It was a lovely day when the disease came in. A third of the people within the town limits developed bursting pustules and bleeding sores.
We put them all into a building with three nurses who had shown early symptoms themselves. But when they needed food and water, someone had to bring it to them. When they needed to bury their dead, one of us had to dig a hole. They were dying, but we still helped them.
Old John the undertaker began to blister and bleed after the fourth round of funerals. The disease gained momentum again and claimed those who were only trying to help.
"We can't do it anymore!"
"Why die for the dying?"
"We must do something!"
We did what we had to do. We rounded up anyone else who was getting sick and locked everyone in that building. We lit a dozen torches and burned that horrid place to the ground until the dying were long dead.
We never built anything new on the scorched earth, but the streets were no longer running slick with blood and pus.