by Pamela Jekel
Her face was pale and still. She slumped in her seat like an old woman. Jack had seen people like this before, after repeated hard losses and shocks. Sky was beginning to take on that look, the stoop of the ever-grieving. She would go on, but her spirit would be broken. She might smile, but it would never add any light to her eyes. He would give up everything he had to keep that from happening. He remembered someone said once that the soul of parenting was the capacity for sacrifice. At some point, the sacrifices they made to protect their family would be irrelevant; there’d be no family left to protect.
They found the Reporting Station loading area, were sent up the ramp of the multi-story parking structure, and as they pulled into a space, they saw soldiers directing traffic and moving crowds of people along who looked just as desolate as they felt. “Gather your belongings,” a soldier said to Jack as he got out of the car, handing him a tag with a number. “I need your keys, sir.” He tagged Jack’s keys with a matching claim number and tossed the keys back in the car. “Keep your children by the hand, and proceed to the intake area. Do you have any pets?”
“No sir,” Jack said, eyeing the holstered weapon on the soldier’s hip. “What happens to the car?”
“Your car will be moved to a holding area.” The soldier glanced in the car as they left it, checking to be sure the keys were in place and nothing else was visible.
Jack asked, “Miranda, can you pull your bag yourself?”
She wiped her eyes, holding tight to her mother’s hand. “Uh huh. Daddy, do I gotta go away too?”
“No.” Skylar’s mouth was tight. She took her wheeled suitcase in one hand and Miranda in the other. “We are staying together.”
As they began to walk, they saw the same scene being replayed with soldiers and arriving cars; some were considerably more distressing to witness. One woman was shouting at a soldier, as he instructed her to leave her dog in the car. “It’s August! He’ll boil in there!”
“We’ll be moving your car with him in it, ma’am. He’ll be dropped off at pet quarantine, and your car will be parked elsewhere. All pets must be left in the vehicles, no exceptions.”
“But he’s had all his shots!”
“Then you’ll get him all the quicker. Keep moving, ma’am.”
The large German shepherd in the car barked at the soldier, barked as the woman walked away, and kept barking anxiously at the people going by. There were answering barks and faint cries from caged cats in many of the cars they passed.
They joined the lines of people walking down the ramp to the parking exit. Jack noticed that no cars were exiting, only coming in. There were no old people; there were no babies. Miranda seemed to be one of the youngest, and she drew stares from families, anguished looks from mothers who must have lost children of their own. And where were all the cars from people who reported the day before? And the day before that? What holding place could possibly handle all these cars? Once Miranda coughed, and a dozen heads turned in her direction with grimaces and frowns. He wanted to shout, “It’s just a cold, damnit!” but he remained silent. He did not want to attract the attention of the soldiers.
The directive from the Advisors said one bag per person, no electronics or weapons of any kind, no jewelry, cameras, cash or other valuables, bring identification, passports and birth certificates, health records and medications. They joined the press of people being organized into lines by the soldiers. “Last name begins with A through F, this line! Last name begins with G through M, that line!”
“I'm thirsty Mama,” Miranda whined.
Skylar handed her a bottle of water.
“All liquids and foods must be consumed before entering,” a soldier said, seeing her. “You’ll be getting meals once you’re registered and assigned to your team. All municipal water supplies have been decontaminated.” Another soldier with a bullhorn was repeating the same information over and over.
Finally, they made their way towards the metal detectors. Jack thought, it was worse than the crowds at Orlando International during Spring Break. Several thousand exhausted parents, fussy kids clutching blankets, everyone inching their way forward with too many bags, squeezing together up and down ramps, through the metal detectors, being wanded, being inspected. He could hear raised voices, saw many sullen eyes, and sensed the barely-contained tempers on all sides. People had to take their shoes off, then put them back on again, leaning on each other for balance, and that made a clog of congestion. Bags fell over, jammed together on turns, and that made congestion as well. There was a huge pile of confiscated electronics: laptops, Ipods, cell phones, and cameras. Their luggage was taken from them, tagged, and they were given claim checks. He wondered how they would ever organize the return of all these bags being carried away to be inspected. If the soldiers had not been there, he would have bolted, dragging Sky and Miranda with him. But to what? Gnawing pine cones in Watkinsville?
He saw an impossibly tall black Atlanta Hawks player at one point and thought he recognized a local television personality; neither seemed to be getting special attention from the crowd or receiving any additional respect from the soldiers. In fact if anything, those who recognized them were as indignant at the celebrities as they were at the guards, as if the fact that stars were in line at all only confirmed that individual accomplishments meant nothing now.
He dared to ask one soldier, a young man who had made the mistake of meeting Jack’s eyes, “Why the weapons? Are we under arrest?”
“No sir,” the soldier said, as though by rote. “We’re here to keep the peace.” He dropped his voice. “There are armed looters in the city, roving bands of survivors. Plenty of dogs, too, most of them starving. It’s to keep them out, not to keep you in. You made the right decision, sir.”
