A bucket full of genius athlete jizz, that was he had sat there in the fridge. What use was it though? Where could it find a home? No pregnancy had carried to term in three years and the way the pollution index was dialling up they might not have enough time to develop the artificial womb that they had been building to insure the creation of the next generation. Cody was surrounded by prototypes.

He knew that his own strange fascination with pornography at this late stage of the game was more than a little perverse, and may really just constitute some last ditch spurt of life force in the face of death. They were all teetering on the brink, seesawing from heel to toe, and really, who would blame them if they made the choice to just embrace the fall?

The man who set this all in motion was known variously as Baron Barren and Dieback, amongst more unpleasant epithets, and he’d never been caught. The man had been turned into some larger than life cartoon figure, but he really was nothing more than a case of lonely and disgruntled transformed into lethal by happenstance. Human negligence opened the door for a flare of human malevolence.

‘I pushed it further and brought it on faster,’ that was what he had reportedly said in the one interview he gave, and it could have been a epitaph for the hedonism, as much as a confirmation of the idea that he thought he had done something that was inevitable.

You get conditioned by stories to expect that some kind of miracle will come along, and they were the stories they told each other. Belief can build many things though, but a new generation wasn’t seemingly one of those things.

The disease seemed to kick into high gear every so often, and infertility began to turn into senescence, degrading neural pathways, and organic damage, progressing until the body began to unravel. The promise was mass extinction. Cody toiled away.

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