plague broke out in Sector 6 of the Galactic States, but the characteristic rashes first began appearing on his skin only a few days ago.
The Plague had all been eradicated by the 28th century, thanks to a breakthrough vaccine that was developed by State scientists. It only lingered in impoverished communities in the farthest reaches of the outer colonies, until religious fanatics from Earth banned the use of all modern medicine among their adherents. Prosthelytizing missionaries who traveled to the outer colonies picked up the disease and brought it back to the inner sectors. By the time the plague spread in earnest, it had become resistant to both of the antibiotics that had been used to contain it prior to the vaccine. Now those who caught it had to resort to ancient folk remedies. At least the milk baths kept the symptoms at bay, and presumably, its contagiousness.
At first, the Plague seemed relatively harmless. The rashes were certainly unattractive, but death tolls were low, and few were succumbing to it other than sick patients who refused to take immune boosting medications due to religious conviction. Within months, it became clear that patients were becoming infertile, and pregnant women began miscarrying. Panic spread rapidly. Jeremiah’s wife, who had recently become pregnant, refused to see him. For Jeremiah, the worst aspect of the Plague was the loneliness it brought.
He emerged from the milk bath in silence, and looked down at his arms. Milk pooled along the edges of his scabs, only highlighting the ominous portent of what was to come.