The Time of the Stripes

by Amanda Bridgeman

  It very quickly became known that Richard Keene from CNN was in “ground zero”. Given his specialty was environmental issues and disasters, and that he was probably the only reporter in Victoryville right now, he had suddenly become hot property. He’d eventually turned his phone to silent, every station out there wanting a piece of him. Harry was working nonstop, trying to protect him from as much of it as he could, working out deals for access to Richard’s footage. But that said, every reporter was on this phenomenon now. Everyone. How could they not be?

  And Richard felt torn. This was the opportunity of a lifetime: he was the only one with direct access to the town in the midst of this crisis; he had prime position on the story of the century and everyone was looking to him for information. And yet, he was also a victim in this. So too, Benny and Lisa. This was more than just a story to him. This was potentially his life. To say he had a vested interest was a vast understatement.

  At first, witnesses outside Victoryville told journalists and news anchors, they hadn’t been sure of what was happening in the sky. Many reported seeing something unusual, like a heat mirage in the atmosphere, but simply mistook it for odd weather. It was only once the ship had disabled its camouflage that they, and the world, realized what was happening. NASA, the military, the government, and astronomers all over the world, had been shocked as to how this ship could have approached Earth without registering on any radars, sensors, or telescopes.

  The US Air Force had immediately dispatched fighter jets to the scene, but as soon as they got close their electronics failed and the jets began to fall out of the sky. Next, the army rolled in with their tanks, but, again, as soon as they got close, their systems shut down. It seemed that the ship emitted some kind of signal, an electromagnetic field, that was causing everything around it to go haywire.

  Just like the TV had gone haywire, he thought, hearing that strange buzz sounding on and off; watching the ripples of static roll down the screen.

  With the ship supposedly gone and little known about it, the focus of the news had shifted to the survivors left inside Victoryville. They began to concentrate on what they did know, and the basic facts were these: many people were missing, and some of those who remained had been left with strange red marks on their faces. Richard was relieved that he wasn’t one of them.

  As a part of the report that he’d filed with Harry, Richard had submitted footage captured on Benny’s camera of people in the hotel and on the street. Naturally, as part of that footage, he’d filmed some with the marks, giving the world professional footage, their first clear look at survivors that hadn’t been captured on some shaky cell phone by a local resident and uploaded to social media sites.

  The “Occurrence” was referred to as the Victoryville phenomenon, and the people with these marks became the central focus. Tuck Turner of Fox News soon dubbed them “Striped Ones” and the name quickly stuck. Those unmarked, like Richard himself, were soon dubbed “Clean Skins”.

  Reports filtered in on the various crisis meetings being held by the government, the CDC and the WHO, and all media outlets were requested to broadcast messages asking for people to stay indoors and remain calm.

  Naturally, fears were sparked that the Striped Ones may have been infected with something contagious, and measures were being taken to investigate. Richard almost couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw Professor Harvey Meeks being interviewed on TV. He had just interviewed Meeks himself earlier that day, or rather, yesterday morning as he now knew, prior to the opening of the Bateson Dermacell facility. Richard sat glued to the screen listening to Meeks talk about his morning in Victoryville, his lucky escape, and how Bateson Dermacell were gladly offering assistance to the various agencies. Meeks had left town immediately after the ceremony, unable to stay for the morning tea due to commitments back in Washington.

  Watching Meeks only made him think of Lisa and Benny again, and of the thousands of others who hadn’t been so lucky . . .

  And that’s why he couldn’t sleep.

  He wanted answers. He wanted to find out what had happened to the missing. And he wanted to know what would happen to those left behind.

  Day Two

  Stanley Barrick sipped his coffee. He’d lost count of how many he’d had now. He glanced at his watch. Time was 1.00 a.m. He looked at the two people sitting on the other side of the desk in his makeshift office: Colonel Levin and Dr. Hogarth.

