Blackout b-1

by Robison Wells

  Stale warm air greeted her as she stepped into a long, plain hallway. To her left she could see nothing but blank walls, and to her right were a few doors. A soldier in uniform was coming toward her pushing a filing cabinet on a dolly. Aubrey moved out of the way, leaning back against the hard concrete wall to avoid getting run over, and watched as the man left the building, removing the rock he’d apparently left in the door.

  Aubrey was dizzy now and nauseated. She had to find a place to reappear.

  As quickly as her feet would carry her, she staggered down the hallway, reading the labels on each door. The first she came to was a supply closet—perfect!—but it was locked. The rest seemed to be offices and she could hear voices inside.

  There were voices behind her now, too. Whoever had been in the jeep seemed to be following her in.

  No, not following me. They can’t see me. She felt like she couldn’t even think straight.

  A door opened right in front of her and Aubrey had to jump to avoid running into the exiting soldier. Her movements were sluggish and unsteady, and she slammed into the wall, and then collapsed to the floor.

  I’m going to be trapped in here, she thought, and forced herself to stand again. Her shoulder ached, and she had to keep a hand on the wall for balance as she struggled to get farther down the hall.

  Pain erupted in her head as an alarm sounded and brilliant white strobes began flashing on the ceiling. This couldn’t be because of her, could it? No one could see her.

  She reached an open door and peeked inside. It was some kind of records room; floor-to-ceiling shelves were stacked with color-coded folders. Aubrey didn’t see anyone, and took a few lurching steps in.

  There was a desk, but it was stacked high with boxes and obviously hadn’t been used recently. In fact, other than the door being open, there was no sign that anyone ever used the room. She read the tags on the files, and what she saw dated back ten or fifteen years.

  The alarm was screaming, and Aubrey was losing her vision quickly. Boxes turned into brown blobs; filing cabinets blended into the walls.

  Now needing both arms to keep her on her feet, she moved down the aisles of shelves to the back of the room. Dusty wooden cabinets lined the wall, and she fell to her knees, opening the lower doors.

  Hallelujah.

  There were a few small boxes stacked in the cabinet, but no shelves, and Aubrey climbed awkwardly inside.

  It was a tight fit. Her knees were bent almost to her chest and she had to lean her head and shoulders forward. But, after pulling the cupboard doors closed and reappearing, Aubrey couldn’t help but feel euphoric. Her lungs filled with air and her breathing almost immediately returned to normal. The returning strength in her arms and legs felt warm and invigorating. And, even though she knew she needed to fight it, knew what would happen if she was late to camp that night, she fell asleep.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ALEC APPROACHED A BLONDE GIRL sitting alone in the dirt. A group of kids had cleared a semirectangular space deep in the center of the sprawling tent complex and were playing soccer. The girl seemed to be rooting for someone on one of the teams.

  “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  She looked up, her eyes darting over his bruised and bandaged body. No one ever said no to him like this. He loved it.

  “Sure.”

  It took him a minute to sit, struggling to ease himself down to the sandy earth with the help of only one arm.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “As good as any of us in here,” he said. “My problems are just more visible.”

  The girl smiled at that, and turned her eyes back to the game. A foot of dust hung in the air above the playing field as players fought for the ball.

  “Why aren’t you playing?” Alec asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I just don’t feel like it.”

  “You look athletic.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s not that. I just don’t feel like playing right now. You know how it is—worrying about family and stuff. My roommates are playing. It just—it just doesn’t feel right to play.”

  He nodded and leaned back on his good arm.

  Alec was feeding her images now, memories of a thin, pale-faced boy from her elementary school.

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  She brought her knees up to her chest and hugged them. “Brigham City.”

  “You’re kidding,” Alec said with a fake surprise that he’d now practiced a dozen times in the quarantine zone. “How old are you?”

  The girl looked at him from the side of her eyes. “Eighteen. Why?”

