The Last Hurrah
by Ben Brown

I'm midway through what I'm sure is going to be — has to be — one of my best sexual performances of all time. Head down at my girlfriend's right shoulder, I've just settled in for the long haul: rhythm strong, breathing regular. Then she stops me and says, "Be careful of my smallpox."
    This is a fringe benefit of having sex with a member of the U.S. Army. I raise my head from my girlfriend's collarbone, careful not to muss the arm of her brown, standard-issue T-shirt. It's the only thing protecting me from the vaccine: millions of smallpox-virus cells festering on her arm in preparation for Saddam's purportedly imminent onslaught