Abbie stared at him, not knowing what to say. She watched him as he lay back on his bed and began throwing a football up in the air and catching it.
“That’s why he didn’t want to let her go?” she eventually asked.
Josh glanced at her, continuing to throw the football. “He should’ve thought of that before.”
Abbie continued to watch him, waiting to see if he’d elaborate, not wanting to pry.
“He screwed a woman he worked with,” Josh said, and Abbie heard the bitterness in his voice. “Mom found out. So he quit his job and moved us out here.” Josh gave a laugh, but it had a harsh edge. “A new start!” he said sarcastically. “I wanted to stay in Boston, but my little brother begged me to move here with him. I told him I would, but only for a little bit, then I’m out.” He gave another bitter laugh. “And now he’s gone and I’m the one who’s stuck here.”
Abbie felt her shoulders soften in sympathy. She couldn’t imagine how she’d feel if her family had gone through that. She could understand Josh’s bitterness, but at the same time, she thought it was good that Peter was trying to make amends and save his family.
She sighed heavily. Perhaps too heavily, as it made her cough a little.
Josh stopped throwing the football and studied her a moment.
“Have you always had asthma?” he asked.
Abbie nodded. “Yeah. I was born with bad lungs,” she smiled. “But I’ve lived with it for so long I don’t know any different.”
He seemed to nod to himself. “I’m allergic to nuts,” he said. “Same thing.”
“Yeah?” she said.
He nodded, breaking into a smile. “And seafood. Makes my throat swell up.”
“Really?” she chuckled, “That’s bad luck.”
He shrugged. “I never liked the taste anyway.”
She smiled, but it soon fell away and a sad silence seemed to fill the air again. Still, in that brief moment, hearing about his allergies, he’d felt less of a stranger. They’d found something in common other than the phenomenon. And surprisingly, it felt good. It made her feel less alone.
They both turned their attention back to the small TV in his room. Another news report was airing. They saw scenes of Clean Skins being ushered and dragged onto busses from earlier that day, and images of the growing photo walls of the missing. All the while they listened to the voiceover of a reporter named Richard Keene, providing an update from the Victoryville Civic Hall in the Clean Zone. His voice was calm, but serious as he spoke words of concern for the events of the day; expressing his desire for answers and resolutions, but also imploring viewers for carefulness and kindness toward each other in these uncertain times.
The report ended on a still shot of a terrified, striped Hispanic woman. She was reaching desperately for an armed, bio-suited soldier, who was walking away from her. The image made Abbie pause. The woman’s face, her eyes, were so lost and frightened; they expressed how Abbie herself felt deep inside.
And once again her eyes moved out the window to her house sitting across the street, and her heart sank heavily into the pit of her stomach.
*
Stanley Barrick stared at Dr. Hogarth.
“There has to be something, surely?” he asked.
“If we have nothing new by morning, we’ll start taking samples from the wider group.”
“But surely a stripe is a stripe. What does it matter who we get it from?”
“I agree, but so far Dr. Pellan has found nothing unusual in the samples he has. We, too, have gone over and over the results he sent us and found the same thing.”
“Has he done the tests right?”
Hogarth held up her hand to stop him. “I assure you we’ve reviewed his procedures to ensure things were done correctly and they were. Admittedly, the Bateson Dermacell facility is a little substandard to what we would normally use in cases like these, but Dr. Pellan has a very good reputation and Professor Meeks speaks highly of him. Pellan’s work has been impeccable.”
Stanley sighed. “So what does this mean? We can’t go out to the people with this. We need a definitive answer. If we tell them there’s no contagion and then people start dropping like flies, we’re done for. The whole goddamn country, the whole planet is at risk here.”
“We’ve given Dr. Pellan until morning. That would make it approximately forty hours since they awoke. If he’s found nothing new, then he will move into the Striped Zone to take a wider variety of samples.” Hogarth studied him. “And if that does not net us any results, then I and my team will have to move in there.”
