by J. P. Castle
“Yeah, right, hahaha,” said Bastian.
Both knew if Rani ever owned a house, she’d have a high-tech kitchen full of gadgets she rarely used. The cupboards and fridge would be stocked with microwave-friendly meals—for emergencies—’n the rest . . . takeout containers.
Bastian’s mind wandered.
So, what do we talk about . . .? I don’t speak Seng’s native language—chemistry. ‘N I’m positive he doesn’t want to mull over the top ten names on the juicy gossip list this week.
“Displaced shore dwellers from the parking garages in Denver are moving into the new underground development at the edge of town. My parents said there’ll be more of those soon. They’re afraid the settlements might draw crime to our area,” said Bastian, hoping this would suffice for decent adult conversation.
Change crept into Breckenridge slower than other towns in Colorado, due to the town’s location. But even with decades between Mr. Seng and Bastian, both recognized changes occurring faster now, threatening their way of life.
Extreme environmental conditions continued to wreak havoc on the infrastructure. And last week, a tremendous storm pummeled the East Coast—again. Hurricane-force winds dumped nineteen inches of rain in the region. In the past, floodwaters usually receded after a week. That didn’t happen this time, not with the new stationary sea levels. Parking garages sheltered those in need until the government could erect more underground sanctuaries to aid the vast influx of people.
“Truth is Bastian, Washington had years to plan for this, but neglected their duties—too busy rubbing each other’s faces in the mud. It’s gonna be . . . way more crowded. A real population boom to go along with earth’s other problems. We may have to join the colony on Mars before it’s all over.
“Manufacturers and the government flat ignored the poles disappearing right before their very eyes. Sprayed aerosols. Belted toxic fumes in the air. Supplied an endless array of colorful gas guzzlers to choose from. Cranked out as many disposable plastic containers as possible. Kept grazing more ‘n more cattle to feed the ever-growing masses. Do you realize it takes about thirty-five hundred gallons of water to make a single hamburger by the time it reaches your plate? Most have no idea what it actually takes to keep our food supply going.
“I’m sure your generation will endure many changes, same as mine has. I’ve preached it enough in class. Fracking destroyed 15 percent of our water supply after companies pumped millions of gallons of acetone into the ground. Such gluttonous idiots, all for the extra dollar. Wildlife in those areas died off. People got strange cancers, animals too, only then did they stop that insanity. That was a little before your time.
“The majority only care about their own selfish gratification. Gosh darn, don’t get me started, I didn’t mean to ramble on. My goal this weekend is to relax ‘n enjoy this trip with my favorite bunch of kids. I will say, though, your parents are correct. Crime will definitely intensify when resources and space start to further wane.”
Bastian’s thoughts floated away from the world’s problems. He strained to focus further ahead. “Hey, is that a roadblock?”
He and Mr. Seng identified several armed soldiers at the town’s entrance. Mr. Seng pulled up, slowing to a crawl where a bulky barricade, encompassed by barbed wire, blocked the road. A soldier peeked down at the van’s local tags. He waved Mr. Seng on through without explanation. Mr. Seng didn’t stop to ask questions; his stomach alerted him a couple of miles back—dinner time neared.
A mixture of stores lined the street. Some boasted modern construction; others maintained well-preserved historical brick. Vigilant patrons chattered amongst themselves from inside. Others rubbernecked out the windows in silence, trying to catch a glimpse of the action. Soldiers directed people, in a steady manner, toward white military tents. Fliers floated through the breeze; others littered the sidewalks.
Mr. Seng drove past a park bench where a man laid curled up in the fetal position. Not a sight one would typically encounter here in Breckenridge. The flurry of activity . . . very unusual for this time of year.
“There wasn’t a roadblock here when we left earlier,” said Bastian.
Mr. Seng grimaced and eyeballed the rearview mirror. “That’s funny, soldiers allowed me ‘n you to pass the barricade into town but won’t let Mrs. Jonesy out. She’s turning around. How’d they set those tents up so fast? Humph, hard to say. Maybe they’re on some detail to aid a politician. Election time isn’t that far off.” But then, if it isn’t dangerous, why do they have those guns?
