The Fisherman and His Golden Blood

“Why are you a fisherman?”

I knew the whys didn’t matter. My future, it was being decided as I wasted breath. My future hinged on the forced blood sample that was taken from me just moments earlier.

I didn’t know what my blood type was, but I knew this: The chances of me possessing “golden blood” were highly improbable. There were only eleven worldwide, and that was before the plague ravaged this world.

Lysander, the newly appointed leader, just needed a donor. They only cared about this. They had to be desperate to even consider the taking of blood from a blue singlet like myself…

“I-I-I like being outdoors!”

This was, of course, just some filler. The truth was that I had been working on my boat; I wanted out of this eighty-sixed place. Perishing all alone meant freedom—it meant autonomy.

The drogher of Lysander and I talked only to pass the time until the results came in. My fate wasn’t promised, and it wasn’t dependent upon the conversation’s outcome.

“Look,” said the drogher, “cut the bulldust.” “Tell me about your family, what did your parents do?”

“My dad was a bricklayer, and my mother a baker.”

“A bricklayer…?”

I knew that would get a response. My blood would not be pedigree. I was without value to him.

“Yes—”

The drogher stared at me emotionless.

The lab technicians’ heavy gait could be heard hastily approaching from down the hall.

I went to the elevator.

The floor numbers in the color of yellow were speeding quickly by, undigested by my retina. They bled together—they became a blinding lump of confusion and panic.

Upon opening the door, I saw him, Lysander. He was white as a sheet.

“And his blood sir, was—”

“It didn’t go well…” The drogher looked puzzled.

I had imagined that a silvery mammoth boulder in the shape of an epilogue took refuge in my throat. I couldn’t rid myself of it.

“He has it…the golden blood, the fisherman,” Lysander muttered. “And he’ll be the key to saving us all.”

I’m now priceless.