“Have you been bitten?” One asks.
“No,” I lie. “Is that how the sickness works?”
“The sickness? It’s an outbreak of disease and yes that’s how it’s spread,” he responds in a short, authoritative tone.
“What happened, I mean, how did it start?”
“Nobody knows yet. Personally, I think it’s a terrorist attack. Not sure if it’s foreign or domestic though. But mark my words, it’s an attack. How old are you?” He asks, furrowing his brow.
“Sixteen.”
“Huh, everyone else you got is dead, right?” He says with a twinge of sympathy.
I nod my head, as a sharp pain in my gut makes me feel as though I’ve been stabbed. I don’t know if it was the pinch of humanity that I saw on the soldier’s face or if it was all hitting home for me—that I have nobody. I feel the tears welling up in my eyes, as I realize that I have the freedom that I’ve been wanting for so long. But my newfound freedom came at a terrible price. Not only will I never see my dirt-bag dad again, but my mom and kid brother too. And it’s not like I won’t see them because I moved away, leaving a chance to reunite with them someday—no—they are just gone.
“Come on in Hun, but you have to go through decontamination first.”
I walk past the barricade, leaving the dirt bike behind as I fear what may come next. Decontamination sounds like they will definitely discover the bite on my wrist and my body would soon join the pile of discarded carcasses on the roadside. My heart hammers, as my mind tries to quickly figure out what to do or say next. A female guard with short blonde hair approaches with a gruff expression.
“Come with me miss,” she says in a monotone voice.
A few yards from the barricade, we approach a thick, plastic tent—like structure with what looks like a carwash sprayer on the side. The woman picks up the sprayer and kicks over a clear, plastic tub to me.
“You are going to need to disrobe. Put all of your clothes—shoes and all in the tub.”
This is it. She will discover that I’ve been bitten and I will be executed right here, naked and in this plastic tent, virtually all alone.
DISPLACED
After the coldest shower of my life, I’m standing in a line where meals are being served from brown-paper sacks. A temporary spot, on the side of the highway is set up by the Red Cross. A line of eight, red and white canopies are situated for refugees to clean up and eat. There is a little grass beside the asphalt, before the ground cliffs off to the ocean on either side of the highway.
I had been so scared to take off my sweater before the shower—that I nearly turned back toward the barricade. The female guard at the decontamination area took a peek at my wrist and had hastily asked me about it.
I had lied again, telling her that I fell off my dirt bike, but she kept shouting out commands like, “turn around” and “wash with soap,” that I soon realized, she didn’t care. After all, it’s all scabbed up now, no redness. It looks like it happened days ago. I wish Haley could have made it, whatever that medicine was…it worked. The female guard had slapped a wristband on me, that included my name and the date and time I went through decontamination. Then she sprayed my clothes with an earwax smelling spray and gave them back to me to get
dressed.
I take a seat on the ground, eating a ham and plastic cheese sandwich from within the sack lunch provided at the food canopy. I don’t care that it tastes like crap. I am so hungry that it feels my stomach might begin devouring my organs on its own. I’m all alone on the grass beneath another canopy. I notice that most of the people aren’t bothering to stick around. They’re loading onto school busses parked on the highway. I think that I should probably get a move on too. Where am I going to go? I don’t have family nearby. Closest relative I have is two states over and is an aunt whose face I couldn’t spot if she sat down next to me.
My mom and dad have a friend not too far from here that stayed at our house for about six months, two years ago. He works as a porter at the diner my mom where my mom works—well…worked. He might take me in for a little while and help me contact Aunt Charlotte. It’s a long shot, but what else can I do? My mom hasn’t talked to her side of the family in years. They had a falling out –as Mom called it. Probably over my dad. All I can remember about Aunt Charlotte is that she used to give me candy every time I saw her, which was only maybe four or five times that come to mind. I had to be six or seven the last time I saw her.
“Excuse me, Miss,” An old woman offers a warm smile. “Are you displaced?”
