Ella casually looked around at the people waiting for the tram. A few talked in hushed whispers. Most kept to themselves. From what she had seen, citizens avoided conversation in fear they might offend someone with their personal biases on just about anything from religion to race to politics to—apples. It was like everyone was paranoid the person standing next to them might file a CitReport if one made an insensitive comment or broke some silly rule.
Citizens didn’t want an infraction on their record. It meant losing valuable LSCs along with the public humiliation. Too many infractions could get one demoted to a lower zone. And no one wanted that. The higher the zone, the more esteem one had. She was excited they had been approved to move from T-zone all the way to the K-zone.
When a citizen was charged for something lame like cutting in line or jaywalking, a video clip of the infraction blasted across the huge outdoor TV screens on every corner of one’s Zone. Talk about oppressive. Ella was mindful of everything she did and every word she said, afraid she might slip and say something in Spanish again.
Her mother and father had been born in Mexico, and Ella had acquired their accent. She usually only spoke Spanish when she talked about food or was upset. English was the only acceptable language in Last State. What had happened to her country that had prided itself for its tolerance of diversity?
Ella had been reported at the corner supermarket last month. She had asked if they sold carnitas. Apparently, it was legal to say tortilla and jalapeno. But, not carnitas. Her LSCs had been debited within thirty minutes of the infraction. To this day, every time she went to that market, it was like people recognized her and waited for her to screw up so they could report her for a few lousy reward credits.
The month-long Sensitivity Class she had been required to attend had been Stepford Wives creepy. The class had been more like a reprogramming, demanding her to disavow her Hispanic heritage.
While Ella waited for the tram, which circled her Sector every hour on the hour, anxiety plumed inside of her. She had never left the T-zone. She wished Justin were there holding her hand. Her chip had been downloaded with a one-day visa to tour the available apartments in K-zone. A realtor agent was waiting for her. All she had to do was make it to the rental office without changing her mind.
When the tram approached, citizens stirred and put away their MeDevices. Weird. Everyone had the same type of electronic device. It was required. And everyone had to post daily messages in their assigned groups. Last State selected forums based on the monthly MeQuestionnaire citizens were required to complete. CitChat was kind of like a new type of Facebook, except everyone was fakey-nice all the time. It made her miss the cray-cray rants. Life was so boring there. But safe, she reminded.
The tram’s door opened. Everyone boarded orderly amongst the murmurs of “Excuse me” and “Nice day, isn’t it?” But it wasn’t. It was humid. Her black jeans and T-shirt clung to her every move. She stepped to the tram’s scanner next to the driver. An orange light blinked, informing everyone who noticed she was from a lower-class Zone. It embarrassed her as if she were unworthy. She hesitated. The driver motioned her onboard.
Ella scurried to the closest empty seat. After escaping hordes and bad guys, why did she find Last State so intimidating? It didn’t seem real. Her new life was like a Netflix sci-fi series about a futuristic society where the docile citizens secretly plotted to overthrow the government.
She scrolled through the K-zone apartment pics on her MeDevice and daydreamed about the blue and yellow kitchen in the apartment she had her hopes on. Justin had loved it as well. She kept telling herself their new life was going to be amazing if she could hold out until Justin returned.
The tram stopped. She had to exit and take the connector tram to the next zone. Only one more connection and she’d be in the K-zone. She clicked open the parasol and waited for the next tram. Uh—is that screaming? The people waiting next to her casually peered over their devices. Another scream. Eyes darted around at each other as if waiting to see what everyone else was doing. No one wanted to be accused of causing a disturbance. There was a sensitivity class for that, too.
The screaming grew louder. Closer. Several people stepped out of line, standing on tiptoes, trying to see around the street corner—where the screaming was coming from—but no one uttered a word.
By the time the tram pulled up, the screaming was close behind her. She closed the parasol and inched up to the person in front of her. People rushed the tram’s closed doors. The passive crowd erupted into a mosh pit of pushing and shoving. She ended up shoved against the side of the tram, dropping her parasol. Through a gap in the panicking crowd, several Infecteds lurched toward the citizens waiting for the tram.