  “So the people at Bateson Dermacell, the initial tests gave them cause for concern?” Stanley asked.

  “No,” Dr. Hogarth said, “they’re still working on it, but we can’t wait any longer. It’s been over twelve hours since they awoke. If it is a contagion, they’re probably already infected, but in the case of it having a long gestation period, we might stand a chance of saving the Clean Skins from infection if we do this. We need to mitigate the risk, and mitigate it now.”

  “It will take days to separate the survivors,” he said. “They only have two cops left in the town.”

  “Yes, that’s why we’re proposing to send in a team of soldiers to assist them. They’ll be equipped with the latest biohazard suits and instructed on the necessary precautions,” she said, then shrugged. “We have no choice here. We estimate there’re maybe 6,000 people left in the town.”

  “How many do you want to send in?”

  “We’ll send in three platoons,” Levin answered. “They’ll split the population, get the barrier up between the zones, then the bulk of them will pull back.”

  “The CDC will set up a small quarantine zone on the edge of the town,” Hogarth added. “It will be used as a base for the soldiers, until we’re sure they can rejoin the general population again.”

  “And,” Levin said, “if there’s trouble, being on the edge of the town enables the soldiers to respond much quicker than the units we have twenty miles back on the perimeter. Once the barrier is up between the zones, we’ll post a skeleton crew along there as well, to make sure people stay where they should be.”

  “And you’ve got enough of the barrier to divide the whole town?”

  “Yes,” Levin said, “we’ve been shipping it in from surrounding areas since this happened. It’s a modular design, so it’s easy to handle and quick to lock in place.”

  Stanley nodded, darting his eyes between both of them. “You realize if you go in, then there’s no guarantee we can let you back out again.”

  Hogarth nodded. “We know the risks. We go to war-torn countries and areas of outbreak all the time. We’ll take every precaution.”

  “And my soldiers know the risks as well,” Levin added. “If needed, they will give their life for their country. But if we’re smart it won’t come to that.”

  “When will you be ready to head in?” Stanley asked Levin.

  “As soon as we’re given the word, they’ll be good to go.”

  Hogarth nodded. “We need to segregate the Striped Ones from the Clean Skins as soon as possible,” she said. “That’ll take a while, but if we start now, we should be able to have the people quarantined in their zones by midmorning.”

  Stanley looked at the colonel. “Send your soldiers in, divide the town and get that barrier up.” The colonel nodded, stood and left the room.

  Dr. Hogarth moved to follow, but Stanley stopped her. “Not you.”

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “We’re dealing with an alien ship here. Going into that town is probably a one-way ticket.”

  “If there’s a contagion, you need us to stop it.”

  “You can stop it from the outside.”

  “No, we need to be in ground zero—”

  “We have people in ground zero, Dr. Hogarth. You direct the folks at Bateson Dermacell as you see fit, but they’re the ones who collect the samples and do the physical study. They’re already infected. There’s no need for you to be too.”

  “And if they get sick and die?”

  “Then you get your wish and
can go in and take their place.”

  *

  Richard Keene, despite a lack of sleep and the constant government-issued messages broadcast through the media to stay indoors, took to the town’s streets, as did many others. It was dawn, the sun just a hint on the far horizon. There had been reports on TV of the military moving into the town, but he hadn’t seen any soldiers yet. Wearing a bandana over his mouth and nose for protection from a possible airborne alien virus, he wanted to inspect things in the cold almost-light of day.

  Day two of the phenomenon . . .

  Aside from the reports of military movement, there had been little in the way of updates overnight; and there was no news about whatever Bateson Dermacell had been doing since it happened. He was tempted to pay them a visit, but at the same time knew they’d have their hands full and didn’t want to slow them down, so he stayed away.

  Lots of debate was being held on the various social media channels: thousands were offering thoughts and prayers, hundreds wanted to help in some way, and some were recommending that Victoryville be wiped from the face of the earth taking the possible contagion along with it. It was the latter comment that worried Richard. Especially the ones who were offering to come and do it personally “if the military were too chickenshit to do it themselves.”