“Um, I don’t think so. I’m fine,” I say rolling my shoulders. “Everything is in the right place.”
Why would she think my shoulder is out of place? I saw that in a movie one time when a guy could displace his shoulder, and then slam it into a wall to get it back into place.
“I don’t mean dislocated, sweetheart. I mean, are you separated from your family?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well sweetheart, the bus is right over there, when you are ready. It will take you to a place better equipped to find a relative or a social worker. I’ll see you there,” she says with a nod and walks toward a school bus with a gathering crowd of about ten people.
I toss my paper sack in the trash can, after devouring every last crumb. As I think about whether or not to get on that bus, the woman told me about, I hear a commotion from behind me. The Army—or whatever military branch they are—stands with their guns raised. They’re all yelling at the same time, making it hard to understand any of them.
I move closer to the decontamination tent to see who or what they are yelling at, and see a whole group of maybe fifteen people running full speed toward the barricade. They are screaming for help, as a group having twice as many chases them. The group behind them has the sickness.
The guards at the concrete rails look on the verge of panic. One of them reaches for the bullhorn.
“Return to you homes. Don’t come any closer or you will be shot!” He yells.
Ignoring the warning, the normal people out front continue running straight for the rails, with the maniacs on their heels.
I cup my hand over my mouth, in disbelief of what’s happening. The Army has to help them— they have to let these people in. The man with the bullhorn warns the oncoming group once more, this time his voice is harsh and furious.
“Turn back now! Do not come any closer or you will be shot!”
“Those people have no choice, if they don’t come this way, the ones with the sickness will get them. You have to help them!” I yell at the soldier shouting commands.
The man lowers the bullhorn, and looks at the men beside him and lets out a heavy sigh. He turns back to me and gives me an icy glare, but says nothing before returning his stare out on the approaching crowd.
A soldier turns to the one with the bullhorn and says, “Sir if we wait for the civilians to reach the blockade, we won’t be able to stop the horde. There are too many and the civilians are blocking our shots.”
“Fire,” he commands, setting the bullhorn on the concrete rail.
I feel a jolt of shock rock my body. Did he really say that? To shoot at all those people?
My eardrums are flooded by the repeating sound of gunshots tearing through the summertime morning. In only a matter of seconds, all of the people who had been approaching—are dead. The ones with the sickness and the ones who needed help lie motionless on the asphalt. Their bodies litter the street only twenty feet from the edge of the barricade. That could have been me. I sink to my knees, stunned —almost feeling temporarily removed from my body.
“That’s it boys. We’re not bringing in any more civilians through decontamination. This is a full quarantine—nobody in or out. Those who do not yield our warning will be shot. Understood? Now let’s get these bodies to the pile,” he says.
“Yes, sir,” the men on the front line shout.
I rise to my feet in total disbelief. They can make that call on their ow
n—to not let anyone else out of the city? What if they don’t have the sickness? I’m thinking that bus ride out of here is sounding more appealing by the minute.
THE SCHOOL BUS
There is no way that I am going to stay in this make-shift camp any longer than I have to. Soldiers slaughtering innocent people instead of helping—I want as far away from these guys as I can get.
The soldier that held the bullhorn looks to me with fire in his eyes. Leaving his post, behind the barricade, he begins striding confidently toward me. I’m feeling miniscule, like I am an ant among a giant. The soldier is taller than me by at least a foot, making him about six-two. His body is roughly three times my size and the creases around his eyes and mouth tell me that he’s super-old, probably in his fifties.
“Colonel Kennedy Channing. What is your name miss?” He asks.
“Monte,”
“I remember letting you in. Dirt bike. On your own,” He says.
“Yes,” I whisper, uneasy about what he may say to me.
