It had been alarming to wake up and see that Victoryville now had a barrier, making the town’s division a physical reality. Groups of people walked past her house, making their way to view it. She decided to join them.
The gray barrier followed the east-west border, through the town center, along the main street. The Clean Zone was to the north, now officially separated from the Striped Zone to the south. The barrier wasn’t overly tall; she could still see people on the other side. But it didn’t feel right . . . to have had her family stolen from her, and to now be segregated from the rest of the town, made her uneasy. It very much felt like they were in a zoo and the Clean Skins weren’t the ones being stared at.
The military, located at a makeshift gateway between the two zones in the dead center of Victoryville, didn’t quite have the numbers to do much about the curious onlookers gathering to gawk at the barrier and the gate. They let people look, then verbally encouraged them to return home. After a while, Abbie did. But somehow that barrier came with her in her mind.
Two images kept circling her thoughts.
One was the appearance of the soldiers along the barrier near the gate, standing in their black bio-suits with large weapons by their sides, their masks giving them a terrifying look. Two circles of clear plastic revealed their eyes, and a bulky circular filter covered their mouths. More than that, Abbie noticed, they were very clearly standing on the Clean Skin side of the barrier, facing out into the Striped Zone.
Like the Clean Zone was the safe side.
Like the Striped Zone was somewhere to be wary of.
It was very much like they were guarding the Clean Zone from the Striped Zone.
The other image that stuck in her mind was the staring of the civilian Clean Skins, milling around at some distance behind the soldiers. And the faces of the Clean Skins said it all: they were part-scared, part-sympathetic, part-repulsed. It stood out most obviously when she saw someone that she knew. Candy, one of the lifeguards from the VAC who’d been in the cafe the day they’d awoken. The look the Clean Skin Candy gave Abbie stuck in her mind. The pretty blond had been looking curiously out over the barricade, her mouth and nose covered with a handkerchief. When her eyes fell upon Abbie, they paused briefly in recognition, before quickly looking away like she didn’t know her. Like she hadn’t worked with her. Like she hadn’t gone to the same school, although a lower age grade. Abbie watched Candy as she walked away and she could see relief flood the girl’s body. The relief that she was a Clean Skin. The relief that she was on the right side of that barricade.
Abbie’s eyes moved to stare up at the apartment block that loomed over the barricade gateway on the Clean Skin side. It seemed a little out of place in Victoryville, which was predominantly a flat spread of suburbia, the only taller building in town being the Civic Hall’s clock tower a few blocks down. Several people were out on their apartment balconies, many in face masks. They stared down at her like she was a freak. There were a few who didn’t wear masks, though. Abbie looked at one couple, but they quickly, awkwardly moved back inside their apartment. Another older man simply stared back, either intrigued or defiant, she couldn’t tell. Then her eyes fell on a young teen girl, with long reddish-brown hair and pale skin, who looked back at her with sympathy. The girl slid her hand over a heavily pregnant belly, then she, too, moved inside.
Abbie had looked around, then, at the few curious parties who milled about on the striped side of the barricade. She spotted Austin from the gym. He stood with a few other guys. Some of them worked at the local hardware store and she’d seen them down at the gym, lifting weights and taking boxing lessons from Austin. They stood bunched together talking quietly, eyeing the barricade and soldiers. She caught a look in their eyes that was as troubling as some of those she’d seen in the eyes of the Clean Skins on the other side. She sensed an uneasiness, a mistrust.
After her visit to the barricade, she’d walked back home feeling the weight of the stripe upon her skin. As she entered her house she felt the emptiness smack at her heavily. She headed straight upstairs for the bathroom, wanting to take a good look at herself away from the stares of the Clean Skins. As she looked into the mirror she couldn’t help but see the freak that Candy and the other Clean Skins had seen. Abbie raised her hand to the welt that began underneath her bottom lip and traced it all the way down her neck. She tore off her shirt and traced it further to where it ended over her heart. It seemed so red, so angry a welt.
What was wrong with her? What did this horrible mark mean? Was she going to die?
Why wasn’t she a Clean Skin like Candy?
She swallowed the ball of emotion wedged in her throat and ran her hand through her hair. As she did, her eyes caught on her sister’s perfume, which was sitting beside the bathroom sink. It was a delicate bottle in the shape of a bouquet of flowers. She picked it up, studying the intricate detail of the glass, then pulled the cap off and held it to her nose. The scent immediately reminded her of Sarah, dressed up for her school ball, excited by the possibility that her date—Abbie couldn’t remember his name now—might kiss her. How long ago had that been? Two months? Three?
And now Sarah was gone.
Why had she been taken? Why had Abbie been left behind?
She placed the bottle down on the bench as her vision blurred. She had managed to hold back her tears for the past day or so while at the Chalmer house, probably from shock more than anything, but it seemed her own personal barricade was about to finally crumble.
The vision of her red stripe, thoughts of her missing family, the emptiness of the house, all pushed her over her personal threshold. Before she knew it, the tears were flooding down her cheeks and her mouth was gasping sobs. She slowly sank into a heap on the bathroom floor, giving in to the emotion, and drowning herself within.