  “Alec Moore,” he said. “Fourth grade. I lived there in the fourth grade.”

  For the first time her eyes seemed to soften. “Really? Alec? Lake View Elementary?”

  “Yeah. I totally recognize you,” he said, and then stared at her, pretending he was trying to remember her name. “It’s . . . it starts with a J, right? Jennifer? Jessica?”

  She laughed—a real, warm laugh. “Emily Townsend. But I think I remember you—Alec Moore. You were a little guy, right?”

  “Not the bulky hunk I am now,” he said with a smile.

  Emily grinned. “That’s amazing. Out of all these thousands of people and the first person I know is someone I haven’t seen since fourth grade.”

  “You weren’t rounded up with friends?” he asked, trying to hide his annoyance. She’d be of more use to him if she had close contacts here.

  “My parents sent me out of town to stay with my aunt down in Fillmore—you know, trying to get away from all the attacks. I didn’t know anybody down there.”

  Worthless, Alec thought. But that’s what he got for approaching a girl sitting all alone.

  He pointed to the game in front of them.

  “Where’d they get a soccer ball?”

  “I heard a soldier found it for them. All these guys are from my tent. They guard that ball like it’s made of gold.”

  He nodded. “I wish they’d give us more to do.”

  “I keep hearing that they’re going to—more games and activities and stuff. If they don’t, we’ll go crazy.”

  Alec leaned forward and rubbed his arm.

  “What happened to you?” she asked. “Did you try to fight when they came for you?”

  “I wish,” he said. “Car accident.”

  He paused for a moment, and then thought of an opening. “You know what sucks? They took me straight from the accident to the hospital, and straight from there to here. I never even got a chance to talk to my family. They have no idea where I am.”

  Emily reached over and touched his arm. “That’s awful.”

  “I just wish I could call them or something,” he said. “To let them know I’m okay.”

  They watched the soccer game—too many kids on the narrow field, crowding around the ball too much to pass effectively. Alec had always liked soccer, and this was an embarrassing display. “It’s been a long time,” Emily finally said, her voice quieter.

  “Since fourth grade?” Alec responded. “Yeah.”

  The players got close to them, kicking and tripping to get at the ball before someone finally passed it tumbling through the dirt toward his own goalie.

  Alec reinforced more memories, all positive. Playing together at lunch time, going to birthday parties, even giving each other Christmas presents.

  Childhood memories were easy, because he didn’t need to focus on the specifics. He’d just insert a tiny fact, add a little emotion to it, and her brain would fill in the gaps. No one was expected to remember fourth grade in any detail, so none of these girls was bothered that they could only remember snippets of Alec Moore.

  “So where have you been since elementary school?”

  “All over,” he said. “Mostly Colorado.”

  I’m going to go for it, he thought. He’d been playing other girls slowly, building trust over more time. But he was tired of waiting.

  “How long h
ave you been in here?” he asked.

  “Four days,” she said, rolling her eyes and then laughing. “I’m ready to go home.”

  He lowered his voice. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.” She met his eyes.

  “I’ve seen people here with things, things we aren’t supposed to have—like the soccer ball. And someone had a radio.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you know of anyone who has snuck in a cell phone? I just really need to call my parents.”

  Emily looked out at the soccer players and was silent for a minute.

  She’s shutting down. I pushed it too fast.

  Her voice was barely a whisper. “There’s a girl in our tent. I don’t know how she got it past the guards, but she’s been using it to keep track of the news. The battery’s running low, though.”

  Alec grinned.

  TWENTY-SIX

  JACK AWOKE TO THE SOUND of screeching metal as his cell was opened. It was the first time it had opened since he’d been put inside, and he was overcome with a feeling of freedom. As he stood and stepped into the corridor he felt as if he could breathe easier.

  Laura smiled at him as he left. “Good luck, Jack.”

  “You too,” he answered.

  Matt wished him well, followed by a couple of other mumbled good-byes.