“Listen, I don’t expect you to understand, but what happened here…” The Colonel looks away. Returning his eyes to mine, he continues, “The event you witnessed here is as bad as it gets. It is a memory that I cannot take from you, although I certainly wish I could. While I owe you no explanation, I would like leave you with a thought. The innocent people that were coming toward us were all over the road, leaving no clear shots for my men to fire at the horde behind them. Had we waited until the civilians were closer, there is no guarantee that my men could have stopped the horde and they could have escaped the town’s boundaries. That would have put you and everyone in this camp at risk, not to mention the towns beyond,” He says with empathy in his voice.
I nod my head at him and watch him turn on a heel and go back toward the barricade. Taking in his words, I am finding myself both understanding his viewpoint, but also resenting him for the deaths of the regular people. I don’t know what he could have done differently, or even, if it was possible to save those people. I do know that those soldiers saved all of us at the camp by using their guns, but all those people are still dead, sick or not.
Turning toward the school bus, I take my time shuffling over. I’m trying to decide whether or not to still be angry about the massacre or put it behind me—along with all that has happened today. The bus’s engine is roaring and ready to go. As I make my way up the steps, I see the sweet woman who told me about the bus. She is standing beside the first seat, behind the driver, welcoming on new passengers. She reminds me a little of a hostess at a fancy restaurant. Her warm smile is welcomed, but then, she unexpectedly pulls me into an embrace. I awkwardly hug her back. The feeling is so bizarre, but I understand that she is attempting to be comforting.
My family had never really been the hugging type. I could probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve had a hug, with this woman’s embrace included.
“You take a seat anywhere pumpkin. It will all be alright,” she says.
I take notice of a soldier sitting across from the woman. He is dressed in camo, with a blonde buzz cut and looks like he’s only a handful of years older than me. As I walk past him, he looks up from a clipboard and gives me a frosty stare with his glowing blue eyes.
The bus is nearly full, as I walk down the aisle looking for a seat. Chatter fills the bus. Everyone is explaining their stories of how they made it out or what happened to their loved ones. A few of the riders are sobbing and wiping tears from their faces. Even with most of the windows open, the pungent smell of body odor pollutes the bus. Halfway down the aisle, I see that nearly all the seats are taken. I might have to stand. How long is this ride anyway? This day can’t get any better.
“Monte, is that you?” a delicate voice sounds.
I look all around, but can’t find anyone familiar. Then a waving hand from the back catches my eye. I hurry toward the wagging hand, eager to find the owner. After squeezing by a gabby guy in the aisle, chatting up a cute girl, I see that the hand belongs to—Annabelle Sanchez. Oh God.
Annabelle Sanchez is the snobbiest girl at my high school, hands down—there is no competition. She comes from a family with money, and has on many occasions been shamefully wicked to me and my friends. Of all the people to find me on the bus, Annabelle is the last one I want to see.
“Monte, come sit over here,” she says with an unusually friendly smile on her face.
If she is trying to play some embarrassing trick on me, I swear, I’m going to kick her ass. I’m not going to take her crap—not today, not after what I’ve been through.
I take the seat beside Annabelle and offer nothing more than a nod at first. I look around, but don’t see her usual clan of tormentors anywhere around us.
“I’m so glad to see a familiar face,” Annabelle says. “Since this morning, I haven’t seen anyone I knew, until now.”
“Me neither,” I mumble.
“I don’t know what happened to my family. They have a disease or something,” Annabelle says with tears in her eyes.
“Mine too.”
Maybe Annabelle and I are not that different from one another. Take away her fancy clothes and fake friends; reduce her to the same situation as me and she’s not that different. She called out to me on the bus, not because we’re friends, or because she wanted to play some embarrassing joke on me, because I’m the only thing familiar to her in this mess. And she is the only thing familiar to me. Honestly, I am glad she called me over, being all alone sucks. Even if we aren’t friends and can hardly stand the sight of one and other, being with someone, at least a little familiar, feels better than being all alone, especially with all this craziness that’s going on.
FEAR
I’m mostly quiet, sitting next to Annabelle, as the bus makes its way onto the highway. Annabelle is doing most of the talking, telling me about what happened in her house this morning, like we are old friends. I still have my guard up, I’ve gone through too much taunting at her hands to completely open up to her. From the sound of it, it seems like her morning had been quite similar to mine. We are a few miles outside of our hometown of Port Steward, in Bayberry Hollow—the next town up, when I overhear a man talking about his experience.