Stanley stared back at Hogarth as his mind processed the information. “I told you if you head in there, you may not come back out again.”
Hogarth nodded. “I know. Three platoons of soldiers have already made that sacrifice. The CDC will do so as well.”
Stanley gave a short, sharp nod. “Let’s pick it up in the morning. I’ll make a decision then.”
*
Dr. Lysart Pellan, now situated in Lab-Two, his arms reaching through the gap of the BSC where Dr. Seevers had sat, carefully prepared the new samples. Given the time the Striped Ones had spent in this lab, not to mention the fact he was handling their samples—albeit with as much personal protective wear as he had available to him—meant he was at risk of contracting the contagion, should there be one, but he had no other choice. Desperate for answers, he’d already had several phone calls from Harvey, Chief Blackstone and Dr. Hogarth, all wanting updates, but he’d been unable to give them anything. He’d had to turn his cell to silent as the media had somehow got their hands on his number and were calling incessantly.
He’d gone over the skin samples from John Seevers, along with his own, again and again, but found nothing abnormal, nothing that wasn’t within normal human parameters. He did observe that the stripes, the welts, sat beneath the skin; they actually lay in the reticular layer of the dermis. He established that the discoloration wasn’t caused by an over-production of melanin, or by some other type of aggravated skin condition. Nor could he identify any foreign cells or tissue to account for it either. He simply had no idea what these marks were or how they got there, below the epidermis.
Failing to find answers with the skin samples, he had turned again to blood samples, saliva samples, hair samples, urine samples, feces samples, and again was left baffled.
The stripes were just . . . there. And no other change to human physiology could be detected.
Cheung had forced him to get a few hours sleep, but he’d been at it again for several hours now. He let out a weary sigh and rubbed his tired eyes. This had always been his problem. Whenever he was presented with a challenge, he worked at it until he overcame it. But it was also the reason he had been as successful as he had: he never gave up. He knew that every problem could be resolved. So why couldn’t he resolve this one?
Was it the pressure? The world was relying on him to provide answers. The lives of the entire world might literally be in his hands; his own life potentially lay in his hands.
He felt his concern brewing for the marked survivors, but he also felt concern for those unmarked. Whatever had happened here, it had happened to all of them: marked or unmarked. This phenomenon had touched every single one of them, he was sure of it. But how to prove it?
His mind drifted to thoughts of his family. His ex-wife and daughters were on holiday in France. Based in Washington, they had not wanted to move to this Virginian town. Right now, he was grateful for the estrangement from them. He was relieved they had not come to Victoryville to celebrate the opening with him. Marissa, his youngest daughter, had called as soon as she’d been able to get through, to see if he was alright. That one phone call had touched him deeply and had given him the strength to carry on.
As he thought of his daughters, the guilt swamped him. He’d been working hard these past couple of years to rebuild his relationship with them. It had been a casualty of his problematic wo
rk ethic, his drive to resolve problems. He had achieved great things at work, but he had failed at home. He’d become an absent husband and father, a stranger in his own home.
Things were civil with his ex-wife, but they rarely spoke now. The damage had been done and any hope of a reconciliation had been long lost. He’d accepted that. When he realized what a mess he had made, he’d tried hard to reach out to his now-adult children, and save what he could of his family, but it was proving to be a long, slow process. Marissa, twenty-five, although hesitant, had been willing to give her father a second chance. Any contact he had with his family now was generally through her. Elizabeth, twenty-eight and a lot like her mother, had been harder to reach. But he felt that with a little more time she would warm to him once again.
If he ever got the chance to see any of them again.
Right now they were in Paris, and he was trapped in this town, separated by miles of ocean and this horrifying phenomenon.
He sighed and rubbed his eyes again. He needed to eat, needed some coffee. Anything to refuel his body.
