Scarlet Plague

I was introduced for the first time to a book by Jack London over 60 years ago. Since that time I have read several of London’s works including “The Call of the Wild,” “White Fang and,” and “The People of the Abyss.” But it wasn’t until decades later that I happened upon and read “The Scarlet Plague.”

Picture this:  It’s 2073. You’re sitting by a driftwood fire on a wild California beach. You see an old man with a ragged wolfskin wrapped tighter around his shoulders. Sitting at his feet are his grandsons mocking his trembling hands. They know only this savage world of hunting dogs, flint spears, and tribal feuds. The old man speaks.  His voice unravels a truth so terrifying, so magnificent, it chills your blood: “Once, boy… there were cities that touched the clouds.” 

He tells a story about 2013. A story of fast trains. People being able to talk across oceans through glass plates, skyscrapers and people.  Swarms of people walking in streets laughing, shopping , believing they had tamed the earth. Yes, people, not scattered primitive tribes wearing deerskin and fighting among themselves. 

Then you hear him say, “If began quietly, the Red Cough; A fever. A scarlet rash. Blood on the lips.”  He tells of horses screaming and trampling crowds in Market Street. Of millionaires offering sacks of diamonds for a crust of bread. Of silent trains choked with corpses. Of men murdering for a sip of clean water. Of primal howl rising. Of the rule of law, medicine, and mercy crumbled like ash…….”In six weeks, the world is dead.”

This isn’t just doom—it’s survival. The old man’s journey from frail professor to feral scavenger is raw, visceral, unflinching. Crawl with him through looted mansions. Hide from savage mobs. And most importantly, feel and realize how easily the thin veneer of a civil society and civilization can fall apart.

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