She froze. OMG! Zs. Here?
Shouts from the crowd took over. “Open the door!”
“Open up!”
“Hey, open this door!”
Zs had been the least of her worries. Why didn’t the driver open the door? But, she knew why. She gathered her courage. I’m not a wimp. A few Zs are nothing. She had de-activated Zs and outran hordes all the way from California to Texas.
“Suck it up!” And she snapped into life. With her back pinned against the tram, she simply slid down to a squat position. Through the gaps in the crowd, she witnessed the mayhem unraveling around her. The three Infecteds quickly turned to six, and then to twelve . . . Until she lost count.
Sirens blared. She tried reciting the order of safety operations she had memorized, never worried she might need it one day. The protocol for an outdoor Infected Incident was to find safety inside. The protocol if one was inside, was to lock the doors and shelter in place. So, they were trapped outside with the Infected. Justin should tell them to change their stupid rules.
The Infecteds had quickly infected most of the citizens waiting for the tram. And since weapons weren’t allowed, everyone was at the mercy of the demons’ insatiable appetites.
The woman in front of her let out a grueling guttural groan—the terrorizing moan she had grown to dread. She recognized its jerky movements and the way its head wobbled like a bobblehead. Ella stifled her scream. And then, then, the newly infected woman in front of her must have smelled fresh meat. She—it—turned around. Its red-rimmed, bulging eyes gawked at the tram’s metal siding. It sniffed the air like a rabid coyote. Stuck in the squat position, Ella prayed it wouldn’t look down.
And then—it looked down. At her. Ella groped the ground until her fingers found the parasol. The Infected looked up at the sky and garbled its bloodcurdling “I-can’t-believe-I’m-a-zombie” groan. It lunged for her. Ella rammed the pointed tip of the parasol into its jugular, feeling like Mary Poppins propelled into a scene from Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Blood squirted across the side of the tram. She squinted through half-closed eyes, praying the blood spray missed her.
A sickening giddiness took over. She had ordered a tube of glue to fix the plastic end cap that had fallen off the parasol the other day. The expected delivery date was yesterday, but the package had been misrouted. If the delivery had arrived on time, she would have glued the rounded-tip back on. Had it been fate or luck?
The Z spazzed-out. Gunfire shattered her nerves. She had no chance of surviving. Enforcers fired into the citizens, shooting everyone. Ella wriggled under the tram’s undercarriage, pulling her body with her arms. Inch by inch, she made it to the other side of the tram. Freaky blue HAZMAT suits swarmed the area.
“On the ground!” an Enforcer yelled over a loudspeaker.
Was he talking to her? She was already on the ground, but she hugged the pavement tighter. Her cheek stuck to something sticky while she waved the Not Infected Signal. The peace sign of all things. From her view under the tram, more bodies collapsed to the pavement. She wanted to yell at the Enforcers, accusing them of murder. The correct term was neutralize. Careful.
A Blue Suit approached. “Your name?” he commanded through the plastic-like helmet of his baby-blue HAZMAT suit.
Ella couldn’t find her voice. She screamed internally for him not to murder her. She kept flying the peace sign with both hands, stuttering “Uh, uh, uh,” mumbling like an Infected.
The Blue Suit scanned her. She awaited her fate, still trying to form an actual word. Why did she always freeze up? She was ashamed of her wimpy pathetic behavior. What would Justin think?
More feet approached. “Say the word, and I’ll neutralize this one.” His words as cold and hard as the hands probing her body for bite marks.
Nooo, I’m not Infected, she screamed silently.
The scanner beeped. “This one’s clean. On your feet,” the Blue Suit shouted.
Ella trembled to her knees, pulling herself up on quivering legs. She walked around in a daze. I don’t understand. It’s supposed to be safe here. She thought Infected Incidents were only rumors she overheard in public restrooms. But it was true. Sure, when someone suddenly died, some innocent bystander might end up an Infected. But Last State had so much security to keep this from happening. It was suddenly clear. All the rules, laws, and security were a bunch of crap to create a false sense of safety to keep the Elites in control of their fear-based minions.
