by Sean Platt
“Why would we want to lock you up?” Williams asked.
Ed stared, confused. His head felt like it was going to crack from the growing pressure. His vision blurred and for a moment, Williams had become two rather than one. Ed squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, then opened them back to minor blurring.
“Are you serious?” Ed said. “You don’t have any idea who I am or what I’ve done?”
“No. Why don’t you tell us.”
“Everything, from the beginning,” Sullivan added.
“My name is Edward Keenan, I work for The Agency. Well, I did, until something happened.”
“The Agency?” Sullivan asked, “You mean the CIA?”
“Yes. Well, a division within it, which you probably never heard of. If you want to know more than that, you’ll need to speak to my superiors. Assuming any are left out there. By the way, while we’re in the Q & A section of this game, mind telling me what the hell happened out there to everyone?”
The two men stared at each other for an uncomfortably long moment.
“What do you think happened?” Williams asked.
“Jesus Christ, can’t you people answer anything?” Ed sighed, rolling his head back.
“I was on a plane,” he said, trying to remember exact details, but his thoughts grew fuzzier as the pain in his head intensified. It sounded like bees were buzzing behind his ears.
“When?” asked Williams.
“When what?” Ed asked, confused.
“When were you on the plane?”
“I don’t know, a few nights ago. Late Friday, early Saturday morning.”
Williams flipped some papers on his clipboard, then said, “On the 15th?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Ed said, thoughts slurred like he was drunk or something.
The two men exchanged another glance. Though his head was pounding and the men who grabbed him were with the government in some capacity, Ed no longer thought they were Agency. At least not his division. Their confusion seemed suddenly sincere. Knowing that made it easier to comply and answer their annoying questions.
“I fell asleep. When I woke, the plane had crashed, and I somehow survived. When I went to see if anyone else had made it, there was no one. No bodies, no survivors. It was like I was the only one on the plane when it crashed.”
“Then what?” Sullivan said.
“The world was a ghost town, no matter where I went. I grabbed a truck and started to drive. That’s when I ran into the girl, Teagan. She said she was in the back seat while her parents were driving home from vacation. Something happened, she said, this black cloud or something in the car, and the next thing she knew, her mom and dad vanished.”
“Vanished? Can you elaborate?” Williams asked.
For a moment, Ed was drawing a blank, as if someone had deleted the memory from his head. And then, the next moment, it was back, in full clarity.
Ed continued, “One second there, and when the cloud disappeared, so did they. Anything more, you’ve got to ask her. Like I said, I wasn’t there. And I didn’t see anyone on the plane vanish, though I assume they did, because I was sleeping.”
“What else can you tell us about yourself, Mr. Keenan? Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“And your wife’s name?”
Ed paused for a moment, not sure why it was important. But the intel wasn’t classified, and their split was public record in the Agency. “Julie. We split a few years ago.”
“And Jade is your daughter?”
“Yes.”
The two men looked at each other again, and finally Ed ran out of patience.
“Okay, I told you everything you’ve asked me. Now, it’s your turn to answer some questions.”
“Fair enough, Mr. Keenan,” Williams said, “But we’re not at liberty to say much more than we have.”
“Fuck that,” Ed said, “Then find me someone who can answer questions.”
“We’ve arranged that,” Williams said, “Someone will be in to speak with you shortly, and they’ll answer all your questions. In the meantime, I’d like to thank you for your cooperation.”
“Can you at least tell me where the hell we are?” Ed asked.
Williams looked at Sullivan, who nodded.
Williams said, “You’re at Black Island Research Facility.”
Seventy-Three
Brent Foster
Brent had never been happier to see a ferry.
They raced to the docks, duffels in hand, loaded with supplies and the smaller weapons Luis had on hand. They weren’t carrying weapons on their person for fear of being mistaken for threats in what would likely be a clamped-down ferry ride to Black Island.
They were met by four armed men in black uniforms with unfamiliar emblems on their shoulders, standing guard at the end of the dock where the ferry was tied. The men were wearing some sort of masks. They seemed like military to Brent, which was a good sign because they could likely handle the aliens, if any more showed up.
But something about the soldiers caused an uneasy feeling to creep through Brent’s insides.
“Please put your bags down and stand with your arms in the air,” one of the men said through his mask.
All four rifles were on them.
“We’re just here for the ride to Black Island. We heard the radio broadcast,” Brent explained.
As they set their bags down, one of the soldiers stepped forward, rifle no longer aimed at them, but at the ready.
“Have any of you been bitten?” the soldier asked.
Jane and Emily shook their heads and said “No.” Brent did the same. Luis had no response.
What? Why is he saying no?
“Sir, please respond; were any of you bitten?”
Luis glanced at Brent, then shook his head no.
Why are you lying?
Brent’s uneasiness escalated.
“I need you all to remove your clothing, all of it, and step forward, to this man right here,” the soldier said, pointing to a fifth man in black, who was standing at the dock entrance. The man had no gun, but instead, some sort of high-tech looking flashlight. “Step forward one at a time, as I call you,” the man said.
“Our clothing?” Jane asked, “Why?”
“Just do it,” one of the men snapped, in a voice unwilling to compromise or coddle.
