Previously on Rolling Suitcase Jihad. Five months have passed. Basic Income appears to be in place; there has been great progress in ridding the world of lethal weapons, despite major protests; cybercommunities have proved attractive as they spring up around the world; Tammy and Oscar visit Stadium City.
Five months later.
No one knew when it began or what it was. The Rolling Suitcase community could collect data and process it. But it was limited by what limits everything.
You cannot know what something is if it has no basis in what is known.
People were now dying of something that looked like acid reflux on steriods. Something that simply enveloped the upper portion of one’s body until it hit the head and then it stopped, but by then the head had somehow managed to give up and expiration took place. Death. Finality. But when this happened, the body went back to being just the way it was when this crazy plague, or whatever it was, struck. It was uncanny. It was perplexing. The suitcases were at a loss.