Rabies. Yeah, I know—of all the things to be terrified of, it barely cracks the top ten. It’s not sexy. It’s not dramatic. It’s not lurking in your closet like some shadowy government conspiracy. But here’s the thing: rabies is the one thing that, once it’s got you, you’re done. Full stop. No plot twist. No redemption arc. Just pure, inescapable doom wrapped up in a disease so mundane most people forget it exists.
Let me set the scene.
You’re out camping. You’ve got your setup dialed in—hammock swaying between two trees, light breeze, birdsong. You nod off, blissfully unaware that nature is a cold, unfeeling machine. Enter: a tiny brown bat, about the size of a crumpled receipt. But this isn’t just any bat. This one is rabid. He’s restless. He’s twitchy. He’s in the late stages, meaning his little bat brain is about two ticks away from a total meltdown. And you? You snore.
That’s all it takes.
The bat startles, launches himself at the nearest warm surface—your exposed knee—and bites. Not a Hollywood vampire bite. More like a whisper of a scrape. Barely a scratch. You don’t wake up. You don’t notice. But the virus is inside you now.
Here’s what happens next.
Rabies doesn’t travel in your blood, so forget about a blood test. It’s already on a one-way trip through your nervous system, quietly multiplying, taking notes, waiting. No symptoms. No warning signs. Just a ticking clock you don’t even know exists. Could be days. Could be a year. But one day, out of nowhere, you get a headache. A little back pain. Maybe you feel off.
Too late.
At this point, you’re dead. Not “go to the doctor and get some antibiotics” dead. Not “hope the experimental treatment works” dead. Dead dead. As in, there is no cure, no treatment, and no last-minute miracle. The Milwaukee Protocol? That’s a Hail Mary thrown into a tornado. If you survive, it’s not survival as you’d hope. And most people don’t survive.
So what does rabies feel like?
First, the panic. Not normal panic, but primal, clawing, suffocating terror. Your amygdala—your fear center—is on fire. You don’t know why, but suddenly, everything is horrifying. The walls. The light. The faces of people you love. Your muscles stop listening to you. Your balance is off. You want to drink water, but the second you try, your throat locks up like a steel trap. Just looking at a glass of water makes you gag. The same way that little bat was afraid of water? Now you are.
The nightmare spirals. Your brain stops processing reality correctly. You hear things that aren’t there. You taste sounds. Colors are too bright. Shadows are too dark. You forget your own name. You forget your family. You forget everything, except for one thing—fear.
And then? You shut down. Your brain has liquefied into viral sludge. You stop moving. You stop reacting. You drool. You stare. And then, you die. Every. Single. Time.
There’s no bargaining with this. No heroic last stand. No silver lining. The virus wins. Always. And even in death, it’s not done with you. Your corpse is still contagious. Rabies survives in dead tissue for years, just waiting for some scavenger to come along and take a bite, reigniting the cycle. You could wipe out every infected animal on Earth, but if one unlucky creature finds an old, preserved chunk of brain matter? Game on.
So yeah. Rabies? It’s everywhere. And it’s horrifying. Get vaccinated. Hope you can afford it. And if you ever wake up with an unexplained scratch after a night outside? Don’t wait. Don’t wonder. Just get the damn shot.