Jane undressed Emily, who asked, “Why are we getting naked?”
“It’s okay,” Jane said. “It’s okay, baby.”
Luis glanced at Brent, shaking his head, almost in accusation that Brent should have let him leave.
They undressed, each of them stripped not only of their clothing, but their dignity at the hands of the soldiers. Brent’s guts were turning as he exchanged another glance with Luis, trying to apologize with mere expression.
A soldier came and collected their clothing, throwing it into a large, thick, black plastic bag. “You’ll get assigned new clothing on the ferry,” a soldier said.
Assigned? Like prisoners?
“The kid.” A soldier barked. “Send her forward.”
Emily took a hesitant step forward, and Jane attempted to follow.
“Just the girl,” the main guy snapped, aiming his rifle at Jane.
“Mommy, I’m scared,” Emily called out, not wanting to move.
“Go!” the soldier snapped, pointing for Emily to step forward.
“It’s okay,” Jane said, clutching her arms across her chest. “Mommy’s right here.”
Emily approached the man with the weird light device. He turned it on. It seemed like a black light, except the light was a deeper, truer, brighter blue. He waved the wand over Emily’s entire body, head to toe.
“She’s clear,” the light-wand guy said. One of the armed soldiers put a black gloved hand on Emily’s shoulder and led her to a spot right at the steps. The man handed the girl a black blanket to wrap around herself.
“You,” the guy in charge said, pointing at Jane.
She
stepped up, then closed her eyes. As the wand went over her chest, something buzzed, and a light on the device went red.
The gunmen immediately turned to Jane, rifles aimed at her.
Emily cried out, sensing the danger, and tried to run toward her mom. The soldier next to her grabbed her, dropped to a knee to lower himself, and held back the child.
“What’s wrong?” Jane cried.
That’s when Brent noticed the scar running down the center of her chest; Brent figured from heart surgery.
The soldier with the light turned some dials on the device, then ran the light over her again, slowing when he reached her chest. The red lights didn’t go off this time.
“Okay,” he said, “clear. Please move forward.”
Jane joined her daughter, face red with either anger or embarrassment. Jane took Emily from the soldier’s arms and picked her up, holding her tight. She was also given a blanket to wrap herself in.
Luis stood in front of Brent, next in line. Brent looked over Luis, trying to see any signs of the things Luis had seen under his skin. Luis’s left arm spasmed, twice. Luis stared straight ahead, either not noticing or trying to hide the spasms.
Brent’s heart pounded hard as he glanced around at the gunmen, each of their rifles aimed at him and Luis. If something went down, they couldn’t do a thing. No Rambo-like theatrics or last stands in Times Square. They’d be shot down like prisoners in old war footage Brent had seen years ago.
“Okay, you’re next,” the man in charge said, using his rifle to point at Luis, and then to the man with the light.
Brent swallowed.
Luis glanced back at Brent. “Keep believing,” he said to Brent.
“Sir, please step forward.”
Keep believing? That he’ll be okay? Or is that a goodbye message, to keep believing I’ll find my family?
This was all happening too fast. Brent glanced at Jane and Emily, standing helpless, rifles aimed at them, the girl crying and clutching her mother, who could do nothing to truly protect her against men with guns.
Luis stepped toward the man in the light, but before he got there, he stopped, turned to the man in charge, and said, “I’ve been bitten.”
Brent felt his stomach drop.
The soldiers all aimed their rifles at Luis in unison. The man in charge yelled into a radio in his mask, “We’ve got an infected!”
On the ferry, Brent saw four more men with guns appear, forming a barrier to prevent anyone from rushing onto the boat.
“When were you bitten?” the man with the light asked, keeping his distance from Luis.
“Yesterday, mid-morning.”
“Jesus!” one of the soldiers said.
“Code red!” the man in charge yelled, panic in his eyes, and two soldiers rushed at Luis, rifles aimed, then shot him. Once in the head, a second shot ripped through his chest. Luis fell to the ground before anyone had a chance to protest. Another man in black came from the boat holding a large device which Brent didn’t recognize until it shot flames which engulfed Luis’ body.
Brent stared in horror, helpless, stunned, tears flooding his eyes, mouth agape.
Jane and Emily screamed, as the gunmen turned to Brent. He barely saw them, eyes transfixed on the fire.
“Have you been bitten?” the man in charge asked, snapping Brent’s attention back to the threat before him.
“No,” Brent shook his head, taking a deep breath. “I swear.”
“Move forward.”
Brent moved to the man with the light. As the man ran the light over Brent’s feet, Brent stared at the burning man that had been his friend. And who had saved his life.
I’m so sorry.
A creeping fear burrowed into Brent’s brain.
What if I somehow got infected by Luis? They’ll just shoot me dead right here. No questions asked.
And I’ll never see Ben or Gina again.
And that’s when he remembered the truck in his pants pocket, which was now gone with the clothes, sealed up in a bag, destined for God knows where.
Stanley Train!
Tears now flowed down his face as his last physical tether to his child and the world before had been severed.
The light moved up, now at his knees. Brent held his breath, dreading the red lights or buzzing sound. The light was now at his waist, and the device made a noise that sounded like interference. Emily cried out. Brent closed his eyes.
