Blackout b-1

by Robison Wells

Aubrey thought back to what the woman had told her after her shower. They were the stragglers. Maybe the rest of her school was already here, in one of the hundreds of olive-drab military tents.

  The bus door opened and the soldier gestured for the group to climb aboard. Aubrey was the last on, and even though there were plenty of empty seats, she sat next to Kara.

  The bus drove east, passing tent after tent. All of them looked the same, with nothing to distinguish them other than a large number stenciled on the canvas. After about half a mile, the bus turned north, tents now on both sides in a seemingly endless array.

  “My cousins are here somewhere,” Kara said. “My mom tried to get her sister to come with us, to run, but she wouldn’t. I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

  “Who was with you at the warehouse?” Aubrey asked. “You hugged someone.”

  Kara shook her head. “I don’t know her, really. We both got caught at the same roadblock.”

  The road was bumpy and the bus was moving more slowly. They weren’t passing the front of the tents now, just the wide windowless sides, and it was harder to pick out the faces of teens.

  Other vehicles were moving among the tents, too. Trucks parked in front of several, some appearing to carry supplies and others picking up garbage.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Kara said, still looking out the window.

  “Sure.”

  “Did you know that Jack was . . . one of . . . ?”

  Aubrey shook her head. “No. And he isn’t. He can’t be.”

  Kara nodded and thought for a moment. “I’ve heard that some people aren’t even aware they have it.”

  “This isn’t like that,” Aubrey said. “He’s not sick. There must have been a mistake.”

  “I mean,” Kara said, talking slowly, “if he’s sick, then maybe he gave it to you?”

  “He’s not sick,” Aubrey insisted.

  “Okay.”

  The bus turned one more time and then stopped in front of Tent 209. A Humvee was waiting for them, and six soldiers stood in front of the door. Slowly, Aubrey and the others filed off the bus, and one of the soldiers directed them into the large tent.

  Aubrey paused just inside the door as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  The layout wasn’t unlike the warehouse they’d left earlier—bunk beds lined the walls, and two tables were in the center. In one corner was a row of shelves, stocked floor to ceiling with boxes. The floor was wood, and sand showed beneath the slats.

  “Everyone please gather in the center of the room,” one of the soldiers said. “Feel free to take a seat.”

  “I don’t know if this is better or worse,” Kara said.

  Aubrey smiled and chose a seat. Kara and Betsy sat with her.

  “When are we going home?” the young boy asked, but the soldier merely pointed him toward a chair.

  A man walked in front of them. He was the first soldier Aubrey had seen who was not wearing fatigues. Instead, he wore a more formal uniform, with a green jacket and tie. Medals and insignias were pinned to his chest.

  “My name is Major Bowman,” he said, his voice soft but emotionless. “You are in Relocation Center Five, Tent 209. I know that this must seem very foreign, perhaps even a little scary, but I assure you, everything that has been done is for your safety.”

  One of the boys, who had been wearing all black before decontamination and sported the beginnings of a thin beard, swore and laughed. “This is not for our safety.”

  Bowman scowled at him and continued talking. “You may have had friends who were detained for further questioning. Trust me—they will be fine. They have showed the early warning signs of a debilitating disease, and it is in the interest of national health to quarantine them temporarily.”

  The boy swore again.

  Bowman took a step forward. “What is your name, son?”

  “Simon Fisher,” the boy said. “So what?”

  “Simon Fisher,” Bowman repeated, staring down at the boy. “You’re a tough guy, huh? Weren’t you found in the freezer of a burger shop? Hiding all alone behind a bag of frozen fries?”

  “We shouldn’t have to hide from the government,” Simon answered. His voice was firm, but he looked unsure of himself.

  “Let me tell you something,” Bowman said, stepping forward and leaning down until his face was right in front of Simon’s. Bowman’s voice remained as calm as before, but it was hard and cold. “You fled the police and military, and you were lucky that you didn’t get shot when we found you. You wouldn’t have been the first. My division has lost more than two hundred men in the past five days, just trying to keep little brats like you alive.”

