I’m a bit behind. In my defense, I have been poorly. With thanks to Major-General Catarrh for his sterling work.
The calm before the storm. Everything appeared normal, the home they loved so well as moist, purple and undulating as it was in the songs. You could hear snatches sung about the camp, hummed under the breath as the men went about their final preparations before the big push. For the most part, though, a purposeful silence reigned.
Major-General Catarrh had seen plenty of action in his long and storied career. There was the long winter of 1989, when a freak virus had invaded via the Sinal canals and besieged the entire cranial delta. Troops had given their lives in the billions, as engineers at relief camp Node had worked around the clock cranking out phlegm. There were the training skirmishes every spring, where defense forces mobilised against innocuous-seeming plant matter that nonetheless laid their host low.
Put yourself in the enemy’s shoes, they used to say in training school, but he had always found that hard to do. The invading organisms seemed such mindless things, bent only on fighting and self-replicating. A far cry from the fraternal bonds of his brothers in mucous, defenders of the host.