“Did you pack extra bug-spray? I forgot mine.”
“Of course, Bastian. I figure Rani will bathe with it and use a whole can of the stuff all by herself. At least it’s environmentally safe. And DON’T tell her what I said. That’s the last thing I need today. She reminds me of a little bird at times that just won’t stop chirping,” he briefly mumbled under his breath, “one you want to feed to the cat.”
“Hahaha, I won’t.” Finally, someone to share in my misery, hilarious.
It amused Bastian that Mr. Seng truly understood how difficult Rani could be at times. Though, in his mind, her plump, pouty lips, and sweet kisses generally made up for it.
The aggressive soldiers drew Bastian’s attention once more. A few citizens decided to back away from a line they’d formed at one of the tents. Soldiers promptly shoved them back, clobbering some down to the pavement.
“Why are they being so rough? Are those people in trouble?” Bastian gripped the armrest and straightened himself in his seat.
The scene intensified further into town. Mr. Seng pushed the lock button down on the door panel. “We’d better slide off to the back-alley entrance over there. We need to figure out what this fuss is all about. The atmosphere around here concerns me. Whatever this is, let’s find the missing food container and get back to camp. Hopefully, this mess will be gone by the time our weekend trip is over,” he said.
The view cleared approaching the turn down the alley. Populous volumes of people now gathered beside the tents. Some flailed their arms in the air to protest, angry at the treatment of fellow residents.
Bastian rolled a pencil back ‘n forth between his fingers. “Their words are muffled; I can’t make out what they’re shouting. What’s happened? Did we miss something?”
“I’m not sure. I went to the city council session last night, no one mentioned any special events. I didn’t leave early either,” said Mr. Seng.
Neither recalled the military ever showing up in Breckenridge with guns—or without, for that matter. Many generational families lived here with deep roots and well-documented histories. Folks in this town preferred quiet, simpler ways of life. They’d declined a lot of outside modernization pushed upon other cities in Colorado.
The pair wheeled into the back lot of the school. A welcomed stillness greeted them there. Mr. Seng slid his I.D. card through the security system and followed up with the required retinal scan.
A few strides down the hall, sneakers pounded from behind, squeaking on the freshly waxed floor. Bastian and Mr. Seng turned to face the noise. Two boys charged straight at them. Mr. Seng reached up to scratch the few gray hairs left on the side of his head. Alarm bells sounded in his brain when he noticed the whites of the boy’s eyes and the distress on their pale faces.
“Hey, how’d you boys get in here? Schools closed,” said Mr. Seng in a stern voice.
“Open window on the side, broken latch, it’s always open here . . . read this, it says something about a virus. They want everyone to check-in—in these tents up the street. But when Mr. Bowman said he wasn’t gonna do it, they beat him down in front of everybody. Threw him right into the back of a truck totally knocked out. I ran. Ran straight to the charge arcade to get Ledger. We came here. Just got here. Can’t find my dad. Thought he’d be in here,” said Carter, heaving in some much-needed oxygen. He repeatedly shifted from one foot to the other.
Mr. Seng knew Carter, an honor student, lanky with sho
rt blond hair, not the type to break into a school or cause trouble.
“Take a breath, son, breathe. Are you boys sure that’s what you observed? Sometimes situations are simply misconstrued,” said Mr. Seng, always a man of clear adjunct logic. He carefully read over the flier Carter handed him.
“It’s true, Carter’s right. Mr. Bowman got plowed in the face by the butt of a gun. Those soldiers threw him in that truck rag doll style. It was clear they didn’t care whether he lived or died.
“Other soldiers set up those tents like marathon runners this past hour. They made an announcement about some mandatory vaccine,” said Ledger. His voice had matured to manhood over the summer. The timbre resonated much deeper than Carter’s.
Mr. Seng also knew Ledger. A trustworthy kid from a rough family that made decent grades. Ledger Thomas, the loner type, wore his black leather jacket to school every day with a white t-shirt and faded, ripped jeans. He always kept to himself in the back corner of the classroom.
