The penalties for running an illegal gene lab, or minor involvement in modding activity, now began with ten years’ imprisonment. Though stiff sentencing and the creation of a lavishly funded Genetic Modification Enforcement Agency had done no more to stop people altering their bodies than previous generations of cops had done to halt the supply of illegal drugs.

After stopping at a drugstore to pick up five of the latest vaccine needles, Charlie crossed a sunny parking lot towards a coffee shop.

Killer-T had wiped close to forty per cent of Nevada’s population and small businesses had been devastated by a combination of supply problems, the death of skilled staff and a lack of customers. Charlie had bought the coffee shop’s lease cheaply from the owner’s surviving grandkids.

‘Hey, boss,’ a barista named Gwen said as Charlie went through the quarantine box. Gwen was one of the lucky five per cent who’d caught Killer-T and survived. But her arms and forehead bore deep blister scars, and her scalp had several bald patches.

All shops now had drive-thru or walk-up windows, where staff fetched online orders or grabbed what you needed. Entering any store, office or indoor mall meant a couple of minutes in a quarantine box. Besides powerful UV lamps, the box sprayed disinfectant on your shoes, scanned your body for a raised temperature and read the tag from your most recent vaccine update.

There were eight customers spread over sixty seats, but the drive-thru window had a healthy queue, and Charlie was pleased to see cakes and sandwiches shelved inside the glass counter, each individually packaged with their own sterile cutlery.

There was less variety than there would have been before Killer-T, and hyperinflation meant a choc-chip muffin cost sixty dollars, but things were improving. A year ago the only edibles would have been instant noodle packs and space-food biscuits.

‘I’ve got something for you girls,’ Charlie said as the quarantine box’s acrylic doors slid open to let her in.

She reached into a bag and placed four small pints of strawberries on the countertop. ‘We grew them in the polytunnels,’ Charlie explained. ‘Well, Harry did.’

‘First strawberry I’ve seen since Killer-T,’ Gwen said as another barista backed up from the drive-thru window to admire them.

‘Anything else going on?’ Charlie asked. ‘Supplies?’

‘No major problems, for once,’ Gwen said. ‘I can’t get carbon dioxide cylinders, so drinks with whipped cream are off the menu for now. I called around the catering suppliers. Everyone’s saying four to eight weeks until they get a delivery, and when they do it’s not gonna be cheap.’

‘I appreciate the work you put in to keep this place running,’ Charlie said brightly. ‘How about those zombies hanging around?’

‘The two that kept banging the windows and harassing us when we locked up at night got picked up,’ Gwen said. ‘Put up a heck of a fight.’