This is a Classified Document
Onward release of the document, or its contents or annexes, to those outside the immediate officials involved with the planning and operation of the X-12 arrangements for this matter is STRICTLY PROHIBITED.
Draft message found in the Instagram application on the personal device of an unnamed female, referred to as ‘Twelve’, suffering from side-effect X-12, 38-years-old, on 20/5/2021
The following is a brief account of the obligatory 15-minute on-site wait following the administration of a routine COVID-19 vaccination shot.
I wanted to document this experience to help put your mind at ease and counter the dangerous, baseless, and paranoid online misinformation dissuading people from proper medical attention. If, by the microscopic chance there is some form of adverse reaction, then this may serve to alert the public and the scientific community.
Fifteen minutes until release.
Drooping.
The word itself jumps off the vaccination information sheet and I quickly glance around the flapping white tent. Nobody appears to be suffering from the noted drooping face side-effect, or, for that matter, drooping anywhere else on the body. At least not where I can see.
Slight pain at injection site. The blank faces of others suggest we all feel like egg-timers counting down to some unknowable catastrophe. Having begun to read the list of potential symptoms, we now await a searing, shooting, or burning pain to rip through a vital organ. Thankfully – and unsurprisingly – there are no screams and nobody drops to the floor. In saying that, I can start to see where the paranoia comes from, considering terminology like this.
Twelve minutes until release.
The grey-haired lady in the high-visibility jacket’s face radiates from behind the floral mask covering its lower half; her smile is tender and all in the eyes. This calms me. No Popeye arm, peeling skin, or projectile discharge yet.
Ten minutes until release.
A stony-faced, short-haired lady comes out and says: ‘In case anyone is not well, blow the whistle,’ to her colleague.
She bellows this with calculated, excessive volume and looks around at each of us –one by one – feasting on the concern now caked on our faces. Her colleague looks mortified. I recognise the same proudly worn ‘authority’ I’ve seen empower a cruise ship’s worth of jumped-up retail managers over the years. Still, the damage is done and she visibly gets off on the drama. It’s likely I am not alone in imagining scenes of a shrill whistle triggering The X-Files worthy scenes of torch beams slashing the night behind chain-link fences and shady bald agents shutting things down.
Eight minutes until release.
Nobody else appears to be reading the information sheet.
I wonder if anyone else has noticed the 'Not known' category of side-effects on page three.
Why does ‘Not known’ have a field of its own?
There are things that can happen that nobody knows about and it states here that the data cannot yet identify the nature of said things. I am unsure what I am supposed to do with this information. Every nook and fold of my body is now subjected to vigorous mental frisking with my eyes closed. One friend of my girlfriend’s said her fella had sore thumbs. Strangely unsettling as far as side-effects go. A former colleague reported enraged nostril hair for a day or two. It all fits, I suppose.
A portly man says ‘thanks’ gets up and leaves. He does not walk, but lollops. That’s fine. I did not see him enter and nobody else pays any attention to his departure, so I assign this one down to a pre-existing limp. I crane my neck and watch him leave, then shout at myself in thought for needlessly worrying.
Six minutes until release.
A slight itch necessitates the removal of one shoe and the scratching of my big toe. It doesn't feel swollen or sore – two listed ‘common’ symptoms. It seems to do the trick. I text my girlfriend, who is in this afternoon for her jab, to tell her it’s ‘really quick and easy’, that there’s free parking right behind the test centre. Then I let Mum know that it went fine and I’m OK.
Three minutes until release.
The people who came out around the same time as I have visibly relaxed as their fifteen minutes runs down. Newly vaccinated people emerge already clawing at body parts, with twitchy faces, lurching into their seats and hoping for the best. One or two look up at the sky as if checking for strange crafts and I try to smile to reassure them, but everyone is very quick to get out their phones and report back to base camp. A cat cleans itself on the site roof. I worry it's watching me a lot more than the other people. It really is staring hard. Too much Dean Koontz. I chuckle inside.
Then, to the horror and dismay of us all, the lady in the far-left corner leans forward, growls and splashes puke all over the floor. It’s disgusting and loud, but she raises a hand and says: 'It's alright! Hangover! Pub’s open, innit.'
Despite her protests, in a flash four yellow jackets surround her and, without any consultation, escort her away. Her feet don’t even touch the ground as they rush her through a back door into some kind of staff corridor. It is littered with mops and a box of old toys. Now there is plenty of eye contact among the rest of us. Big, wide eyes, seeking assurances this is no cause for alarm.
One minute until release.
I’m relieved to be getting out in less than a minute. The vomit episode has unsettled everyone and I personally think it’s more than a little irresponsible of the woman to get so drunk the night before and do that here. I stand and wrestle with my coat, trying to get my arms in, which takes me the best part of half a minute, smiling politely at the younger staff member, who looks a little pale.
Probably the puke…
It dawns on me that both of my arms are already in the sleeves. Only then do I look down and see the third arm, flailing around, coming from underneath my t-shirt and groping for an absent third sleeve. It is part of me, just like my other two. I can feel it the same way. The same smattering of freckles decorate it. My stumpy thumb and nibbled nails are in place and when I roll my hand, the wrist clicks as it should. My mind goes blank and the new fingers stiffen as the gravity of this development breaks through my shock. I frantically try to zip up my jacket to conceal the new limb until I am back in the car, but a swarm of figures in HAZMAT suits race around the corner of the site. They are almost upon me. Not good. Not good at all, actually. I’ll ha