As though to prove his point, a dog suddenly rounded the corner of the chain-link gate that corralled the people and began barking desperately at them. He dropped his head and splayed his legs, his body gaunt, his ribs showing, barking, barking, barking angrily, grating on everyone’s nerves. No leash, no collar. One of the soldiers nodded to another, and the soldier left the enclosure, walked towards the dog, took aim, and shot it.
A collective gasp and wail went through the crowd, and some of the children began to weep. A soldier with a bullhorn announced, “Abandoned pets face slow starvation. It is an act of kindness to end their suffering. Those of you who have brought your pets are the responsible ones.” Parents exchanged glances, attempted to comfort their children, and the lines moved slowly forward.
“When do I get my dog back?” one teenaged boy asked a soldier. “He needs medication every day!” His voice rose and cracked.
“After he’s checked and processed,” the soldier repeated what they’d already heard. “All pets must be quarantined, no exceptions.”
They reached the intake tables where more soldiers checked their documents, clicked bands with coded numbers and last names on their wrists, and as they were putting Miranda’s wrist band on her, she coughed again. “How old is she?” a soldier asked, rifling through their documents to check, even as he asked.
“Six,” Jack said. “She’s just got a cold.”
Ignoring her wails, a soldier pulled them out of line to a different area, where a medic with a white coat took her temperature and checked her tongue, ears, and eyes. Through it all, Miranda screamed as though she was undergoing surgery without anesthetic, and they could do nothing but stand and watch. After the doctor nodded his approval, they were then herded back into the lines which were moving inside the Center.
The World Congress Center was a huge indoor arena, one and a half million square feet of space, and still it felt claustrophobic with the crowds. The lines for the bathrooms were almost as long as the lines to get in the building, and trash cans were overflowing. Tables were set up with bottled water and small gray snack boxes. Jack stood in line, collected water and boxes, found them a place against a wall to lean against, and held Miranda on his lap to save space. Overhead, i
nstructions on large digital signs kept scrolling, and the loudspeaker blared announcements continually. The noise was deafening, and the smells from the bathrooms and the crowds were already noticeable.
“Her number’s not the same as ours,” Sky said, examining Miranda’s wristband.
“I’m sure they put the kids on different teams.”
“Teams for what? What can a six-year old do?”
“I don’t know.” He was suddenly brutally weary. “Maybe pick up trash? For that matter, I’m not sure what half these people are going to do. I never realized how overweight this country was getting. God, look at that woman over there; she must be two hundred pounds.”
“When was the last time you went to a mall?” Skylar picked listlessly at the packaged crackers and soft cheese in her snack box. “What kind of team do you think Chase is on?”
“Remember, they said he’d be in classes? Maybe they put the artistic kids on one team, the music kids on another team…he’ll probably be on a team where they’re building or designing things. That’s his strength.”
“This place is hell,” Sky said. “We’re in hell, Jack.”
“No we’re not.” He took her hand. “We’re together, and we’re going to be safe. This food isn’t half-bad,” he pointed out, rifling through the snack box and pulling out an apple. “I bet it’s worse at the Georgia Dome. All those stairs and not enough bathrooms. I’m glad we didn’t get assigned there. Here, Miranda, you can have my cookies.”
Another announcement came over the loudspeakers, directing everyone to line up at the tables by last names, to get boarding passes for the buses. Once again, they stood in line, had their wristbands checked, received passes, and were moved outside to the parking area where rows of orange school buses waited for them.
Jack looked at their three bus passes. “I think we’re going to Emory,” he said with some enthusiasm. “Look here, all three say ‘EM.’ Maybe they’re going to put us in the dorms.”
Skylar didn’t respond. The buses slowly pulled out, and as they drove through the deserted streets, she murmured, “Where are all the cars?”
“They probably moved them off the streets, so that they could get buses through more easily.” The streets were empty and silent, except for small packs of mongrel dogs who scavenged the gutters. There were piles of trash everywhere, weeds were high in every front yard, no lights on, every house and shop appeared empty. The streets had the sour smell of death and decay.
Now that they were in downtown Atlanta, the shadow of the alien ship was more obvious. It was easier to ignore outside in the suburbs; here, it seemed a dominant part of the landscape.
“God, I hate them,” Jack heard the woman in the row in front of them say to her husband as she craned her neck to look up at the ship.
He wondered if she had lost her parents or a child. There were so few children on the bus that there was none of the usual laughter or playful behavior he associated with school buses. The kids sat solemn and silent as their parents. Miranda seemed to have aged three years in three days. She kept her eyes on the soldier who sat in the front seat and on the one who drove the bus. “It makes sense,” Jack said, “that they’d use the colleges and universities to house us. I mean, Atlanta has Agnes Scott, GIT, Georgia State, Oglethorpe, Spelman, and Emory, just that I can name, probably even more off-campus centers. Plenty of dorms, plenty of space.”
Sky still said nothing.
After twenty minutes of driving, Jack could see that many buses were going in the same direction. The soldier upfront announced, “May I have your attention, people! We are arriving at Emory University.”
Jack grinned and squeezed Skylar’s hand.