“We’ve got an emergency tram on the way,” a friendly voice said. A medic offered her one of those cute edible water bubbles they had been spamming all over CitChat. The lining was made of seaweed or algae, or something like that. Plastics were being phased out. Last State had rescued a European ship of scientists, and they were coming up with all kinds of alternative eco-friendly ideas. She popped the pinkish water blob into her mouth. It tasted okay. The medic handed her two more before rushing to another survivor crawling under the tram toward them.
The emergency tram finally arrived. She didn’t know where it was going. She didn’t care as long as it took her away from there. The survivors stumbled on board. All six of them. Out of the fifty or so who had been waiting. What had caused the incident? A heart attack? The CitChips should have warned Enforcers; they were supposed to neutralize an incident before it turned into a horde. Their system wasn’t working too well.
OMG, I hope Justin didn’t see this. He used to monitor Infected Incidents, but he had never discussed the details. She sent him a MeText so he wouldn’t worry: Hi, hon. The trams are too busy. I’ll go another day. Love you, miss you, can’t wait to see you! But, she wasn’t planning on leaving the security of her apartment any time soon.
Meanwhile, she couldn’t wait to return to their tiny apartment. She would wait and go apartment hunting with Justin. They could get another visa. After today, she didn’t even want to walk to the market. She could have the groceries delivered since Justin was earning extra credits. She could write more of those “How to Cook” MePosts to earn bonus credits to offset the delivery fees. Justin was sure to nag her about wasting money and going off budget and blah blah blah. It was true; she spent more money than he did. That’s because I’m stuck in the apartment all day with nothing to do but clean, cook, read, and watch movies.
Ella took several long deep breaths and finally released some of her angst as she gazed out the tram’s window and mentally distracted herself with her next blog post: “Hacks for Roasting Green Chile.” Not many young people knew how to cook. Fast food didn’t exist. Restaurants were expensive. She wondered how people managed. They probably lived on sandwiches. What she truly wanted to do was teach cooking classes. Justin had helped with completing the official proposal. It usually took months to get approved. And women weren’t approved often.
Ella had helped her mama for years with the family restaurant, Los Lunas. She imagined the spicy aroma of carnitas and salsa simmering on the back burners. It was so real her mouth watered. Memories of her parents and baby brother replaced her blog notes. She so missed her family.
The screeching of a siren brought her out of a misty-eyed state. A white Last State Hummer with the official emblem—a yellow rose inside a white five-pointed star—on the door rode alongside the tram. The tram stopped.
“Holy crap. Now what?” Ella muttered. She quickly covered her mouth. An outburst might be reported. They might assign her to a MeTherapy webinar for ranting in public. She glanced at the other riders. They seemed in as much shock as she was. The window’s reflection screamed back at her. Her face was spattered with blood. “Ew!” Disgusting. Someone else’s blood. On Her. She unzipped her fanny pack to grab the compact. She tried wiping it off with the back of her hand when the tram door opened. A man in a fancy yellow and white uniform stomped onto the tram.
He stopped before her. “Estella Marie Vasquez-Chen,” he announced, looking at his device and then her. She automatically held out her hand. He scanned her palm. “Come with me.”
“Wait . . . What? I’m not infected.”
“Let’s move it. I don’t need any more trouble today,” he barked.
She looked around the tram. One of the riders was drenched in blood. The others were splattered with red like they had tried whipping a bowl of strawberry juice with the Kitchen Aid mixer on high without the splash guard thingy. “Where are you taking me?” Her voice cracked. Everyone avoided eye contact with her.
“DeCon.”
Ella stared at him blankly.
“Decontamination. I don’t have all day,” the officer badgered.
Reluctantly, she grabbed the back of the seat in front of her and pulled herself up with hesitant legs. “What about everyone else?”