He removed his protective gear, wanting to be free of it for a while, washed up and made his way to the staff room. He poured boiling water from the dual tap system into his plain, well-worn ceramic mug, staring at the gray cracks that adorned the outer shell as he rinsed the cup out. The mug probably should’ve been thrown out years ago, but it was his good luck charm. He placed it on the coffee machine’s landing pad and made his selection, then opened the door of the fridge, found the milk and topped up his coffee. As he placed the milk back in the fridge, his eyes fell on the spare insulin that John had needed to keep on hand for personal emergencies. It made Lysart pause as he recalled the soldiers taking John away.
He picked up an insulin vial and took a good look at it, rolling it between his fingers. There was something about it that bubbled in the background of his thoughts. Lysart hoped John would have enough insulin to tide him over wherever they were keeping him. Not only had John been taken away, this medical condition was an extra problem for him to deal with in exile.
He thought of Elizabeth, then, and of the terrible migraines his daughter suffered. He recalled seeing her in the emergency department once, being injected with strong painkillers. He pictured her in Paris with her mother and sister, and wondered whether she’d remembered to take her pain meds with her. He hoped she would not wind up in some Parisian emergency room, experiencing the nausea and vomiting that sometimes occurred with her migraines.
He was still staring at the insulin vial in his hands as his mind went back to the morning tea, the morning of the Occurrence. He recalled John eating some of the deliciously decadent cake. Mary had been standing beside him and Lysart remembered asking her why she wasn’t eating any. Mary had told him that she couldn’t eat anything because the medication she was taking made her queasy. John had had two servings of cake that day. Lysart wondered if the sugar load had brought on John’s attack.
He frowned as he thought of his colleagues, and how they had been taken away. He pictured the red welt that ran down Mary’s chin, pictured the welt down John’s as he’d spoken to him through the lab window. He thought of John lying on the ground, waiting for the insulin to kick in. Then he pictured Mary shaking her head at the cake and running a hand across her queasy belly.
And then the thought hit Lysart like a sledgehammer.
His eyes flew wide and he audibly gasped.
Suddenly wide awake, and with the insulin still in his hand, he spun around and raced back to the lab.
Day Three
Richard awoke from a restless, dream-filled sleep. As he rubbed his stubbled face and yawned, he recalled the dream he’d been having just as he awoke. It was a childhood memory of a holiday he’d taken with his parents and brother. The sun was warm, the grass was green, and the river was cool and flowing gently. He was young, they were happy, and he didn’t want it to end. But it had.
He thought losing his parents and his brother—becoming an orphan—would be the worst thing he’d ever have to face in his life. But somehow, this seemed so much worse. At least death was a definite thing: it couldn’t be argued. But this waiting, not knowing, this was something else. That an alien ship had hovered over the town for twenty-four hours and done something to him was . . . well, it was excruciating. It left such an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, like a horrible cancer eating away at him slowly.
He wiped his eyes and looked around at the crowded Civic Hall, listening to babies crying, people coughing. A sense of fear and sorrow seemed to smother the atmosphere. He pulled himself up from the sleeping bag that had been his bed for the night on the floor of the main hall. There had only been so many beds to go around and preference had been given to those more needy. It didn’t bother him. He’d slept in worse places.
He pulled his phone out of his pack and went straight to the online news. Although the President’s address had made it clear what to expect, he was still shocked to see that, overnight, the temporary barrier between the Clean Zone and Striped Zone had been completed. The town was officially divided in two.
He grabbed his pack and made his way outside, wanting to take a look at it with his own eyes. The Civic Hall was a few blocks back from the main street where the barrier was located, and several blocks down from the main intersection of the town, where a small contingent of soldiers had set up a guard post. As soon as the barrier came into view he pulled out his small handheld camera. He saw a group of others had gathered, as curious as he. Bio-suited soldiers approached the group and waved them away. Richard was nervous, thinking they would try to take his camera, but they didn’t. It fit in the palm of his hand and he held it close to his body, so perhaps they didn’t see it. He moved obligingly to stand several meters back among the other bystanders and subtly panned along the gray makeshift wall in the early morning light.
