“Clear,” one of them said.
“Where are you taking them?” Peter asked the soldier, as he watched Mrs. Robson being led toward a bus outside the window. “The Clean Skins.”
“Somewhere safe,” he replied. “When we’re sure you Striped Ones aren’t a health risk, we will return them.”
“And what happens to us?” Peter queried, his thin, striped face looking gaunt with worry.
“Just stay calm, and stay put, and you’ll be fine, sir,” he replied, then signaled for his troops to move onto the next house.
And as quickly as they had come, they left.
*
Dr. Lysart Pellan studied the new samples of his colleague’s skin, comparing it to the previous samples. He blinked his eyes to clear the blurriness, as his lack of sleep was beginning to get to him. He’d been working through the night, in constant consultation with the CDC, trying to discover what was behind the red stripes marking many of the survivors’ faces.
The team had been sleeping in shifts, and both Mary and Grant were sleeping now. The Striped Ones had been predominantly confined to Lab-Two, using Dr. Seevers’ office for sleep, and had been allocated the female toilets due to Mary Rodriguez being one of them. Lysart and Cheung, being Clean Skins, had free rein in the rest of the facility and used the male bathroom.
“Anything?” Dr. John Seevers asked, his colleague’s voice sounding distant through the audio channel from the adjoining Lab-Two. Lysart looked up through the window between the labs as John pulled off his surgical mask.
“John!” Lysart called out sharply.
“I’m marked, Dr. Pellan,” he said dejectedly. “What does it matter if the mask is on or off?”
Lysart stared at John’s face, his eyes falling briefly to the stripe marking his colleague’s chin. He sighed, feeling his breath fill the mask over his own face.
“Why can’t we find any anomalies?” John asked.
“I don’t know,” Lysart said. “There’s no evidence whatsoever of bacteria or virus.”
“It is so unusual,” Cheung said suddenly from beside him, having just returned from his sleep shift, “that we can’t find any foreign material at all.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” John said from the other lab. “I’m marked and you’re not. There must be a reason for this? How can our blood samples both be fine? How can our skin samples both be fine? How can there have been no cellular changes these past hours?”
“Let me take another look at the skin sample from your welt,” Lysart told him. “There may be a long gestation—”
“That ship was over the town for twenty-four hours,” John countered. “After twenty-four hours we woke up with the welts and you didn’t.”
“Those of us unmarked may have some natural immunity to it,” Cheung offered.
“It hasn’t been twenty-four hours since we woke up,” Lysart told him. “Let’s not draw any conclusions just yet.”
John stared at him, his face indicating he thought it was a long shot. And the truth was, Lysart was inclined to agree. But they weren’t dealing with something of this world. They had no idea what parameters to set for this research project.
“Cheung’s right. If we didn’t wake up with the welts,” Lysart placated him, “it could mean we have a natural immunity to whatever is causing those welts. We have to keep going until we find something to explain things.”
John sighed and nodded. “I’m sorry, I’m just tired and frustrated.”
“We all are, John.”
“Have you eaten yet, Dr. Pellan?” Cheung asked, his young face looking aged from the events that had befallen them. “It’s been a while.”
“Thank you, I will eat soon. But, please, you should prepare some food for the others.”
“I definitely need to eat,” John said from the other side of the window, pulling off his surgical cap. “I’m starting to feel a little lightheaded.”
John turned for the exit, but stopped as something behind Lysart caught his eyes. Both Lysart and Cheung turned to see three soldiers entering Lab-One. They were dressed in dark hazmat suits, including black face masks—the only part of them visible, through two clear plastic circles, were their eyes.
“Can I help you?” Lysart asked them.
A soldier stepped forward, a woman he presumed from the shorter height and the body shape. She scanned both his and Cheung’s faces, then moved to look through the window into Lab-Two. She saw John, then turned and motioned for the other two soldiers to move there. Lysart turned to see the soldiers enter the second lab and take Dr. Seevers by the arms.