*
Dr. Pellan felt the tiredness press against him like a heavy chain mail suit. But, despite this, sleep was the last thing on his mind.
In the early hours of the morning he’d found a common denominator with the stripes. He’d woken Cheung at once and had the graduate double-check everything, just in case his exhausted brain had missed something. But he hadn’t. Cheung agreed with his theory. There was more work to be done on the wider population, but based on the results from his small control group of Bateson Dermacell employees, he was sure he had made a vital discovery.
He sat there staring at the plush carpet of Bateson Dermacell’s small boardroom, awaiting his video conference. It had taken hours to get to this point. Professor Meeks had earlier granted Lysart access to the staff’s personnel files to assist in gathering information. Once Cheung had confirmed his theory, he’d explained it to Meeks. The professor had then gone away to double-check the findings with other experts on the Bateson Dermacell board. Once they were convinced he was right, Meeks arranged a video conference with Dr. Hogarth. Three meetings and six hours from his discovery, Lysart was now about to present his findings directly to Dr. Hogarth.
The screen beeped and Meeks appeared.
“Dr. Pellan,” he said formally. “No one else online yet?”
“No.”
“You’ve done great work, Lysart,” Meeks said. “Great work. The board are thrilled with your discovery.”
Lysart gave a weak smile. He didn’t feel quite as celebratory as his colleague. He may have found a common denominator, but there was still a lot of work to be done and many answers to be learned.
The screen beeped again and Dr. Hogarth appeared. Dressed in a plain blouse, her sandy-blond hair pulled tight into a bun, and wearing no makeup, she looked as exhausted as he.
“Dr. Hogarth,” Meeks greeted her.
“Gentlemen,” Hogarth gave a nod. “You’ve made a discovery?” she prompted them. Clearly there was little time for chitchat.
Meeks gave a nod. “Yes, I will let Dr. Pellan take the lead as this is his discovery.”
Lysart stared at the split screen in front
of him, at the eyes staring attentively back at him. He gave a little bow and cleared his throat. “Well, I believe I have discovered what the three groups mean.”
“Three groups?” Hogarth asked quickly. Lysart couldn’t help feeling as though he was the subject of an interrogation under her concentrated stare.
“Yes,” Lysart nodded. “What happened, er, this phenomenon, I believe, has split the population of Victoryville into three distinct groups. There are those who are missing. They make up the first group. Then there are those who remain but were marked. This is the second group, the Striped Ones. Then there are those who remain, but are unmarked. This is the third group, the Clean Skins.”
“Yes.” She turned her face slightly, as though trying to hear more clearly, eyes still fixed firmly upon him.
“Well, I believe I have discovered what each group represents.”
“And that is?”
“As you’re aware, I did my analysis on a small test group of my Bateson Dermacell employees. I discovered, based on this group, that the population split relates to the state of everyone’s health.”
“Health?” Hogarth’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Of course this is about our health. We’re dealing with an alien contagion, right?”
Lysart shook his head confidently. “As you know, we’ve found no trace of a contagion. This doesn’t appear to be a virus or a bacteria, or anything like that. There is nothing foreign present in any of the biological samples of the survivors. All I know, all I can find, is that we have simply become categorized.”
“Categorized?” Hogarth did little to hide her skepticism. “What do you mean?”
Lysart glanced at Harvey, who looked wary, and perhaps a little alarmed, at the thought the CDC might think their time was being wasted.
“I’m talking about broad categories,” Lysart explained. “Broad categories that group us genetically.” He could see Hogarth was turning this over in her mind, so he carried on. “From what I can see, those who are missing were perfectly healthy. Those who remain and are marked, are sick in some way. And those who remain and are unmarked, are healthy except that we carry defective genes of some sort.”
“Excuse me?”
“Dr. Pellan’s findings have merit,” Meeks chimed in. “I’ve reviewed his initial data and it stacks up.”
Lysart decided to break it down in the simplest way he knew. “The missing were healthy. The Striped Ones are sick. The Clean Skins are carriers.”
“Carriers of what?” Hogarth asked.
Lysart shrugged. “It depends on the individual. Based on the employees in my lab they varied. I, myself, although I am healthy in every other way, carry a gene for a predisposition to color blindness. My fellow Clean Skin, Cheung Liu, carries a gene that predisposes to celiac disease. We are otherwise healthy, but we may pass our defective genes to a child.”
“And the Striped Ones?” she asked.
“Again, they vary. Those who became striped suffered from a range of illnesses. Where we carry defective genes, they have physical defects and they suffer from and display the symptoms associated with the conditions they’ve been afflicted with. My colleague, Dr. John Seevers, has diabetes. Another colleague, Mary Rodriguez, was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. Another colleague, Grant Cooper, suffered from eczema and has a lactose intolerance. From what I can tell, the number of welts corresponds to the number of illnesses they have. Where John and Mary had one welt each, Grant had two. Each individual is different, but as a whole we have been categorized according to our health and genetic profile.”
Silence sat among them for a moment.
“Dr. Pellan has only tested this on a small group of subjects,” Meeks said, holding up a placatory hand, “but we are confident that if we apply these findings to the wider population, they will fit.”