The barricade itself looked to be made of a toughened gray plastic, in the shape of a traditional Jersey barrier, except a little larger. He wondered about its purpose: if this stripe thing was contagious, if it was airborne, what good would the barrier do?
“Looks like they’re settling in, huh?” a voice came from beside him.
He saw an old man standing to his left, surveying the barrier with a suspicious shine to his eyes.
“It does,” Richard agreed, as he continued to unobtrusively film. “Although I’m not convinced that will stop a contagion.”
The old man pursed his lips. “No, but I don’t think that’s what it’s for, do you?” Richard glanced at him. The man’s eyes seemed to narrow further in suspicion, a sharp glint within. “It’s not enough to keep them out permanently, that’s for sure. But it makes a great foundation to build a real wall atop it, don’t you think?” The man’s eyes caught Richard’s. “If it comes to it, that is.”
Richard studied the barrier again, then looked back at the man. “You think it will come to that?”
The man shrugged again. “I don’t know. But they’ve gone to a lot of trouble to erect that. Wouldn’t do something like that unless they planned for it to be there a while.” The man nodded to himself. “Hell is on its way . . .” he said. “Well, hell has already been here, but . . .” he motioned to the barrier, “just in case it decides to come back.”
“You think the ship will come back?” Richard asked.
The man studied him, the look in his eyes now bordering on skepticism. “There’s something up with those Striped Ones. They’ve been marked for a reason . . . but there’s also something up with the ones in here.” He motioned over his shoulder into the Clean Zone.
“What makes you say that?”
The man looked over the barricade as though he were looking out at the ocean. “This,” he said waving his finger between the two zones, “all happened in the blink of an eye. That ain’t normal. Ain’t ever seen anything like it. And those welts aren’t normal. Nobody knows what’s happened, nobody knows how to fix it. And people
don’t like things they don’t understand. If they can’t explain it, they don’t like it. And if they don’t like it . . .” he shrugged slowly. “Let’s just say I’m sure as hell glad that I’m on this side of the wall, and not one of them over there.”
Richard turned back to stare into the Striped Zone. As he did, he saw a man, a Striped One, approach one of the soldiers on the other side. He was holding up a photo and motioning over the barrier. The soldier shook his head and held his hand up to stop him.
“Steven! Steven!” A woman called frantically, a few meters away to Richard’s left. “Steven!”
The man on the other side of the barricade waved back at her.
“Steven! Are you okay?” she called, reaching out as though she could grab him.
Richard didn’t catch what the man said, but he saw a nod, and saw him blow the woman a kiss. The woman turned around and picked something up, then turned back with a small child in her arms.
“Look! There’s daddy! There’s daddy,” she said to the young boy.
The man at the barricade waved frantically to catch his son’s attention. In response the woman held the boy’s hand up and forced a wave in return. Richard heard the woman’s laughter but could tell it was tainted with sadness, as she stared at her partner in the distance, across the gray wall.
It was a moving scene, one that sent a shiver of emotion across Richard’s skin. It seemed to capture the sentiment of what was happening to people throughout the town, of what was at stake for the residents of Victoryville.
And he captured the whole scene on film.
*
Abbie, despite the unknown horror that could still be out there, finally, nervously, ventured back across the street to her house. Despite her underlying reservations, she was actually glad to do it. After two nights at Josh’s house, she needed a little space. The Chalmers were nice people, but they were still strangers to her and invading the privacy of a family caught up in this situation, with a missing child, with their own personal issues, and hiding a Clean Skin . . . it made Abbie uncomfortable. She felt like a third wheel that they really didn’t need to be burdened with. Besides, she had her own situation to deal with. She needed the comfort of her own room, the sights of her own surroundings. She needed to be near the memories of her family. She couldn’t avoid dealing with their absence any longer. Their loss. She had to face it sometime.
The Time of the Stripes Page 10