  As the soldiers led him down the corridor, he looked at the faces of the other prisoners. He was amazed at how terrible they all looked—their clothes were wrinkled, stained with sweat and grime, and their eyes sunken and weary. He had to assume that he looked the same.

  His joints ached from sitting too long on the cement, and his clothes—which had spent days wet and unchanged—chafed his legs and arms.

  At the door the guard placed him in handcuffs, and then attached a thick, heavy bracelet around Jack’s right ankle. Jack didn’t protest; he was exhausted.

  They led him down a short hallway, which didn’t look all that different from the cell block. The floors were still cement and the walls cinder block. There were a few doors, but all of them were closed and unmarked. After about fifty feet they turned right and came to another steel door. The guards opened it and sunlight poured in on him.

  He raised his bound hands to shield his eyes from the bright light and stepped outside. He was in another chain-link walkway, except this one was short. Ahead of him was another cinder-block structure, and a sign on the door said “Assessment Facility.”

  As he crossed, Jack tried to look around and get his bearings, but couldn’t see anything recognizable. The chain-link seemed to stretch on forever, as though there was fence after fence repeating for miles. He wondered where Aubrey was. She was probably home now, safe with the other Negatives. Would that be better, if there were still terrorists on the loose?

  The guards were met at the door by two more men, one dressed as a medic and the other wearing a rumpled suit and a loose tie.

  “Jack Cooper,” his guard said. “One-one-seven-B-G-R.”

  The medic verified the number on both Jack’s wrist and ankle bracelets and then motioned for the guards to bring Jack inside. He resisted for a moment, not because he hadn’t resigned himself to whatever fate awaited him inside the Assessment Facility, but because the sun felt so good on his skin and the cool air smelled clean.

  “Get in there,” the guard snapped, pushing Jack forward. His foot caught on the lip of the door and he stumbled inside.

  “Thanks, Jack,” the man in the suit said. “Sorry about all of this. Hopefully we’ll have you in and out real quick.”

  The guards led Jack into a small square room. The walls and floor were cement, except for one wall which bore a large mirror. In the center was a gurney. Jack felt his heart thump heavily in his chest; this was what everyone told him would happen—dissection and testing.

  “What’s that for?” he said, knowing that he couldn’t fight back against the four men. He eyed the mirror, wondering who was watching.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” the man in the suit said. “We’re going to flush all those benzodiazepines out of your system. Nasty stuff. Sorry about it.”

  Jack nodded and the two guards helped him up onto the gurney. They removed his handcuffs as he lay down, and then wrapped his wrists and ankles with tight leather straps.

  His head was spinning. He didn’t realize just how tired the medicine had made him until he’d had to walk, and even that short distance had winded him.

  The man in the suit appeared at Jack’s side with an IV pump and proceeded to insert a needle into Jack’s arm. With the line set and the machine whirring, he turned to the guards and told them they could go.

  “Sorry about all the trouble,” the man said. “I know how awful this has to seem.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

  The man got a metal folding chair from the side of the room and set it next to the gurney. He sat down. “My name is Dr. Benjamin Eastman. Pleased to meet you.”

  Jack didn’t answer.

  “You’ve got the Erebus virus,” Eastman said. “Sorry about that, too.”

  “I don’t have it,” Jack said. The medicine coursing through his body seemed to take the edge off of his exhaustion, but he still felt weak. Even if the restraints had been taken off his arms he doubted he’d have been able to stand up straight.

  “You have it,” Eastman replied, holding up a sheet of paper with a list of abbreviations and numbers. “The tests are accurate.”

  “I’m not like the other people in there,” Jack said. “They can do strange things. I can’t.”

  “Just because you haven’t manifested any symptoms yet doesn’t mean that you don’t have it.” He set the papers down and then pulled out a stethoscope. He listened to Jack’s chest for a few moments. “Tell me: Have you recently had any traumatic medical problem?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It could be anything,” Eastman said, tucking the stethoscope back into his jacket pocket. “Severe headaches, chest pain, memory loss. Sound familiar?”

