1
It started on a Tuesday. The first reports came from London. The prime minister became ill during a speech. One moment he was promising stability, no war. Everything would be all right. The next he was on the floor, eyes blank, mouth agape. Aides screamed, “Call a doctor! Someone, help him!” But it was too late. The cameras continued broadcasting the spectacle to the country.
First, people thought it was a heart attack, maybe a stroke. It was understandable, a medical incident anyone could envision. Then it happened again, and not just in London. News programs showed similar events worldwide. The president in Washington D.C., an ambassador in Paris, a general in Beijing. All collapsed mid-sentence. Reports flooded in from everywhere: politicians, ministers, journalists, and soon ordinary people dropped in the streets, in stores, in restaurants. The pattern was horrifying. Someone lied, no matter how small, and they were dead before anyone could respond. Even white lies proved lethal.
Clarice was in line at a Birmingham suburb supermarket when it hit her neighbourhood. She was stood behind a woman with a cart full of frozen dinners and wine. The clerk, a kid barely out of secondary school, smiled automatically and asked, “How’s your day?” The woman said, “Good.” And then she went down. Wine bottles shattered, frozen dinners tumbled across the floor. Clarice screamed.
Nobody moved. Phones dropped from slack hands. Everyone stood still. Clarice backed away. She looked at her son, Devon, holding his hand tightly. Ten years old, he didn’t fully understand what he just saw. A baby’s loud cries a few aisles away were shushed by its mother, “Shhh, mummy’s here.”
Devon never actually saw a person fall like this before. The woman was there one minute and the next, there was nothing but a pile of purple liquid and food. Devon’s little hand was moist in his mother’s. He held on tight, trying to understand. They all seemed like statues. His eyes darted from a terrified face of his mother to the strange, still individuals around them. A man on his phone, mid-word, seemed suspended in time. Devon looked at his mother’s eyes. That was all he needed to understand: time to move. Time to stay quiet.
Clarice guided Devon past the fallen shoppers and staff. Outside, the city was a display of terror. A real estate agent, phone to his ear, died mid-promise. A young woman comforting her friend lay motionless on the sidewalk. Every few steps revealed another warning of the rules of their new world.
They made it to their apartment and barred the doors. The first evening was an endless chill. Devon protested, confused. “Mum, what’s happening? Are we gonna die?” She swallowed the bitter pill of reality. No one was safe. Sirens wailed down empty streets where people died. People looted stores, not because they were criminals, but because no merchant would say, “Take your time.” Even a harmless phrase would seal your fate.
Clarice chose honesty. “No, Devon. We’re not. But right now, we live.” He nodded. That was all either of them needed.
TV outlets tried to keep broadcasting. Anchors read from the teleprompters, but the majority didn’t survive the deceptions inherent in standard phrasing. A nervous anchor leaned forward and whispered, “We’ll get through this,” and collapsed on air. Cameras continued to roll. No one came to help. Chairs, floors, and desks held bodies stopped mid-action. Machinery whirred on, uncaring.
The streets were empty by the third day. People stayed indoors, afraid to speak. Clarice couldn’t promise Devon tomorrow. She couldn’t lie. Children suffered miserably. One fell from a swing in an abandoned park. Her mother ran to her side, saying softly, “Is okay, honey. Doesn’t hurt that much.” And died instantly. The child cried, shaking her mother’s body. Clarice grabbed Devon and shut the blinds, heart racing, helpless.
Social order fell apart quickly. Shelves emptied. Cars on the streets were abandoned, wedged as barriers. Hospital beds were full of corpses. Rot and bleach filled the air. Clarice witnessed neighbours she knew for a decade fall discreetly on their porches, holding groceries or mail, victims of words spoken impulsively.
By the end of the first week, Clarice learned a fundamental rule: tell no lie. Say only facts, or nothing at all. Body language replaced words. Every breath was guarded. The second week, she and Devon foraged minimum essentials, moving unseen, down empty streets, avoiding bodies caught in mid-motion. Death waited behind every misstep.
Clarice was acutely aware of everything. She interpreted the smallest motions for intent, reacting quickly when others were nearby. Every interaction had to be exact. Devon’s eyes followed hers. Their reality was reduced to essentials: move, look, repeat. The psychological cost was visible. Survivors were slowly withdrawing into silence, speaking less, gesturing only. Some muttered quietly under their breath, testing the rules, and died before anyone could react.