  Bowman took a step back and again addressed the group. “We have limited manpower here. You’ll notice very few guards. But we’re not going to have any trouble, are we?”

  No one in the group spoke. Aubrey felt sick.

  “Let me be clear,” Bowman said. “We have a method for dealing with those who are causing trouble. Tent 209 can be retested for the disease. And, in my experience, there’s a strange correlation between those who cause trouble and those who get sent to quarantine.”

  Simon opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t say anything.

  “I’ve also found,” Bowman said, sitting on the edge of a table, “that if one person in a tent goes to quarantine, then others in the tent get sent to quarantine as well. So you’ll be well served by keeping an eye on your friends.”

  Aubrey glanced at Kara and their gaze met for a moment. Kara looked terrified, and Aubrey felt the same. If this was what it was like for the Negatives, how were things for the Positives? For Jack?

  Bowman stared at them for a moment, and then stood and turned. He pointed at the shelves in the corner, and a soldier standing next to them. “This is your primary point of contact for all needs. This man will provide you with all necessaries: food, clothes, blankets. If you have a problem, talk to him. He’s assigned to Tents 201 to 220.” He looked back at the group, his eyes meeting Aubrey’s. “Other than that, your orders are to wait. Do not think that you have been forgotten and that you need to register a complaint. You will be returned to your homes as soon as the crisis has passed.”

  The young boy raised his hand. Aubrey cringed, hoping he wouldn’t make Bowman angry.

  “Excuse me,” the boy said. “What is the crisis? No one really knows.”

  Bowman glared at the boy for a moment and then put his hands behind his back. “From our best estimates, 180,000 Americans have been killed in the last three weeks. The origin of the terrorists, if it is known at all, has not been divulged to me. But we do know that the attackers have the illness for which you were all screened, and we know that the illness makes people dangerous.”

  Aubrey’s heart sank, nausea and fear swelling inside her.

  “For now,” Bowman said, his expression slightly softened, “proceed to the supply station. They have orientation packets for you. We’ll get you home as soon as we can.”

  User: SusieMusie

  Mood: Pissed off

  Have you ever seen that movie Chicago? Erica = Roxie, and Sara = Velma. Both should be locked up ASAP. They’re both crazy and they deserve each other. They are a severe, SEVERE pain in my butt.

  TWENTY-ONE

  JACK’S CELL WAS BARE AND cramped, the floor too small for him to lie flat. Other than the miniature size, it seemed like the prisons he’d seen on TV: bare cement and cinder block, steel bars for a door, and fitted with its own steel toilet.

  He’d been there for sixteen hours—the soldiers hadn’t taken his watch or even frisked him. Although two had escorted him down the narrow corridor to his cell, the men seemed almost afraid to touch him, let alone talk to him. He wasn’t a threat in any way—he felt weak and drained of energy, his head still ringing from the noise weapon outside, and his hearing was only now beginning to come back.

  The others in the prison had been a blur as he was marched to his cell. They’d stood at the bars of th
eir cells, calling to him, yelling at the soldiers, but he hadn’t been able to hear a word of it.

  One way the prison was different from the ones he’d seen on TV: it wasn’t segregated. He’d seen both boys and girls in the cells he’d passed, and now he could hear their muffled voices: sometimes talking, often yelling, and occasionally crying. If there was any pattern it was that they were all teenagers. Jack was among the older ones, he guessed, but no one looked more than eighteen or nineteen. The most talkative, a guy named Eddie, claimed he was twenty-one, but Jack didn’t believe him.

  Most of the conversation was about escape, but none of it made much sense to him. The soldiers were keeping them all drugged—some yellow powder that they mixed into the water—so his head felt cloudy, but Jack tried to sort out the details in his mind. Eddie talked about riots in Salt Lake and news reports of a rebellion. Others spoke of a girl who could burn white-hot and still be fine, or a boy who could hold his breath for days.

  But even those conversations were scarce. No one said much at all, other than to curse at the soldiers when they brought in a new prisoner, or to complain about the food.