  Jack shook his head.

  “High fever? Deafness? Stroke? High blood pressure?”

  “No.”

  “No accidents in the recent past? Car? Bike? Fall on your head? Break your arm?”

  “Nothing. I’m pretty healthy.”

  “Hold on,” Eastman said, holding up a finger as he left the room. The medic was still there, standing at attention in the corner.

  Images of testing moved through Jack’s head—needles, electrodes, scalpels. He wished he could get out, wished he could run. The doctor insisted that he had the virus, and at that moment Jack wished that he did. If only he could vanish like Aubrey. Or if he had strength like Laura’s he could break the leather restraints.

  Eastman returned with a short wheeled cart. He opened a lower drawer and pulled out a scope for looking in Jack’s eyes.

  “Do you know why it’s called the Erebus virus?” Eastman said casually as he peered down at Jack’s eye.

  “Why?”

  “It’s Greek,” Eastman answered. “Erebus was the son of Chaos. You probably know about Chaos. Darkness. ‘The earth was without form and void’ and all of that kind of thing.” He set down the scope and made a note on his paper.

  “What about sicknesses?” Eastman continued. “The flu? Chicken pox? Bronchitis?”

  “Nothing,” Jack said. He wanted to be brave, to stare confidently into the face of danger, but he knew that he must look terrified.

  Dr. Eastman clipped something on Jack’s fingertip, and then inserted a thermometer into his ear. “Anyway, Erebus was the son of Chaos, and most people think of him as the god of shadow. But, the reason that his name was chosen for the virus is because Erebus represents the place between earth and Hades.”

  Jack forced himself to smile. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”

  “Not comforting, really,” Dr. Eastman said, taking the clip off Jack’s finger. “It’s just interesting. People with the Erebus virus are r
eally on the border of humanity—they have strange side effects that make them almost inhuman.”

  Jack stared at the ceiling. The army doctors thought of the prisoners as inhuman. That explained a lot.

  “Of course, it’s not all flashy,” Dr. Eastman said. He was looking at his papers again. “I’ll bet you a dollar that when your symptoms manifest they’re not going to be anything ostentatious. Everyone talks about the big ones—the boy who can run incredibly fast or the girl who can yell at a very high decibel range. But ninety-five percent of people can only do useless things. We had a boy in here just the other day that had hot breath. Imagine that. We measured it and he got up to four hundred degrees Celsius.”

  Jack nodded. He wanted to ask a question, but his throat suddenly felt very dry and his chest was tight with anxiety.

  “On the other hand, we had one of the most amazing young ladies come through this week, too. Simply marvelous. And she’d manifested years ago.”

  Dr. Eastman was quiet for a moment, fiddling with his paperwork.

  “What are the bad symptoms?” Jack finally said. “How serious is this?”

  “That’s another strange thing,” Eastman said. “The negative symptoms are as varied as the so-called good ones. And sometimes the combination is just terrible. I read the case of a boy who had amazing strength—they estimated he could lift ten to twelve times his weight—but he also had brittle bones. Ever since he manifested he’d been in a wheelchair. Imagine that—being able to do something amazing, but knowing that doing it could kill you.”

  “Is this going to kill me?”

  “I’m not going to lie,” Eastman said, looking down at Jack. “We don’t know. The nation’s top scientists are working on it right now. But we have very little data, and certainly not enough to determine a life expectancy.”

  He bent down to one of the drawers and came back up with a handful of brightly colored wires.

  “Now,” he said. “We’re going to see if we can’t get you to manifest.”

  “Will it hurt?” Jack tugged against the restraints, but his arms felt heavy and sluggish.

  “Oh,” Eastman said, attaching the first wire to Jack’s forehead. “It’ll hurt terribly. That’s why I asked about recent injuries. Erebus manifests during periods of intense trauma.”