The End of Men(38)
“He told me everything, he felt better knowing I knew. I should have told him it was a bad idea working with Donal but we needed the money and . . .” She shrugs with a look of regret so all-consuming it’s a wonder she’s still upright. I realize there’s one thing Heather and I both have in common, shining through our interaction. Guilt.
“I should have done things differently but I thought, we thought it would be okay. I never in a million years . . . then, last year there were shipments. The ships would be a few miles from shore, Donal and Euan would take a boat out and take, well, whatever it was, back to Bute and then over to the mainland.”
My palms are clammy with a mix of anxiety and excitement; I’m on the edge of finding out what I so desperately need to know, and yet it’s painful to be so close to the heart of the Plague, the thing that has destroyed my life. “Do you know what they were moving?”
She shakes her head. “He never said but I know where he used to store the boxes overnight. It’s a locked shed.” Maybe there’s something left, a box, a note, anything could help.
“Heather, have you told anyone this before?” She shakes her head, her eyes filling with tears.
“No, I didn’t want our sons to think badly of him, but they . . .” She drifts off and I understand.
“Two boys?” I ask, already knowing the answer. She nods. “Me too. Charlie and Josh.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers and it feels like the most honest display of sympathy I’ve seen in the awful, lonely months since I lost my family.
“I’m sorry for you too, Heather. I really am.” I brush my hand over my cheeks, as though efficiently removing my tears somehow makes me more professional. “Could you show me where the boxes were stored?”
As we drive down the coast in Heather’s tiny Nissan, the gas meter so low I develop a nervous tic watching it, I get the sense she doesn’t leave her house very often. She drives nervously, hands clamped to the top of the wheel, looking out fearfully for something, anything, that might scare her. We reach the rocky shore on a deserted bit of beach surrounded by scrubland and a few blinking cows. A few minutes of walking later, we arrive at a small wooden shed locked with a padlock.
“This is the storage shed,” Heather says through chattering teeth. “He told me where it was ‘just in case.’” I use a rock to break the rusty lock and the door swings open to reveal four wooden boxes stacked on top of one another. I was so convinced it would be empty, how could it not be? I slide the top of one of the boxes open, expecting guns or drugs or cigarettes. As soon as I see what’s inside, and smell it, I turn my head away and retch.
“What’s that?” Heather asks, peering over my shoulder.
“I have no idea, but they’re dead.” There are bones, and dark patches of unidentifiable matter that looks like it might once have been fur. I shudder as I imagine what they might be—monkeys maybe, disgusting definitely. “Right, grab a box, Heather. We’re taking these back to your house and then I’m taking them to the mainland.”
“Should we tell him?” Heather asks, biting her lip nervously. She does everything nervously and now that I have the potential answer I’ve been seeking, my patience is wearing awfully thin.
“Tell who?”
“Donal.”
I turn back to Heather, aware that my face is almost a pantomime vision of disbelief. “Donal’s alive?”
Heather nods, the realization she should have said something to that effect before now clearly dawning on her. “He’s immune,” she says. Jesus fucking Christ.
THE GYNARCHY RESISTANCE BLOG
March 13, 2026
To anyone new here, welcome. If you’re reading this you have a chance because you’re seeing the truth. I’m Brett Field. I live in Brooklyn, New York. I’m a Men’s Rights Activist and I work in sales.
First truth bomb of the day. This is all a conspiracy. It’s all the work of women; no other explanation is possible. I’ve been hearing rumors of an outbreak for months but it seemed to be a European issue. My brother’s pissed off because he was planning a backpacking trip around Europe but all of the flights are canceled between New York and France.
I started to get nervous when I heard about the canceled flights. They wouldn’t cancel flights unless it was serious. The UK has a female prime minister, which is the Gynarchy at work. (For those of you who haven’t been here before, Gynarchy is the word we use for the takeover by women of the world depriving men from taking their rightful places in society.) Half of the French political cabinet is made up of women. Germany has been ruled by a woman for over two decades. I don’t like the smell of it. Not at all. Lots of you have messaged to say you agree with me; something suspicious is going on.
I was in Manhattan today; it was almost empty. It’s been a few weeks since the East Coast wave. Everyone left the city en masse. It happened so quickly. The city was like a war zone. Men are going to the hospital, but so many doctors are men there’s only a few useful female doctors left to treat everyone. Guys, there’s no point in going to the hospital. They’ll just kill you faster. I tried to take the subway home but no trains came so I walked. It took hours. As I got out of the city, the streets stayed quiet. People were either staying home or had already left the city, I guess. There was a kind of stunned silence. I passed one guy who was clearly sick. His face was gray and he was crying, trying to walk down the street. I crossed to the other side of the street when I saw him. I didn’t want to catch it from him.