“You need to come with us, sir!”
“Me?” John said.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lysart asked, watching them through the window.
“Are there any other Striped Ones here?” the female soldier asked, ignoring his question.
Lysart felt Cheung move closer to his side.
“Are there others?” she asked Lysart.
“Yes,” he answered, “but what’s going on?”
“Wait! What’s happening?” John said, trying to pull back from the soldiers in the next lab.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lysart demanded.
“Sir, segregation is in force until more is known about these welts,” the female soldier told him.
“But there’s nothing wrong with me!” John said quickly. “I feel fine!”
“It may not be infectious!” Lysart held his hand out to them.
“I’m sorry, sir. Quarantine has been mandated and this is now a Clean Skin zone. The Striped Ones must be removed. Government orders.”
“But we’re working for the government!” Lysart said. “We’re trying to figure out these welts!”
“I’m sorry, sir.” She turned to the soldiers and hiked her thumb, motioning for them to move it.
“No,” John tried to argue, “I’m needed here.” But the soldiers swiftly swept him from the room.
Lysart quickly stood and exited his lab, removing his face mask as he did. He followed them down the corridor, Cheung trailing behind, and witnessed Grant and Mary being swept from Dr. Seevers’ office, where they’d been sleeping, by more soldiers.
“Dr. Pellan!” Mary called to him as she was being moved down the hall after John and Grant. “What’s going on?”
Lysart shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“My kids!” she called over her shoulder, eyes flashing wide with fear.
“I’ll see to them!” he called back, following his striped colleagues being marched down the corridor. As he entered reception, a soldier caught him by the shoulders and moved him back against the wall.
“You’re a Clean Skin, sir. You stay here!”
Lysart watched, helpless, as his three marked staff members were marched out of the building. As soon as they were outside he swiftly moved over to the nearest window to see them being loaded into a bus. He saw John refusing to get on, arguing and struggling with the soldiers who had taken him.
“Dr. Pellan!” he yelled out frantically.
Lysart pressed his gloved hand against the windowpane to let his colleague know he was there. “John!” he called back.
He saw John trying to plead with those who held him, but couldn’t hear what was said.
“Please!” John said, then shouted, “Dr. Pellan!” He sounded frantic now.
It was then that Lysart saw John’s head loll back and his body fall limp. The soldiers quickly caught him and laid him down on the ground. They slapped his face, trying to get him to come to.
“Oh, no!” Lysart’s eyes went wide as he suddenly realized what was happening. He turned and raced past Cheung down the corridor into the break room and opened the fridge.
“What is it, Dr. Pellan? What’s wrong?”
Lysart found what he needed, grabbed it, then raced back down the corridor toward the exit. As he burst through the front door, a soldier standing
close at hand spun around, startled. The soldier saw what he was holding, caught him, then slammed him back against the wall, pinning his gloved hand.
“No, no!” Lysart shook his head.
“Drop it.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Drop the needle now, sir!”
“It’s just insulin! Please. For my colleague. He’s diabetic.” He showed the soldier his other gloved hand, which contained a vial.
The soldier looked around at John lying on the ground. He looked back at Lysart, made a quick assessment, then stepped back with his weapon targeted on him. “Slow movements, sir,” the soldier warned, motioning for him to proceed.
Lysart held his hands up in a calming manner, then made his way over to John, kneeling by his side. He freed John from the protective gown he wore, then pulled up his shirt to expose his stomach and quickly administered the injection. They watched and waited in silence as John slowly came to. He blinked his eyes and focused them on Lysart.
“You’re going to be alright, John,” Lysart told him.
The soldiers grabbed Lysart and moved him back toward the door of the building again.
“Wait!” Lysart argued. “Here . . .” He pulled out another vial and handed it to the soldier. “He may need this.”
