The Denial Bug Chapter 2 The Quiet Before

     John was talking with his girlfriend. She’s just gotten home from work. The conversation is light, careful—but beneath the surface, there’s always the same fear: that one of them may have been exposed.

     It’s a sensible precaution, since contact with people—to, from, and at work—are a

ll sources of potential risk. Being apart, even for a day, you start to wonder—what if they heard something? Believed something? Slipped?

     It becomes a trust issue. A quiet paranoia between lovers, friends, even family. You can’t ever really know someone hasn’t been infected... until you speak.

     For John and his girlfriend, those first few moments together—their words, their tone—are a kind of test. If everything feels right, they can relax---at least for now.

     It’s the weekend, and they need groceries. They plan carefully: no browsing, no talking to strangers, no questions. They map the store in advance. They agree to speak only to each other—not out of rudeness, but out of survival. Anyone could be a carrier. Answering the wrong question, even politely, can be dangerous. If your response doesn’t align with their lie, they might lash out. If you agree, you might catch the bug yourself.

     There’s always something beneath the surface that can make someone vulnerable—a crack in the foundation, a fear they haven’t faced. For them, it’s white privilege—the quiet worry they might be losing something, a worry they never gave a second thought.

     They deny being racist. Their behavior doesn’t betray any prejudice. In fact, they’re sure they aren’t. But the mere notion of loss, the flicker of fear, is all the fuel a lie like mine requires. Let it echo enough in the back of the mind, and sooner or later, I’ll find a way in.

I’m not so easy to resist.

     The next morning, John and his girlfriend gather their things and head out for groceries. The store is only a few miles away, but even that trip feels dangerous now.

They don’t talk much in the car—just turn on the radio and drive.

On the air, voices fill the space: news anchors, talk-show hosts, callers, commentators. Everyone has an opinion. The airwaves are loud with certainty, anger, and spin.

The radio is one of the primary carriers of the lies that feed the disease. It’s not about information—it’s about manipulation. Broadcasters hook their audience, feed their fears, and make them loyal.

     Some chase ratings. Some chase elections. Most chase money.

There’s no moral compass. No fact-checks that matter. Just a pulsing, desperate question behind every segment: How do I get mine?

     They stop at a red light. To the right, two men are fighting—hard.

This isn’t unusual anymore. Since the Denial Bug spread, these confrontations have become a part of daily life. When two infected individuals collide—especially if their lies compete or one dares speak a challenging truth—the result is explosive.

     These fights aren’t just shouting matches. They’re violent. Brutal. People caught in a lie will do anything to defend it. It’s not just fists. Knives, bats, guns. Street shootings have surged. No one is safe—not because they’re a target, but because aim hardly matters anymore.

They watch as one man slams the other onto the pavement and pounds his head against the cement. Blood spills—first in drops, then in streams. It stains the ground, splashes onto the attacker. But he doesn’t stop. He’s not trying to win. He’s trying to erase.

     John and his girlfriend don’t look away. They sit frozen, staring, until the car behind them blares its horn. The light is green. They flinch—more startled by the horn than the violence.

Without a word, they move on. The men on the sidewalk don’t notice. They’re lost in their own orbit, consumed by rage and delusion. At this point, they could kill each other in front of a crowd and not care who’s watching.

     Eventually, John and his girlfriend reach the store. They park and review their plan. Go inside. Shop in silence. In and out. Groceries in the trunk. Keys in the ignition.

On with the rest of the day. They both nod, affirming it's all a go.

“Let’s go,” he says.

She nods. They both insert their earplugs, tight and secure, blocking out as much of the world as possible, and step into the store.

     Their routine is clear. She has half the list. He has the other. They know exactly where to go, what to grab. No detours. No small talk. No interaction.