“I read on the internet, before I lost cell service, that they’re saying it’s a terrorist attack,” the guy began. “Some kind of bio-chemical weapon and that it can go airborne at any time. Our town has gone to shit, if it’s not the ones with the disease, than it’s the rioters that are looting and destroying The Port. We won’t be coming back, the whole town will be shut down for months or even years and you know what else—” he pauses looking up the aisle.
A very old lady, about four rows ahead, began coughing—more like hacking, loud and uncontrollably. Those around her spread out all over the bus trying to get as far away from the coughing woman as possible.
“Pull over this lady is sick,” a guy not much older than me yells to the driver.
Soon others shout for the driver to pull over as well. It doesn’t take long before he surrenders to their requests and pulls the bus to the side of the road, just outside of the downtown area. The soldier from the front of the bus makes his way to the woman—who has now stopped coughing—and escorts her off the bus.
Annabelle and I look out the half open window on our side and see the soldier walk the woman a few feet away from the bus. He yells at her to show him where her bite is and to tell him when it happened. The woman maintains that she has no bites, but suffers from emphysema. He doesn’t look like he believes her as he yanks up her peach, satin sleeves and tugs at her blouse before lifting her polyester skirt. The elderly woman looks to be in her seventies or so. She is so offended by the soldier’s behavior that she screams and slaps him with a soft hand. He grabs her arm and cruelly yanks her behind a section of overgrown bushes. A few seconds later, a lone gunshot rings out.
I shudder at the sound and look at Annabelle with terrified eyes. That soldier killed that poor woman. She proba
bly wasn’t even bitten. We look back out waiting for the soldier to return, but it feels like it’s taking forever. He finally emerges, alone. Wild-eyed and out of breath, he boards the bus and takes his seat.
I’ve seen that wild look that is on his face before—but on my dad. It’s the look of a madman. This guy is a lunatic. He’s not like the other soldiers or like the Colonel, no, he’s like five seconds from a psychotic break down.
“Was she bitten?” The driver asks, closing the door.
“No, I checked her whole body, no bites. But she was going to turn, I could tell. She had the disease. Yeah, I’m sure of it. She must have got it some other way. Let's move out,” the soldier replies.
“Are you sure she really had it? I mean, if there wasn’t a bite, than how can you know for sure?” The driver mentions casually as he pulls away from the curb.
“I’m sure,” the soldier says in a stern tone, leaning back in his seat.
As we pull down the road, I crane my neck, leaning over Annabelle, staring at the overgrowth. Before it’s out of sight, I catch sight of the elderly woman lying on her stomach. Her clothes have been taken off and tossed onto her back.
Closing my eyes, I feel like my own sanity hanging on by a frayed shoelace. When that paranoid jerk checked her body, he took off all her clothes. And when he couldn’t find a bite, he tossed them on her back and left her naked body to rot behind overgrown weeds. I am in hell. I would happily take a beat-down from my dad any day—over the crap that’s been happening today. When we get to the shelter, with or without Annabelle, I’m not staying for long.
THE SHELTER
The ride to Moss County on the overcrowded, smelly bus was a bumpy one, but uneventful for the remainder of the trip. When we finally pull to a stop at the new shelter, I’m in a daze—thinking about what Lieutenant Lunatic did to that poor old lady. Annabelle nudges my shoulder to get my attention. The seats behind us are already empty as everyone pushes and shoves in the aisle. Annabelle and I are the last to leave the stinky bus. I’m hot and sticky, and sleepy too, as we step onto the curb. Before us is a humungous building, larger than any I’ve ever seen. It looks like an arena for basketball games or concerts. I notice that the street in both directions is empty. There aren’t any cars driving around, or parked on the street. No people are walking around or riding bicycles. It seems really strange to me.
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