Resistant, no. 1

by Ryan T. Petty

  “Damien had every chance in the world to kill me, but he wanted—”

  Michael stood quickly and got right in my face.

  “That’s the second time you’ve compared me to a SA7,” he said and stabbed his finger in my direction. “You do it again and I’ll ask you to leave.” He stepped away and went to the door.

  “You said yourself you were one.”

  “If I’m infected, Jennifer, I’ll become one, yes. But I’m not, and I’m not going to be.” He sighed again. “So if you think I kept you here as a sinister plot for sex, then maybe Stevenson was right. Maybe you need to go.” He grabbed the door handle, but I placed my hand on his to stop him from leaving.

  “I need to know what happened. What caused all of this?”

  Michael looked me in the eye, calmer now.

  “Let’s get the professors together. They tell it better than I do.”

  * * * *

  I had to wait until lunch before we were able to talk to the professors. Michael didn’t want to have a private meeting with my supporters so close to the one we had just come from. This one would just be a friendly chat while eating food. Still, he placed us at a table in Block B where loud little boys and girls played just feet from us. A man and a woman, who Michael said were his lieutenants, and Clarissa were there as well. The five of us were half way through with our meals before another strolled over to our table.

  “Captain, is this the best you can do to find a quiet place for a civilized conversation?”

  Michael stood and shook hands with the bigger man who had a scruffy, graying beard. Others shook his hand as well, so I figured I would stand and do the same.

  “And this is the inconclusive young lady we are yet again meeting about?”

  “Dr. Wellstone, meet Jennifer,” Michael introduced us as we shook hands. Wellstone rubbed his fingers together after I released them.

  “You sure I’m not going to be infected?” he asked, but with a smile.

  “You’re the one they call Doc, right?” I asked, getting another grin.

  “It started out as a joke before it stuck,” he said as we all retook our seats. “Before all of this, I was a paramedic for twenty years. I was back in med-school when all of this happened. When people started arriving here, I was able to nurse their injuries like broken bones and cuts and scrapes. Everyone just assumed I was the head doctor here, so everyone started calling me Doc. I tried to explain how I wasn’t, but it’s hard to change first impressions. I guess you know that from the meeting we just had.”

  “Yes, sadly enough.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it too much. People are scared of change and for you to walk in here and to be inconclusive just makes people uneasy. Once you become acquainted with the others, you will fit in and be accepted. For right now, just keep your head down and your hands working.”

  I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure what he meant about my hands.

  “Well, it looks like Dr. Swanson is a no show.”

  “No surprise,” Clarissa said.

  “Either way, Doc, we asked you here to explain to Jennifer what happened to start all of this.”

  “Well, you know, Captain, none of us have an exact idea as to what happened, just a lot of hearsay really. What we do know is the SA8 virus started in the Mid-Atlantic States somewhere—Maryland, Virginia, Pennsylvania, it doesn’t really matter. Anyway, whoever developed it had engineered a way to combine viruses and blood.”

  “Combine them?”

  “Usually when a virus gets into the blood stream, it will attack the host, the red blood cells, and kill them. Your body’s immune system has to fight off the disease by increasing white blood cells. Examples are the flu or the common cold, but with this virus, we discovered it didn’t want to kill the host, it wanted to control the host.”

  “Why?”

  He sighed but continued. “Again, we don’t know the reason why, but the virus wants to get to the brain and, if I may...” Wellstone gently flipped my arm over and pointed down the blue vein lines. “It follows these paths that are all connected, to the heart and to the brain, where it begins changing the way people act.”

  “Like the people in the city.”

  “Exactly. We call them SA7 and then you have the SA8—the ones who attacked you on the interstate, the zombies. There are others as well. The virus did different things, depending on what blood type you have. The SA5 and SA6 are AB positive and AB negative. Together, they only make up five percent of the population, but the virus didn’t kill them. They are still alive, but changed due to the infection.”

  “Yeah, their mind plays tricks on them,” the male lieutenant said.

  “Yes, for example, Captain, do you have any nightmares?”

  We looked at Michael who was somewhat stunned the question came at him.

  “Of course.”

  “And do you care to share one with us?”

  “No.”

  Wellstone laughed, but it was mostly to cut the tension. The female lieutenant volunteered.

  “I had a nightmare about a large spider attacking me one time.”

  “Very good,” Wellstone continued, “You see, if she was SA5, her nightmares would be her reality, so even though she would be awake, she would still be fighting spiders. For SA6, you would have a complete loss of realty.”

  “So, it makes them go crazy.”

  Wellstone nodded. “In laymen’s terms, yes, it makes you go crazy.”

  “And the people who have forgotten everything?”

  “That’s type B. Partial memory loss is B negative, or SA4, which are the luckiest people infected. In fact, it’s what we all thought you were before we got the inconclusive result back. B positive, SA3, is total memory loss. You might see them talking to themselves, but they are not really there. They’re fearful of everything, but at the same time, they try to function. Still, they might attack you if they feel they are threatened.”

