2030_ The Real Story of What Happens to America - Albert Brooks [7]
The government made a point of catching who they could and claiming it was an isolated incident, but it had happened nonetheless. Most of the country was relieved it took place in San Francisco, and not New York or Los Angeles, but they felt it was only a matter of time before it happened again, and this time in a much bigger city. The Department of Health and Human Services poured hundreds of millions of dollars into developing a new smallpox vaccine that could be given instantly to large populations. A new kind of delivery system.
Immunicate was one company that was awarded an $80 million contract to try to come up with an idea. The smallpox vaccine had been around for over a hundred years, but since the disease was cured, no one received it anymore. Now that smallpox had reared its ugly head again, the government thought there must be an easier way to immunize people.
Mueller’s company worked on several fronts—putting it in food, spraying it as an aerosol, using it in an eyedrop—but nothing took off. The old vaccine was as good as it was going to get, and as each year passed with no further attacks, the government stopped the program. They just went back to inoculating people the same way they had in the 1930s.
* * *
Brad Miller, after dropping off his friends, finally pulled up to the guard shack of his retirement community.
“Good evening, Mr. Miller.”
“Hello, Jose.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Thanks. When’s yours?”
“Not until December.”
“Well, make sure to remind me so I can get you something.”
“I will, sir. There’s a package for you. I had it scanned and I put it in your receiving slot.”
“Who’s it from, do you know?”
“I know, sir, but it’s a surprise for your birthday. It’s safe, don’t worry.”
“Thanks, Jose. See you tomorrow.”
Brad continued the drive to his small condo, nestled among three hundred others in one of the more upscale retirement villages in the area. The garage read the info on his car and opened quickly. He drove in but still was surrounded by cement until the eye detector recognized him. Then a second door opened and he drove into the real garage.
The one thing Brad had never liked about his home was the smell. It was too clean, like someone had just been there with deodorizer. It was the materials used in construction. Every item was stain proofed, which produced a chemical odor that was very hard to get rid of. Many older folks had lost their sense of smell to the point of not being aware of such things, but not Brad. He had always had a great nose.
He went into the kitchen and checked the receiving slot near the side door. There was a package nicely wrapped, but he didn’t see a card. Was it from the condo association? Maybe one of his friends back east? He took off the paper, opened the box, and there was a blue sweater. He held it up to see what it would feel like. It was wool, which he hated. Wool made him itch, so it must be from someone who didn’t know him very well. Then he saw an envelope with the word “Dad” on it. Of course, who else?
Brad had not spoken to his son, Tom, for almost two years. They had even stopped leaving their once-a-year recorded birthday messages. No big moment had caused it, at least not one that he could think of.
Tom was forty-five, married with one child, with whom Brad had almost no contact. Even though his granddaughter lived in San Diego, he had only seen her twice in the last five years. Brad had never liked Crystal, his son’s wife, and she felt the same way about him. He made the mistake of telling Tom on his wedding day that he was marrying the wrong woman. That put a crimp in their relationship.
Dad, the note said, I hope you’re well. Happy 80th, enjoy the sweater. Love, Tom.
His father had mixed feelings. He liked the thought, hated