  It soon became apparent that the missing were still missing. The Victoryville Police Department, now consisting of just two cops, were doing their best to insist on the lockdown, yet people were escaping their homes and gathering along the main street, plastering walls and signposts with pictures of their missing, that said: “Have you seen my son / daughter / mother / father / grandmother / grandfather / aunty / uncle / cousin / nephew / niece / friend?”

  Armed with his backpack and Benny’s camera, Richard filmed the growing shrines, trying to steady his shaking hands, astounded at just how many seemed to be missing. It reminded him, hauntingly, of 9/11.

  Looking at the faces in those pictures seemed to burn a hole in Richard’s chest as he thought of Lisa and Benny . . . neither of them had returned any of his calls. He knew it was useless, knowing just how many were missing, but it was all he could do: keep calling them, keep hoping that they’d pick up. Keep hoping that maybe Benny was playing a trick on him and having a good laugh about it. But he knew it wasn’t true.

  Sympathy for their families flooded through him. He closed his eyes a moment and recalled the sound of relief flushing through his mother’s voice over the phone upon hearing that he was alive and unmarked. He’d heard his father’s voice echo that relief in the background; his adoptive parents were so concerned they immediately spoke of flying out from Iowa to come to him. He’d told them to stay put, that he would visit them as soon as he could. It made him wonder if Benny and Lisa’s families would ever get the chance to see them again.

  He continued on filming with Benny’s camera, but also used a compact hand-sized camera that he always carried in his backpack. Harry had drilled into him the importance of covering his ass. “Always think ahead, kid, and always have a back-up plan.”

  In the town center, some of the stores and apartments had boarded their windows, perhaps frightened by some of the reactions they’d seen on TV, from around the world, of people looting stores. Some people sat by the “missing” photos of their loved ones and cried. Some just walked around looking lost and shocked as though they were walking around the rubble of a bomb site. Others looked edgy, nervous, suspicious, and eyed everyone with mistrust.

  He made sure to capture all their faces, paying particular attention to those with the welts, utterly fascinated. Only the Clean Skins wore facial coverings for protection. The Striped Ones obviously didn’t see the point, as they were the ones who had been marked. The welts themselves looked the same on everyone in that they were uniformly straight lines, although blurred a little along the edges. The only thing different about them was the number. He passed a few ones, but also saw someone who had as many as four.

  “May I?” he asked a Hispanic woman, who had two stripes running down her chin.

  She looked at him, frightened, studying the yellow bandana that covered his mouth and nose. Richard motioned to the large camera in his hands.

  “May I?” he asked again. “Film you.”

  She nodded cautiously and he zoomed in to capture the welts up close, then slowly pulled out again. When he saw the tears that had formed in her brown eyes, he lowered the camera again.

  “What’s going to happen to us?” she asked in a whisper of a voice, as her welted chin began to quiver.

  Richard felt a sadness fill his body as he stared back at her. “I don’t know.”

  *

  Abbie and Josh awoke to sirens blaring. She looked at the clock; it was just after 6.00 a.m. Her neck sore, her eyes dry, she’d slept very little on the couch chair, insisting that Josh kept his bed last night. They both quickly got up and moved to his window. As they looked down their street, they saw soldiers in full biohazard suits entering the houses one by one and removing people.

  She listened to the announcement blaring from the military transport’s speakers: “I repeat, we ask for your assistance with this segregation. It is for your own safety. It is possible the Striped Ones have been infected with a virus. A quarantine zone will now be enforced and we must remove any Clean Skins from this area. We ask that all Clean Skins come with us willingly. If you do not come of your own accord, we will be forced to remove you. This is for your own wellbeing . . .”