The soldier took it from him, then pushed Lysart back inside the front door of Bateson Dermacell and pulled it closed. Lysart once again placed a hand against the glass, while the other, holding the used syringe, lay limp at his side. He watched with concern as they loaded the groggy John Seevers onto the bus with his other striped colleagues, and drove them away to an unknown destination.
*
Richard Keene watched as a tank rolled down the street toward him, one of the many military vehicles now sweeping the streets.
“You!” A masked soldier standing on the back of a jeep called out to him. “You a Clean Skin?”
Richard nodded and raised the bandana to show his chin and neck.
“Then get on the bus, please, sir,” the soldier said.
Richard looked to where he pointed, and saw other soldiers leading civilians onto the transport.
“Why?” Richard furrowed his brow.
“It’s not a request, sir. It’s an order. All Clean Skins onto the bus now! Move!”
“Where are you taking us?” Richard asked.
“Somewhere safe.” The soldier jumped down from his vehicle and approached. He was tall and broad, and looked a little on edge although he wore a black, bulky, bio-mask. The Hispanic woman Richard had seen earlier that morning appeared beside him, but the soldier pulled the marked woman away from Richard. “Get on the bus, now, sir!”
“Wait, you can’t order me—”
“Yes, I can, sir!”
“At least let me go back to my hotel room and get my stuff. It’s just down a couple blocks.”
“Everything down that way is now in the Striped Zone, sir. You cannot go there. You need to go to the Clean Zone.”
“Clean Zone?” Richard questioned. “You’re segregating the town?”
“Sir, you can get on that bus by yourself, or I can make you. Choice is yours.” The soldier widened his broad shoulders and tightened his grip on his weapon.
“What about us?” the marked woman asked.
“You stay here,” he told her, then called out to another Clean Skin couple. “You two on the bus now, please. Move!”
“Where is the bus going?” Richard asked again. “And what’s going to happen to the Striped Ones?”
The soldier suddenly pointed his weapon at Richard. “Get on the bus now, sir!”
Richard held his hands up and backed up a couple of steps.
“YOU, TOO!” the soldier shouted at the Clean Skin couple.
Richard suddenly felt two soldiers grab him by the arms and escort him onto the bus along with the couple. He fell into a seat, clutching his backpack and Benny’s camera, and craned his neck, and his small handheld camera, out the window to see what was going on. He saw the marked Hispanic woman reaching after the soldier in panic, following him down the street. She latched onto his arm, but he shrugged her off roughly, accidentally knocking her to the ground. Suddenly Richard heard gunfire, and looked in the opposite direction to see a scuffle taking place between a man and two soldiers. The man was swiftly overcome and they dragged his unconscious frame onto the bus and dumped him in the aisle beside Richard.
He eyed the man’s Clean Skin face, his closed eyes, his cut forehead, then turned back to stare out at the evolving madness.
“It’s okay, we’ll be safe,” a man said from the seat in front of Richard, comforting the young boy who sat beside him. “They’re going to take us away from these people.”
“What’s wrong with them?” the boy asked, eyes wide as he stared out the window.
“They’re infected with something,” the man said. “That’s why we need to stay away from them. These soldiers are going to help us and take us somewhere safe.”
Richard watched the man put his arm around the boy, then turned his eyes to the streets again.
*
Deputy Leo Cann eyed the line of cars queued up on the road out of town, and the new, closer, military post that was obstructing them. The cars were piled high with suitcases and furniture and food; people were trying to escape the nightmare. But they’d only managed to form a long car park that had seen them sleep there overnight. A few had tried to drive off-road, but the circling helicopters soon caught them in their spotlights and forced them to turn back. For most, the helicopter and the spotlight was enough deterrent. Some needed warning fire to convince them. God knows where they thought they were going. Hadn’t they been watching the news? The military had Victoryville surrounded. There was no leaving. There was no escaping this. Everyone was trapped here.