“They’ll get there. Eventually. Let’s move it,” he ordered.
She walked down the walkway with lead-filled feet. Why only me?
***
Ella’s back had gone rigid after sitting in the hospital’s waiting room for the past two hours. They had let her take a quick shower after the DECON blast of powdery disinfectant and had given her a drabby-white hospital uniform to wear. Meanwhile, she waited for her blood and urine results and wondered where the other tram riders were.
“Estella Vasquez-Chen?” a male nurse called from the doorway. “This way.”
The nurse escorted her to a doctor’s office. “Undress and put on this.” He handed her a blue papery thin gown.
When the male doctor finally entered the room, Ella blurted, “I can’t be infected.” She had survived the arduous cross-country trip in a wagon train only to become infected in the safest place left in America. How could this happen?
“I’m Dr. Lanavitch. Of course, you’re not infected. My dear, you are—pregnant. Your CitChip alerted us. Prior to the Incident.”
“Again?” Ella bit her lip. “Wait, the chip knows I’m pregnant?”
“All women of birthing age are implanted with cutting-edge nanobot technology. The bot monitors your hormones and communicates the data to your CitChip. Today we’ll find out how far along you are. So, you had a previous pregnancy?”
She ignored the question, sure her face had revealed the truth. She wasn’t good at lying.
He scrolled through his device, tapping at the screen. “I see. According to your LS Citizenship docs, you neglected to inform us of your prior pregnancy.”
She didn’t mean to give the doctor the silent treatment as she reeled over the shocking news. I’m Pregnant? No wonder she had been so grumpy.
“You do realize nondisclosure of a prior pregnancy is a criminal offense.” His eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you report it?” The doctor, an older man with thinning gray hair, reprimanded.
“I, uh, it was too horrible. I can’t talk about it.” Ella burst into tears.
The doctor’s compassion finally melted through his stone-wall exterior. “There, there, young lady. We won’t worry about that today. You’re pregnant. How miraculous?”
It was the worst possible news. Ever . . .
Chapter 6
Dean Wormer snatched the flyer stapled to the public bulletin board as he strode to the bakery. “What a crock of bullcrap.” It was the fourth one he had found today. He stormed into the bakery about ready to blow a fuse. A jovial Luther sat at a ta
ble, playing poker with a couple of shop owners they had become pals with.
“Say, you know anything ’bout this?” Dean slapped the flyers on the table.
Luther busted out laughing. “Dean Wormer—Born to be Sheriff,” Luther read the poster. Soon, all three of the men held their sides in a laughing fit, all at his expense.
“Is this some sort of joke? ’Cause it’s not funny,” Dean snapped. “I’d sooner poke a stick in my eye than run this town of hooligans.”
“That’s what makes you the perfect candidate,” Bates Senior said. “It’s when someone really wants the job, you know they have ulterior motives. Like what’s in it for them. Not the overall good of the people.”
“Hell, you already walk and talk the part,” Bates Junior jabbered.
“He’s right.” Bates Senior guffawed louder. “With that cowboy hat, boots, and hip holster, all you need is one of those stinkin’ badges.”
Western wear had always been Dean’s normal attire. He had added the hip holster since the world had gone batshit crazy. Luther played it smart and kept his eyes on his cards, carefully avoiding Dean. “Well, you all get the word out. I’m not running for anything. And that’s final.”
“Join us in a round of penny poker.” Bates Senior pulled out a chair.
“We’ve got libations,” Luther encouraged.
“Might as well. Reckon pennies aren’t good for much else these days,” Dean muttered under his breath.
Luther poured him a highball of moonshine while Dean retrieved his lucky one-hundred-dollar bill from his tattered wallet. He had carried it with him for the last ten years or so, saving it for a rainy day. He tossed it onto the center of the table in jest. “This ought to buy me a few hands.”
“Are you going senile on me?” Luther ragged. “Your jar of pennies is behind the counter.”
Only The Dead Don't Die (Book 3): Last State Page 6