“So you don’t believe there is any alien contagion?” Hogarth asked.
“No,” Lysart said confidently, “I don’t believe there is.”
Again silence filled the screens as Dr. Hogarth stared at them, her mind ticking over.
“Alright,” she eventually said. “Let’s say you’re right. The people of Victoryville have been split into these three categories; the healthy, the sick, the carriers. Where, then, are the healthy? How does this explain the missing?”
Lysart shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot answer that, Dr. Hogarth. It is beyond my expertise. All I know is what I have found. And that is, that somehow this phenomenon—” he paused, decided not to dress things up, “this ship, these aliens, have categorized us. For what reason, I don’t know. But they have done something with the healthy and left the rest of us behind.”
Hogarth was quiet as she processed the information. Lysart noted that she didn’t look relieved by the news.
“Right, then,” she said decisively. “Give me the evidence you have. We’ll take a further look into it and get back to you. Until then, I would like you to remain on standby. You are to speak to no one of this. Do you understand? Until we are agreed on a way forward, this must remain classified. Ensure anyone you’ve spoken to knows this.”
Lysart glanced over at Harvey’s screen.
“This comes from Homeland Security,” she added, “not the CDC. We’ve all been classified.”
“Of course,” Professor Meeks answered for them both.
*
Chief Blackstone walked toward the gate separating the zones of Victoryville. He’d noticed that the residents had calmed down a little, in part because the military-enforced road closures meant they couldn’t leave, and in part because the barrier had been erected. It gave the Clean Skins, subconsciously at least, some reassurance that they weren’t in any immediate danger from a possible striped contagion. It also meant that any ideas of escape were thwarted, because those who had loved ones stuck on the other side of the barrier couldn’t connect to make plans.
He nodded to a soldier at the gate who eyed his approach curiously. The soldier gave him a nod back, then turned his bio-masked face back to scanning the Striped Zone. Blackstone himself only wore a cotton surgical mask from the first-aid kit in his vehicle. It felt a little odd to be wearing one, but he wasn’t vain enough to risk illness or worry about not offending his deputy.
He came to a stop a few feet back from the gate. His colleague stood on the other side, a little closer to it.
“Leo, how you doing?”
His deputy gave a nod. Blackstone saw him studying the mask he wore.
“Just a precaution,” he said.
Leo nodded again, then glanced about him. “Things seemed to have calmed down a little. I think the initial panic is over.”
“Yeah,” Blackstone said, eyeing the Striped Zone behind his deputy. “The shock and panic has passed. Right now people are waiting, probably feeling guilty for being left behind when their loved ones weren’t.” He shifted his eyes back to Leo, gave him a sympathetic look. “And scared about what happens next.”
Leo clenched his jaw and his eyes darted away. “What does happen next, Earl?”
He stared at Leo. “I don’t know. Possibly anger. Anger that this has happened. Anger that they aren’t getting answers as quickly as they’d like. Fear. Fear that those things might come back. We need to keep an eye on that. Control it.”
Leo stared at his boss, looking tired and alone. Earl studied the red stripe running down his chin.
“So there’s still no word from Bateson Dermacell?” Leo asked.
“No,” Blackstone said, “but they’re working on it. The head scientist, Dr. Pellan, he’s been working around the clock trying to find us an answer. They got separated too, though,” Blackstone added. “The folks at Bateson Dermacell. There’s just two of them left there, last I checked.”
Leo didn’t say anything, he just glanced down at his feet, his shoulders drooping, weighted down with worry and sadness and exhaustion.
“You spoken with your family?” Blackstone as
ked him.
Leo nodded. “Yeah.”
“They doing alright?”
“As good as can be.” He swallowed hard.
“I’ll be sure to check on them, Leo,” he told him. “Don’t you worry about them, you hear? I’ll make sure they’re being taken care of.”
Leo’s face lightened a little. “Thanks, Earl.”
Blackstone’s eyes shifted to a group of people standing some distance behind his deputy on the striped side. The group was watching them both carefully. He recognized most of the faces, and a couple of them worried him a little. There in his wheelchair sat Magnus Bracks, local leader of the construction union. Alongside him was Roy Kenny, local hardware store owner, president of the local NRA, and a known conspiracy theorist. They stood surrounded by a group of young guys from the area: farmers’ and laborers’ sons. One of them was Austin Saller from the gym. Blackstone had had to question Austin just last week on reports he’d been selling steroids to his clients, but Austin denied the claims and he’d had no evidence to push any further. Although, via town gossip and chitchat, Blackstone had heard that Austin was pushing more than just steroids.
He returned his eyes to his deputy.
“There’s a shipment of supplies, groceries and the like, coming in today. The government’s shipping it into the Clean Zone and we’ll arrange to pass half of it on.”
Leo nodded, rubbing his hands over his tired face. “Just give me call when to expect it. I’ll see the supplies get to the stores on this side.”
“You take care of yourself over there,” Blackstone told him. “I need you, Leo. I need you to stay sharp and keep your wits about you. Understand?”
The Time of the Stripes Page 11