  “Oh.” My mind went back to the woman at the truck stop. She had to be SA3. Her mind wasn’t there and she attacked me probably just out of the confusion of me being there with her.

  “But there’s type A and O too, both positive and negative. There’s not much of A left,” Wellstone continued. “The virus attacked the brain of all those with A positive and A negative. A positive died within a few hours of getting it if they were not wearing a breathing apparatus.”

  “And the A negative?”

  “Once an A negative comes down with it, they commit suicide.”

  Again, my mind went to the remains of the body where I found the gun. Was it possible he was A negative and killed himself?

  “As for O blood type, they are your killers and zombies. Sadly enough, they make up about forty-five percent of the population, so there are at least as many of them as there are of normal people, probably much more.”

  “But we call everyone infected ‘Déracinés.’ It’s a cool word which means they are not part of us,” the female lieutenant said. “Dr. Swanson came up with it.”

  “Yeah, because Dr. Swanson speaks French. Most of us just dumb it down to Deracine since this is Texas,” Clarissa said.

  I nodded, taking everything in. “And why do y’all think this was made in some laboratory?” Everyone looked at Wellstone again.

  “Well, because nothing has ever been seen like this in mankind. You can’t find what this virus does anywhere out there in nature, anywhere in our history. It was chemically engineered to react with blood so it could be carried to the brain, and somehow, someway, it got out of a lab.”

  “Did someone do this on purpose?”

  “That was a conspiracy theory years ago, but no one really knows. We also don’t know if the scientists who created it knew it would go airborne. You know it’s one thing to have to touch someone to spread a disease. It’s quite another just to be breathing and actually spread it as well. The SA8 virus works fast; usually within hours you show symptoms, and by twenty-four hours, you have already me
t your fate.”

  “Why is it called SA8?”

  “The eight is for the eight blood types. The SA stands for ‘Synchronized Amalgamation.’ It’s something the media called it when they first reported it.”

  “In laymen’s terms?”

  “The virus works exactly the same for everyone when it joins with the blood, depending on blood type of course. Everyone except for you.”

  Everyone looked at me.

  “What do you mean? Do I have the virus?”

  “I’m not sure and neither are our testers. We really need to take a look at your blood under a microscope, but it might still be impossible to tell if the virus has bonded with your DNA structure. Sadly enough, we just don’t have the equipment to do any true research. The machine we do have is able to detect the virus though.”

  “So why couldn’t it detect it for me?”

  Wellstone threw up his hands in the air. “Again, I don’t have all of the answers, but it’s really an amazing thing to see. Why if you actually have the virus and are not contagious, well, it might be possible to...” Wellstone paused.

  “To what?” asked Michael. “Are you talking about a cure?”

  “It’s possible, but again, we need someone who would know more about this than a third year medical student.”

  “And if I don’t have the virus?”

  Wellstone smiled. “Then you’re the luckiest person on the face of the Earth. So it’s pretty good either way.”

  I smiled, but it was to hide my confusion as to why I hadn’t been infected. I sat back in my chair, watching parents feed their young ones. Children, from their early teenager years down to newborns, sat with their little families, living together in the only way they could—virus free.

  “So what’s to come of me? I mean, obviously, most of the Council doesn’t want me here, and the majority of the people probably don’t want me here, either. So why are you allowing me to stay here?”

  No one said anything, but eyes began to fall on Michael, who hesitated, tapping his fingers on the table.

  “We need to get to the bottom of why your tests are inconclusive,” he said bluntly.

  “You mean you want to use me as a guinea pig?”

  “It won’t be like that,” insisted Wellstone.

  “Then what would it be like? Me, sitting on some gurney while you suck out my blood and run test after test? Is that something it would be like?” Everyone looked at me, but didn’t say a word. “That’s what I figured.”

  I was about to get up and storm out of the room, but Clarissa beat me to my feet.

  “And that’s what I figured about you too,” she shot back. “If you are what Doc thinks you are, and you’re too cowardly to help us out, to help out society, then we should’ve never allowed you in here in the first place.”

  She stood and gave me a glare before leaving the table, sliding her chair against the wall with a thunderous crash, which stopped all the other noise in the room as people looked at us.

  After a moment, I left the table too, going back to the women’s quarters.

  Chapter Ten

  I was angry as I made my way past the lady at the front desk. I was going straight to my room, my cell, away from everyone, most of whom didn’t want me and the others only wanted to use me for what they thought might be a cure.

  I started up the flight of stairs, but met Stacey on her way down.

  “Hey, where have you been?”

  “Oh, hey. Just some meeting where Dr. Wellstone explained to me about the virus, you know, how SA8 attacks everyone differently.

  “SA2 here,” she said raising her hand. “Meaning I’ll eventually kill myself if I ever get the virus.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “Of course, not here, anyway. But you looked angry. Was Doc being a jerk to you? Sometimes he’s like that when he hasn’t had his morning coffee.”

  I giggled. “No, no, it wasn’t that. It was just, well, it doesn’t really matter.”