Carter chimed back in, “Yeah, people started to go nuts. They started . . . crying, cussing, fighting. Soldiers made some kids go into this other tent, too—never did come out. People from school. Who knows what happened to them?”
The swift conversation heightened Mr. Seng’s concern even further. The boys had witnessed a scene that disturbed not only them but now him too. He placed one hand on each of their shoulders.
“Okay, okay, calm down, I’m sure we’ll find the underlying cause of this. Come on, let’s go to the lab.”
The boys followed Mr. Seng up the stairs and down the darkened hall.
“No one was sick here in town when we left. At least I didn’t notice, I even went to the pharmacy earlier for my blood pressure medicine. Old Mac never mentioned any virus. Had his head buried in the newspaper when I walked in. In fact, he said it had been a slow day. Said he couldn’t wait to get home for a nap,” said Mr. Seng, opening the door to the lab.
“One soldier said something about Martial Law, what’s Martial Law? What’s that even mean?” said Carter, shrugging his shoulders upward in a state of disbelief.
“It means the military has total control, even over the police. Stay back away from the window, boys. Let me have a gander,” said Mr. Seng.
An unobstructed view existed over Main Street from the second-floor lab. Mr. Seng concealed his presence along the side of the window. He gently pushed the blind back and cautiously peered through the light fog looming over the street. The dreary weather, a regular occurrence in Breckenridge, made it difficult to survey. Still, Mr. Seng discerned the bedlam raging below. Wow, this is obviously worse than I thought.
CHAPTER TWO
The First Murder
MR. SENG’S MENTAL computer worked rapidly, analyzing the visual data. Soldiers swung guns around in a violent fashion. Military dogs barked on command to instill fear. German Shepherds lunged toward frightened citizens. People swiftly exited various tents with white hospital bracelets on. Some rubbed their upper arm—soothing the sting from the needle stick. Mr. Seng’s stomach lurched. Are we going to be able to get out of here?
A soldier jabbed local feed mill owner, Brad Harris, in the stomach with the butt of an assault rifle, crumpling him to the concrete. He scraped his boots back ‘n forth with his mouth draped open, gasping for air while his diaphragm spasmed from the blow. Locals rushed over and aided him back onto his feet.
Two men lumbered down on the street corner. One raised a hand to his forehead, then to the side of his cherry-red cheek. The guy standing beside him paced in circles holding his abdomen. Their condition deteriorated in real-time, the warm blush color on their faces exchanged for eggshell white. Both men turned with haste toward the bushes behind a stop sign, vomit spewed from their mouths. Each donned a white bracelet on their right wrist.
Panic set in, people covered their mouths with handkerchiefs. Some kneeled. Prayed right in the street for delivery from this madness. All manner of order lost in the chaos. A tingling sensation crawled down Mr. Seng’s crooked spine, the hair stood upon his neck. I’ve lived in this town my entire life, and for the first time ever, I don’t feel safe.
A loudspeaker blasted its message.
“Attention. May I have your attention, please. No one can enter or exit your town. All roads have been blocked. This is for your safety and that of the Nation. Anyone caught trying to leave will be arrested. Please come to the nearest tent to get vaccinated. It will protect you from a virus that is present in your town—which is officially under quarantine until further notice.
“Tomorrow we will go door to door to make sure everyone has complied. If you begin to experience flu-like symptoms, cough, headache, fever, chills, nausea, general malaise, come to the red tents for further evaluation. The gymnasium in the high school will serve as a makeshift hospital. Please cooperate peacefully. This is a stressful time, and we are here to help.”
Mr. Seng rubbed the top of his head—again—in awe. His eyes darted left ‘n right as he tried to make sense of the situation. “Boys, it has finally hit the fan. I’m not one to go against the grain, but we gotta get out of here. We’re not sick. Have you two been around anyone sick?”
“No. We didn’t notice any sick people before they got here either,” said Carter.
Mr. Seng lost himself, momentarily speechless. Until today, total calm would describe the single emotion he ever expressed publicly. His mind—rattled now—raced.