  They learned the town was literally being divided in half: the southern side of Victoryville, where they both lived, was now declared a Striped Zone, and an exclusion zone for the Clean Skins. The northern side had been declared the opposite: a safe haven for Clean Skins, an exclusion zone for the Striped Ones.

  Abbie and Josh ran down the stairs and joined his parents at the front windows. Karen glanced at them worriedly. They watched as some residents moved out into the street willingly, bags packed, eager to leave, but Abbie also saw some Clean Skins who did not want to leave their homes. Those who resisted were physically forced: one woman was dragged onto the bus shouting and crying, and another man, after a scuffle, was knocked unconscious and taken away.

  All Abbie could think was if this is what they were doing to the Clean Skins, then what on earth would they do to the Striped Ones they thought were infected?

  She stepped back from the window and raised her hand to the welt on her chin.

  “What are we going to do?” Karen said nervously, eyeing the soldiers two houses away. “I don’t want to leave.”

  Peter turned to look at her.

  “Where will they take me?” she asked.

  Peter’s eyes fell to the floor, his mind turning over.

  “They have to take you away from us,” Josh told her quietly.

  Karen’s eyes glistened as she stared back at him. “But I don’t want to leave you.”

  “We don’t have a choice, mom,” Josh said.

  “That ship . . . aliens did this! If this is the end, I want to spend it with you. Not them!” Karen motioned to the military.

  Peter suddenly pulled Karen back from the window, startling her.

  “I don’t want you to leave either,” Peter said. He hugged her tightly, then moved to the middle of the kitchen and tossed the floor rug aside. Underneath sat a hatch, which he opened. Abbie saw stairs leading down into a dark, dank basement. Peter looked back at Karen.

  “I won’t leave you again,” he said, eyes filled with emotion. He took hold of the tops of Karen’s sleeved arms. “We stay together. No matter what.”

  “But . . . what?” Karen queried, face filled with concern. She glanced at the window. Abbie could hear the soldiers’ voices now.

  “They’ll take you away,” Peter said desperately. “This was our second chance!”

  “They’re right next door!” Josh called anxiously from the window.

  “But we could be contagious,” Abbi
e said to Peter.

  “We’ll take our chances,” he said, then looked back at Karen. “Someone took our son, I’m not letting them take you too!”

  Karen looked at the basement stairs, then back at her husband’s pleading face. Her eyes shone with tears. He kissed her covered cheek firmly, then held her gloved hand as she moved down the steps and disappeared. Peter swiftly closed the hatch and threw the rug back over it. He ordered Josh to stand on top of it, and they waited nervously as the bio-suited military finally banged on the front door. Peter motioned for Abbie to answer it. She did. Three soldiers entered the house, weapons by their sides. Two quickly swept through each room, while the eyes of the one remaining by the door looked curiously over their striped faces.

  Abbie tried hard to stay calm, but the tightness began across her chest. She started taking deep breaths, but the wheezing soon overcame her. She moved for her bag on the floor in the adjoining living room, but stopped suddenly as the muzzle of a soldier’s weapon appeared in front of her face.

  “Don’t move!” the soldier barked.

  She placed one hand up, pleading for calm, while the other clutched at her chest.

  “Please!” she begged, struggling for breath. “Asthma! I have asthma!”

  Josh threw her a concerned glance, but he didn’t dare move from the rug covering the hatch. He shot his father a pleading look, and Peter quickly stepped up.

  “Abbie? What is it?” He took her shoulders.

  “Asthma . . . Ventolin . . . my s—spray . . .?” and she pointed desperately at her bag.

  Peter glanced at the bag, then the soldier. “Please?”

  The soldier held his weapon firm, but motioned for Peter to go ahead. Josh’s father fetched her bag and placed it on the floor in front of her heavily wheezing frame. His hands dived in and searched for her relief. When he found it, she snatched it off him and sucked with all her might to clear her airways. The seconds passed, while Josh, Peter and the soldier stared at her. By the time her breathing had eased, the other two soldiers had finished searching the house.