  “Well, hey, if it doesn’t really matter, then why don’t you come down with me to the range and we’ll fire a few rounds off? We always need practice, just in case.”

  “You mean, practice shooting? No, I think I’ll just go lay down for a while.”

  “Nonsense. You start lying around here and boredom sets in. And when you get bored, you get antsy. That’s when you do something stupid. So let’s go shoot some targets, all right?”

  She grabbed me around the arm and down the stairs we went, to the end of the hall and finally to a door that read “Authorized Personnel Only.” Taking out a metal tag she wore around her neck, she placed it in front of a small window and scanned it. The red light turned green and she pulled me inside.

  “I don’t really have the authority to bring anyone down here, just being a private and all,” she grinned, “but I swiped one of my instructor’s tags just in case I wanted some extra practice. Besides, looks like you needed to get away and this is a really neat place to do so.”

  I didn’t object, but hoped she wasn’t going to get herself in trouble. We went down a private staircase into a darkened corridor, which led under the building.

  “Here is the gun range we’ve built so we don’t have to go out all the time. If you keep going, you’ll find the training facilities, where we in the defensive units learn how to fight. We call it the Alamo.”

  “Why do you call it that?”

  “Means if we’re ever attacked, this is where we make our last stand.”

  “But it’s underground. Is there any other way out?”

  “Not that I know of.” She loaded her pistol with some rounds and I followed her directions to do the same with mine.

  “But, you’ll all be killed. Why would you want to make a stand down here?”

  “Correction, we’ll all be killed, and that’s what a last stand is all about. I mean, I’d rather die fighting than get infected, eaten alive, or tormented. Just like those guys did way back then. That’s where we get the word from.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, well, ask Gloria about it. She’s the history buff. So you know how to shoot, right?”

  “Um, yeah, well, a little.”

  “Show me.”

  We placed the noise mufflers on our ears and Stacey gave me a nod to go first. I pointed the pistol out in front of me, holding it in my right hand, which seemed more dominant and more at ease with the weight than my left. Extending my arm, I pointed the gun at the target and squeezed the trigger. I could still hear the shot, but I couldn’t tell if I had hit anything. Looking down at the paper target, I saw I had hit its outer corner.

  Stacey nodded for me to try again, and this time I lined the front and back sites up perfectly. After I pulled the trigger, I saw a new hole at the bottom of the paper. This time it was in the black, so it at least hit the target, but I was still well off from having any type of shot that would kill a person at this range.

  “Do you wear glasses?” Stacey asked in all seriousness.

  “I don’t think so, but I’m not hitting it all that well, am I?”

  “Maybe it’s your pistol. Let me try.”

  Taking the gun from me, Stacey placed both hands on the gun, pulled it up swiftly, closed one eye and unloaded the weapon’s remaining ten shots. We looked down range and saw a cluster of holes, five in the center of the target and five more in the head.

  “Nope, it works fine,” she mused, handing it back to me.

  “How did you do that?”

  “I don’t know. I point, I shoot, I hit exactly what I wanted to.” She smiled as she reloaded the weapon, making it sound so simple.

  “You are also breaking the rules, Private.”

  We both turned to see Michael leaned up against the entranceway with his arms folded across his chest. Stacey immediately put her weapon down and started standing at attention. Michael came forward, passed me like I wasn’t even there and stood right in front of her.

  “Who gave you permission to brin
g her down here?”

  “No one, sir!” she shouted back.

  “Private, you know the rules. Only instructors and officers are allowed to bring anyone down here, especially a civilian.”

  Stacey said nothing.

  “Did you just bring her down to show off, is that it?”

  “No, sir!”

  Michael stepped back and grabbed the pistols, handing one to Stacey.

  “Well, Private. You’re a good shot in a controlled area. Let’s try something a little harder. Shoot at the target.” Michael stood behind her and raised his gun.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Stacey peeked over her shoulder to see a pistol pointed extremely close to her head.

  “I said shoot the target, Private,” ordered Michael, but she continued to stare at him. His gun fired and I shielded my eyes with my hands as Stacey fell to the floor, but Michael immediately pulled her up by the arm.

  “Shoot the target!”

  Stacey turned and fired and Michael fired again, just behind her, just over her shoulder.

  “Again!” They fired again and again, each time together, each time his hand shifting closer to her head. The percussion whipped her hair around. Finally, both of their clips were emptied, and Stacey dropped her pistol.

  All three of us stood there in silence before Michael ordered her to leave. She did so quickly, silently, her embarrassment and fear turning her face a bright red. Michael stepped forward, still acting like I wasn’t even there, and pulled the target forward. He scanned the paper, a small smile on his face.

  “Why did you do that to her?”

  “It was a test,” he mumbled. “Stacey has to learn that field combat is much different than shooting in the range here. She’s not as good as she thinks she is.”

  “But you didn’t have to humiliate her, not like that.”

  “Being humble is something which keeps you alive. You could teach her that, couldn’t you?” Michael placed another target on the hanger and reeled it out away from us; he then started reloading his gun.