It started with a gleam. Something golden under the skin. Beautiful, almost. A spangle of dots came next, like brass-colored freckles, which would oxidize green and blue and black. By then, the metals were so heavy in the blood, it was a hard to get a needle through. And, once the eyes and mouth were coated, it was too late to change. Things were different before you were born.
With all the books and movies about vampires, zombies, werewolves and such, not to mention all the environmental crises, people were ready for an apocalypse. At least, they were entertained by packing MREs and water jugs and buying weapons at Wal-Mart. Some people traded their cash for gold, some grew their own vegetables. The wealthy had their own blood saved a pint at a time and preserved by cryogenics.
Perhaps the idea of an apocalypse was better than the real thing. People aren't that open to change. Or, perhaps they had a desire to fight an outside enemy. Not their own blood.
We called it Plating. There was no cure and there was no vaccine. And transfusion was the only treatment. You'd go to the bank and have a couple of pints taken out and spun in the big centrifuge, so the base metals would sink to the bottom and the rest could be piped back in. But they couldn't ever salvage enough to fill you back up. And there wasn't enough clean blood to go around. Plating didn't stop people from having babies or car wrecks or cancer. The banks needed their regular blood supply and about ten times more to keep up.
The government programs didn't help much. To keep Plating at bay, you had to go to the bank about once a week. Not a day after you were clean, the metallic taste, like drinking from a can of off-brand soda, would be back. The private blood banks sprang up nearly overnight, so did health insurance. And so did black-market blood, homemade centrifuges, and sidewalk zealots.
Everybody had a theory: nuclear energy, petroleum in the food, exposure to plastics, wrath of God. Everywhere you looked, there was another promised remedy: magnets, pure living, prayer.
Plating became apparent in the elderly first. They had an opalescent shimmer, as if the glow of youth was returning, but then they became more spotted and even slower than before. Open a vein, and you'd find only ore. It was a process, almost like chroming a bumper. The body cleaned and etched itself inside out, and turned from nickel-color to copper to a dark silvered shine. With enough metal, people transformed into cast statues of themselves. At the park, there were parked wheelchairs holding iron ladies. There were homeless growing lead beards as they slept.
Since children weren't yet showing signs, some assumed it was a sexual or moral affliction – that our indiscretions were written in our blood – a mercurial letter A. But then almost everyone got the Plating, and the only thing you knew for sure was who had enough money to afford treatment. And even those few who had stored their own blood away for just such an event learned that the cryostat was locked for at least ten years. Or, it was a sham and their blood had been sold or tossed. No one expected the apocalypse so soon.
There was power and water. The grocery stores were stocked, the subways ran. Things became unhinged in other ways. Permanent ports were placed in the crooks of people’s elbows to make the draw faster. Banks, both blood and money, were massed to near-riot. The back-alley blood work grew common and it was not unusual to see duct tape where a sterile bandage should have been. People were a quart low. They floated palely through daily routines, sleeping more and rushing less. Missing trains and social cues, looking in the mirror for sequin-like spots on the skin. As blue-tinged ghosts, they tried to extend the time between each blood buy and spin.
We were just paycheck-to-paycheck before the Plating began. We didn't have much, and what we had couldn't cover the weekly banks. I was holding on fine – about eight months along before I even had a glimmer on my skin. The doctors think it was the increased blood volume that diffused the metal; I think it had something to do with you. Your father, of course, was more advanced. His temples were wiry, prematurely gray, his skin cast in shadows. I know he'll be so happy when he finally sees you.
Labor was hard and the hospital hectic. You were born perfect, pink-tinted and healthy weight. When I brought you home, before I could even lay you in the dresser drawer we'd made into a tiny bed, I saw you Plating. You opened your gold-flecked eyes and regarded me with such trust and calm. I knew I couldn't take you to the crowded panic of the bank. I couldn't subject your chubby arm to needle draw after draw. And, I didn't need to.
You were plated in waves of flickering light. Your little body became heavy and more bright. You were covered in gold flake, as delicate and lovely as butterfly scales. And, when I polished you smooth, you didn't cry at all.
As it turns out, you and the others don't have blood, or need blood, at all.
And someday, I'm sure, your father will cast off his statue, and emerge as golden and perfect as you.
Listen to "New Alchemy" on The Story Coterie podcast.