“You will be assigned to dorms, according to your teams and other criteria. You will go directly to your dorm, where you will be assigned your room. If you are in the wrong dorm or the wrong room, you will not receive your luggage, which will be delivered to the dorm lounges. You will receive meal passes and linens at registration, as well as the other instructions you need for your team assignments. Any luggage not claimed by eight pm will be collected and destroyed. Please look around you and collect your belongings before you leave the bus. Each member of the family must carry his or her own documentation.”
A woman in the front raised her hand. The bus was coming to a squealing, jerking stop in a vast parking area. Jack could see several dozen school buses jockeying for position and parking.
“You will have an opportunity to ask your questions at assembly after dinner,” the soldier said, waving her off. “Right now, we ask that you unload quickly and move to the registration area. We will be leaving immediately to go back to pick up more people.”
They stood obediently in the aisle, checked around to be sure they’d left nothing, and filed off the bus, where they were directed to another group of tables for registration. A soldier shouted over the bullhorn, “All children must register at these tables! Parents register your children before you register yourselves!”
Sky stopped, frozen, Miranda’s hand in hers. “They’re going to separate us. Jack, they’re going to split us up!”
Jack saw that indeed, people were leading their children to tables where wrist bands were being checked, and the kids were being collected by age into small nervous groups. “They probably put them in different dorms,” he said. “That’s not a big deal, is it? She’ll be on campus with us, with kids her own age. I’m sure they have supervisors or something. They probably can’t put her with the adults. But we’ll all eat together, I’m sure, and we’re still together really---“
Miranda looked from her mother to her father and began to sob.
A soldier said to Skylar, “Please take your child to that registration table, ma’am.”
“But she’s too little!” Skylar protested. “She’ll just cry all night, look at her. She’s too young to be away from her mother!”
Jack could feel her trying to keep calm; she sensed that hysteria was not going to gain her any favors in this crowd.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. She’ll be with children her own age. Many of them are also going to be making those adjustments. No children in the adult dorms. No exceptions.”
Skylar picked Miranda up in her arms and turned to Jack. She just stared at him, and his heart wrenched as Miranda wailed even louder. He took the child from her arms. “Miranda, it’s going to be okay. Look, all the rest of the kids are signing up for their own dorm, too. I need you to be a big girl now, honey. Mom and I are going to be right next door, and we’ll get you settled in your own room, with a nice bed, and kids will be there to keep you company. You’re not the only one, see? That little girl over there? She looks nice, and she’s crying too, but she’s minding the soldiers and her mom and dad. I bet she’s going to be with you in the same dorm.” Miranda twisted herself, sobbing, reaching for her mother.
Skylar looked at him hotly over Miranda’s head, as she gathered her weeping daughter into her arms. When her shushes and rocking had no effect, she said to her, “Stop it. Stop it right now, Miranda.” Her voice was low and tense. “You must obey the soldiers. We can’t help it. If you keep crying, they’ll put you with mean people who will make you stop, and I won’t be able to help you. Do you understand?” Miranda wailed, fighting her arms. “Stop it this minute, Miranda.”
There was something in her mother’s voice that Miranda had never heard before, and she began to struggle to control herself and gulp back her sobs. Ignoring Jack completely, Skylar stepped to the registration table, set her daughter down, and took her wrist and showed it to the soldier in charge. “Miranda Cummings.” Her voice was cold. “She’s six.”
The soldier looked at Skylar and at Miranda. He took their documents, checked off their names, and handed Skylar passes. Jack stepped forward. “Jack Cummings. I’m with my wife.” The soldier took his documents without comment, made more checkmarks, issued another pass, and then said to Miranda, “You’re a lucky girl to be alive. My little girl isn’
t.”
Miranda stiffened; her eyes were wide with fear and bewilderment. “Yes sir,” she whispered.
“Take your child to Thomas Hall; that’s the younger children’s dorm over there,” he pointed, handing them a printed campus map, and a sheet of instructions. “You will be allowed to take her to her room and get her settled. Then report to your own dorm, Turman Hall,” he said, pointing to a dorm across from Thomas. “They’ll tell you where you’ll take your meals and where to claim your bags.” Families behind them were crowding forward to see what was happening, and a soldier stepped forward and moved them back again. “Keep order here,” he said, herding them back into lines.
They walked in the direction of Thomas Hall. It was impossible to ignore the beauty of the campus, the large old trees shading the wide lawns, the beds of bedraggled summer flowers, the brick pathways curving sinuously between the dorms and the dignified campus buildings. He imagined that just a few months ago, these lawns were littered with college kids studying on blankets, tossing Frisbees, kissing in the shade. Now the lawns needed mowing, and the campus was crowded with black and white families, wandering back and forth, trying to get themselves organized, most of them looking dazed and confused. Jack looked up. He could see the alien craft clearly in the sky above them, close enough to cast a shadow, far enough so that few details were apparent. Motionless, it hung there like another dark, flattened sun.
Thomas Hall was a large old brick dorm, with shaded cupolas and benches outside under the trees. Children of all ages with their families were gathering inside the lobby, relieved to get out of the August heat. Several soldiers were organizing the children by age, separating them from their parents and then grouping them according to height, as though for a school photographer. The parents stood by, smiling bravely to their children, waving and encouraging them. Skylar walked Miranda over to a group of kids about her size and said to a black soldier, “My daughter’s six.”