“We must get back to camp, back to Mr. McCrady and the others, even if it’s on foot—pronto. I mean, RIGHT NOW. There is no time to waste.”
He inspected the street below once more from the window. This time he saw a group of soldiers entering the first floor of the school. A whiteness washed over his face. His trembling hand released the blind.
“Mr. Seng, what’s wrong? What’s out there?” said Carter, biting his upper lip.
Mr. Seng, still in a trance, didn’t respond. How are we going to get out of here?
Bastian placed his hand on Mr. Seng’s upper arm. “Mr. Seng? Are you okay? Talk to us,” he said.
“There’s no time. Hide, boys. Hurry. In the cleaning closet, they’re coming. Armed soldiers. They’ve bypassed security somehow. They’re in the building. If we’re separated for any reason, take the corridor hall to the rear exit, and get back to camp if you can. Whatever you do, don’t come back here. I’m not sure what this is, but I don’t recall anyone in our town being sick all week . . . I mean . . . not that I recognized. I’m not sure what’s going on out there, but it’s not good.”
“What about you?” said Bastian, with a furrowed brow.
“Swiftly now,” said Mr. Seng. “I’ll be fine.”
Mr. Seng rifted off one last voice text to Mr. McCrady. With haste, he removed the wrist-unit and shoved it deep into his pocket. Huddled together inside the janitorial closet, the boys froze every muscle still as a mouse.
Bastian’s heart rate sped up, he swallowed hard. What if they find Mr. Seng? What if they find us? And what did he mean by that text he sent Mr. McCrady? Does he think we’re gonna die?
Cold chills slivered down their backsides, beads of sweat gathered on their foreheads. They squinted through the wooden slats of the door, listening to footsteps approach from down the hall. Mr. Seng attempted to hide in his over-stuffed supply closet. There wasn’t enough room. He turned back toward his desk just in time to see the lab door spring open.
“You there, are you alone?” said the gruff soldier.
“Huh, I can’t hear so swell anymore. What’s that you said?” Mr. Seng held one of his wrinkled hands up to his ear, stalling for time to think.
“ARE YOU ALONE?”
“Oh yes, yes, finishing up some quizzes. Can I help you?” Nervous, he bent over and fiddled with some papers on the desk.
“You need to come with us to get vaccinated. It’s for your protection.”
“Vaccinated for what? I have all my shots. I’m going to stay right here. What’s the vaccination fo
r anyway? Is it something contagious? Why don’t you all have masks on?” he said, plopping down in his chair.
“There’s a virus in Breckenridge, and we’re already vaccinated. This isn’t an option, old man. Let’s go.”
“Is it airborne or contact or what . . . what’s it called?”
“It’s time to go,” insisted the gruff soldier in a hateful tone. He reached down to take Mr. Seng by the arm.
Mr. Seng pulled his arm back in defiance.
Bastian balled his fist. Ledger touched his hand, looked him in the eye, and shook his head no.
“You are pushing your luck today, old man,” said the gruff soldier.
Mr. Seng stood up from his chair, aggravated. “This is still America. It’s my choice not to partake in—”
BOOM. A shot blasted out from the Lieutenant’s military issued weapon. Before Mr. Seng could process that he’d been hit, a second bullet entered two inches left of the first. Blood spatter covered the chalkboard. He clutched his chest and buckled to his knees.
Mr. Seng collapsed on the floor of the classroom he’d taught in over thirty-five years. The final breath left his body, with one fading sigh. That gleeful shine always in his eyes—gone, erased forever. His last visual in this life, a soldier, poised over him with a gun.
Bastian didn’t even blink. Am I dreaming? Why did they do that? I should’ve helped him, but how? They have guns. One noise, we’re dead.
“Old fool. Talked way too much. I’m tired of all their stupid questions. Why can’t these people listen and follow directions? Would’ve been the same outcome, either way, one less to drag off later. Truth be told, he’s probably one of the lucky ones, died fast. Take him to the burn rigs and get this mess up cleaned up,” said the Lieutenant, mindlessly holstering his weapon.