  Jack hadn’t complained yet. He’d stayed completely quiet. From his cell, he could see only three others—the one directly across from him and the two on either side: numbers thirty-two, thirty-three, and thirty-four. They were all empty. And Jack didn’t feel like talking to anyone.

  He wondered if he’d ever see Aubrey again. No one in the prison knew what lay before them, but all of them agreed that it couldn’t be good. They were being treated like hardened criminals, like violent killers. After treatment like this, no one was just going to let them go home.

  Worse than the thought that he’d never see Aubrey again was knowing that she’d try to rescue him. Two days ago he would have considered Aubrey lost to him—a former friend who couldn’t be counted on for anything. But now she was different. She’d try to get him out, or, worse yet, reveal herself and try to get into the prison with him. He prayed she wouldn’t.

  And Jack didn’t belong here. He wasn’t a Positive. He couldn’t do anything unusual. Something had gone wrong. Maybe there was someone else, someone like Aubrey, who switched the test results. Someone else was marked as a Negative and Jack was a Positive.

  A familiar clank echoed down the hall as the main door was unlocked and opened. It felt too soon for food, but Jack obediently pushed his flimsy plastic bowl under the door for his evening ration.

  Eddie, as usual, was the first to start talking.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got me a lawyer yet?” he said.

  “Shut up, Eleven,” the soldier snapped back. They referred to everyone by their numbers, but Jack didn’t even know what his was. He figured that was a good thing. Stay out of the way and survive.

  “Oh, good,” Eddie continued, “you’re bringing us more friends. What did this one do?”

  Jack couldn’t hear a response from the soldier. Instead, he heard the voice of Josi, another prisoner who seemed to have a little more sense.

  “What’s your name, kid?” she asked.

  “His name is Thirty-One, I bet,” Eddie answered, laughing.

  “What is it?” Josi asked again.

  “Cesar,” another voice said. “Cesar Carbajal.”

  “What do you do?” another one shouted.

  “And what did they do to you?” Eddie added.

  Cesar didn’t answer, but a moment later Jack could hear the screech of metal on concrete as a nearby door opened. He probably was thirty-one, like Eddie had said.

  “Well, welcome to hell, Cesar Carbajal,” another teen said. “Let me tell you how this place works: you stay here, freezing at night and burning up in the day, and no one tells you anything. And then, at some point, you get hauled away.”

  Eddie piped up. “Why don’t you tell Cesar where he gets taken, Private?”

  “That’s Sergeant,” the soldier’s voice barked. “And shut up all of you or I’ll turn on the water.”

  Jack looked up at the ceiling and the sprinkler head that was embedded in the cement. That was the punishment for talking back, and they gave it to everyone, no matter who had been harassing them.

  “Bring it on,” Eddie shouted. “I need a shower.”

  Several of the other prisoners yelled at Eddie to shut up.

  The metal cell door closed with another squeal, and locked into place.

  “We’re getting two more today,” the soldier bellowed. “If I hear so much as a word from any of you, I’m turning it on.”

  A moment later the main door closed.

  “Don’t do it to us again, Eddie,” Josi said. “I can’t take it anymore.”

  “If they weren’t pumping me full of this yellow crap . . . ,” he answered.

  “Then what?” she said, with an unhappy laugh. “You’d punch through the ceiling and fly away?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “What is it you do again?” she said, continuing to needle him. “You never say, but I bet it’s absolutely amazing.”

  There was silence for a moment. Two more, Jack thought, looking at the empty cells across from him. I’m going to get company.

  “What do you do, Carbajal?” another voice called out.

  There was no answer.

  “They drug you in here,” the voice said again. “Valium or Klonopin, or something. It makes you tired, and screws up your head. If you can do something to get us out of here, do it now.”

  Josi jumped in before Carbajal had time to respond. “And if you can do it, it had better be awesome enough to get us all out of our cells, out of this building, and off of this military base. Because if it can’t do that, don’t even try it. You’ll just get yourself shot, and maybe us, too.”