Please, God, don’t let me die here. Please, I beg you. I just want to see my family again.
The interference grew louder, and Brent swallowed, certain he was drawing his final breath as he stared at the fire that might soon take him.
The man lowered the light, then went back over the spot. No noise. He finished the sweep, then told Brent to join the others.
Brent released a sigh of relief as he walked to Jane and Emily and was given a blanket.
“We’re going to Black Island Research Facility,” the man in charge said. “You will not bring any belongings with you. You will be checked once every eight hours for infection for the next three days. If you show positive, you will be shot and incinerated. We cannot allow any infection at the facility, is that understood?”
Brent and Jane said yes. Emily continued crying.
“Let’s get out of here,” the man said.
As they moved forward, Brent looked back one last time at the burning corpse.
You were right, buddy.
Seventy-Four
Jim Martin
Jim was surprised to find himself missing television. Not that he’d regularly watched much TV to begin with. Though the blue light beamed from thin, black boxes in nearly every room in his old house, he’d never held much of an interest, even as a kid.
Sure, he loved the best the idiot box had to offer: LOST and 24, plus cool cable shows like Dexter, The Walking Dead, and Breaking Bad, but most TV was crap and he knew it, made by producers who pulled the levers at the Crap Factory. Reality shows were cheaper than decent drama, and money meant more than legacy, so crap kept piling on top of crap until 1,000 channels were broadcasting little but stink.
Jim would rather read, or watch a good movie. He loved stories, adventure, the never knowing what would happen next. TV was too predictable. Sure, movies were mostly formulaic, too, and so were books for that matter, but the thing good books and movies had that bad TV didn’t were the quality of the questions they asked.
Even the cheesiest sci-fi books, done well, left you with questions of who we are and where we came from, or even better, where we’re going and how we might get there.
But Jim wasn’t craving questions now; he wanted pure, unadulterated junk TV like sugary cereal on a Saturday morning spent watching cartoons — back when there were decent cartoons on TV, that was.
He made a face at the blank screen in his hotel room where he’d gone to try and take a nap even though it wasn’t even 1 p.m. “Oh, TV, why hast thou abandoned me in my hour of need?”
Nobody was around to appreciate his humor, so he laughed at his own joke, then headed to the bar, to pour himself a drink. Then he thought better of alcohol, and headed toward the stairwell instead. Jim didn’t care for drinking, not much anyway. Weed was much better. Alcohol usually made him sad, or sleepy. Herb expanded his mind, got him to ponder the size of the universe and his place in it. And other times, it made him laugh his ass off. But never did he have a bad weed experience or wake up wishing he’d not smoked so much.
Some comedian once said if weed were a legal drug marketed on TV, it would be called “Fuck it All” or something, which seemed appropriate — it helped him to ignore the shit that everyone else stressed out about, and think about bigger picture sorts of stuff. Important stuff.
Jim decided to head to the second-story window, which had the best view of the parking lot. Might as well watch the sea of bleakers while enjoying a bowl or two. As he climbed the stairs, he pulled the baggie from his pocket and sighed.
Shit, not much
left.
Jim had enjoyed a steady diet of daily doses since he first turned 15 and Walter Hawking gave him a dime bag to celebrate. He had never even considered a future without weed. He would need to find more. And after that, he’d need to learn how to grow the shit.
Farmer Jim in da house.
Jim opened the door to the second floor and was surprised to find the window view occupied by Buzz Kill John Boy himself. Fuck me.
Jim had hoped to run into Will again, with whom he had shared some weed earlier and had a great conversation. The likelihood of John providing an interesting conversation was about the same as Jim running into a frightened supermodel in need of some companionship tomorrow.
John turned back to Jim and then back to the scene outside, without saying a word. Though it was lunch time, the world outside was darker than midnight. Heavy, swirling, black clouds churned low in the sky.
“That is fucking awesome,” Jim said.
“It is, isn’t it?” John said, with the hint of a smile on his lips. “So why aren’t you eating lunch with the others?”
“Wanted to smoke myself into oblivion and take a nap if we’re not leaving this place.”
“Is that how that works?” John asked.
Jim laughed. “No, not really. But this latest stuff does seem to make me sleepy. It’s called Jade, from my buddy Walter. He gets it from California because his older brother lives out there. He’s trying to be an actor, or was trying anyway. He uses his medicinal marijuana card to make ends meet, including weekly shipments back home to Walter. Big business, at least for a high-schooler. They split the money, 50/50. Walter wanted to buy a car, but figured even if his parents were stupid, they weren’t too stupid to believe he could afford a new X-Terra just from mowing lawns, so he’s been stashing cash for two years. For all the good it did him.”
John continued to stare, silent.
Jim sprinkled a few dried buds into the basin of his pipe. “Even though he always gave me a deal and a half, I was still one of Wally’s best customers. Of course, looks like I’m gonna need a new hookup now! Oh shit, I should’ve thought to raid Wally’s house! I would’ve had enough shit to last me at least a couple months. Hell, maybe enough for all of us, knowing what Wally had stashed away!”