He took off his hat, scratched his head, and rubbed his dry eyes. It had been a long night and he was exhausted. He wanted these people to go home. He wanted to go home. That’s all he wanted to do, was get back to his family.
What was left of it . . .
He tried not to think of Mickey. Tried not to think how his baby boy had just disappeared from his cot. How they had taken him. He swallowed hard, fighting the lump in his throat and the heavy ache in his chest. The feeling of helplessness that he couldn’t protect his son.
His heart burned at the recollection of bursting through his front door and Claire falling into his arms, hysterical, screaming that Mickey was gone. He’d felt so powerless. Frozen in shock. But somehow he knew his son hadn’t been kidnapped. He’d seen everyone picking themselves up off the street. He’d seen some of their faces covered in those welts. He’d seen his own face . . . and he knew something bad had happened.
He’d stayed with Claire and Lena as long as he could, but then Earl had called, pleading for his help. They were the only badges left in town and people were freaking out. He’d had no choice but to leave Claire and Lena to go patrol the streets, trying to keep people calm and get them indoors. The last thing they needed was any further trouble breaking out. Not with everything else they had to deal with.
Now that the military was here and the division was in place, though, Leo found himself alone in the Striped Zone. Earl, a Clean Skin, was now tasked with policing the Clean Zone and, as both Claire and Lena were Clean Skins and their house was located in the Striped Zone, he’d had to say goodbye to his wife and daughter. They had been taken to the other side of town.
Part of him was glad. If he was infected with something then he wanted them far away, so they could be safe. He wanted to protect them. Something he’d been unable to do for his son.
He clenched his jaw and put his hat back on, fighting the tears for his missing son that threatened to swamp his dry, stinging eyes; fighting the burning in his heart to be with Claire and Lena again; fighting the fear of what these aliens had done to everyone. He exhaled loudly, trying to dismiss the emotion, and f
ocused his attention on the military roadblock.
The soldiers were making their way down the line of cars in their black bio-suits, separating the last of the Clean Skins and Striped Ones. Some of the civilians yelled abuse at them and honked their horns, demanding to be let out of Victoryville; some broke down and cried. He heard one old man begging for his release, saying, “I don’t want to die like this. Not like this! Not here!”
Others were attempting to bribe the soldiers. Leo saw a man trying to hand over a wad of cash; saw a young woman trying to offer herself as payment. Thankfully, the soldiers denied them. The thought of unleashing an alien virus on the world was enough for them to keep their priorities in order.
Then there were the ones who tried to fight their way out. One guy tried to make a run for it. He didn’t get far before he was tackled to the ground. Another pulled a gun and fired a shot off. He hit nothing but air and didn’t see the soldier approaching from behind. Leo was pretty sure the arm holding that gun was broken soon afterward.
Leo shook his head. The town and its people were in a right goddamn mess.
He sighed heavily and looked at his watch. It was just hitting 8.00 a.m.
Today was going to be another very long day.
*
Michael Russo walked toward his office in the local civic building. He had tried to get some sleep, but found it hard to lie in bed knowing that Nicola was not there beside him. Not knowing what had happened to her, not knowing if she was alive or dead. Wondering if that ship was coming back for those who remained. Wondering if this was the end.
He’d lain there most of the night, scrolling through his social media feeds, unable to stop himself from reading the mass of data flowing across the small screen of his cell phone. He saw wild rumors circulating, people on the outside discussing things they couldn’t possibly know anything about; saw heated arguments between people living on the opposite side of the globe about what really happened and what the government and military should or shouldn’t have done; saw declarations and prayers from all manner of public figures, from politicians on both sides of the fence, to Hollywood celebrities, to the Queen of England; saw one or two people reminiscing over the time they’d visited the town; saw others say they didn’t even know it existed; saw others, albeit it only a few, making light of the situation in order to elicit cheap, easy laughs; and there were others who demanded the town be eradicated from existence. And there were more that subscribed to this way of thinking than he’d liked to have known about.
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