  “I—” Carbajal began. “It’s stupid. It’s a dumb trick. I can count things. That’s it.”

  “You count things?” someone asked. “Big deal.”

  “I mean,” Carbajal said, sounding frustrated, “I can see anything for a couple seconds and tell you how many things are there. Like a bunch of ants, or people in a stadium.”

  “Really?” Josi asked. “How fast? How big?”

  “Pretty fast. And big, but not too big to look at. Like, I tried to count the stars but I couldn’t because I kept having to turn my head to see them all, and that messes it up.”

  “That’s a solid Lam 2,” Eddie said.

  Josi laughed. “You don’t even know what that means.”

  “I told you,” Eddie answered. “I heard it from the guards. Lambda 2 means no military use.”

  “And they explained this all to you?” Josi said.

  “I’m not an idiot.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  Another voice, one Jack didn’t recognize, shouted, “Quiet! He’s coming back.”

  The room fell silent. After several seconds, the main door opened again.

  No one said anything this time, and Jack couldn’t make out much more than the sound of footsteps scraping on the cement. It surprised him that the new prisoner wasn’t even making noise.

  A soldier appeared in front of Jack’s cell, and he could see that two other men were carrying the prisoner this time. The boy appeared to be unconscious.

  They laid him in the cell, slumped in a heap. Jack only caught a glance at the boy’s face, but thought he recognized him from the warehouse. Now all Jack could see were the boy’s feet and lower legs, motionless.

  The soldiers’ boots clunked down the otherwise silent hall. A moment later, the door opened.

  “So you beat him unconscious and now you’re just going to leave him?” It wasn’t Eddie—it was Josi.

  The sergeant yelled back, “I told you to shut up.”

  “This is against the law,” she shouted, and the prison erupted with angry bellows and threats.

  Jack curled up against the wall, and wrapped his arms around his knees. An instant later there was a deep clank and the sound of rushing water. The sprinkler head burst
open, pouring down a hard spray like a wide-mouthed fire hose.

  The water stung his skin, and Jack had to put his face down to be able to breathe. The others’ shouts were drowned out by the noise.

  Oh, Aubrey, Jack thought. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t get put in here.

  They turned off the sprinklers much sooner than usual, and Jack lifted his head to take a deep breath. The water ran out of his cell to a long drain that flowed down the center of the hallway. The drains never could keep up with the volume, however, and two inches of standing water were still in the hall when the main door opened again.

  The long room was silent.

  “Is this where I’ll be staying?” a girl’s voice asked. It was sweet and clear—it didn’t seem to fit in the prison.

  “Right down here,” the soldier responded, with an uncomfortable cough.

  “Okay.”

  Finally they came into view, the soldier and a very tall blonde girl—Nicole. Something about her seemed so out of place in the prison. Everyone else was ragged and filthy and soaked, and Nicole was her usual self: confident, happy, and beautiful.

  The soldier, who appeared to be trying to avoid making eye contact with her, opened the cell door and motioned for her to enter.

  “Thank you,” she said, stepping inside and turning to face him. He paused for a moment and Jack expected him to say something, but then the soldier swung the door closed and locked it. He bent over and set a large bottle of water outside her cell, the yellow tint bright and obvious.

  As the soldier disappeared from view, Nicole flashed a smile at Jack, and then turned to look at her tiny cell. Nicole was taller than Jack, and he guessed the low ceilings and close walls would probably bother her a lot more than they did him.

  The door closed with a bang, and Jack waited for the others to start up their usual questions, but the corridor remained quiet.

  Still standing, Nicole turned back to face Jack. The smile was gone from her face, but she still looked surprisingly pleasant. “What happens now?”

  “Nothing,” Jack said, his voice tired and scratchy. “We wait.”

  Something about seeing Nicole was refreshing, even though they had never been friends. But even in this damp prison, with Nicole wearing the baggy, oversized clothes the military had given her to wear instead of her homecoming dress, Jack had trouble taking his eyes off her.