The Time of the Stripes

by Amanda Bridgeman

  Leo exhaled heavily. “I’ll do my best, Earl.”

  “Go get a few hours’ sleep,” Blackstone told him. “I’ll keep watch from here for a while.”

  Leo gave another nod. “I’ll speak to you in a few hours.”

  Blackstone watched as his deputy turned and headed for his vehicle. All the while Magnus Bracks and the men surrounding him watched Leo as well.

  *

  Richard Keene, after taking a shower and putting on the last of the spare shirts from his backpack, began reviewing the footage he’d taken yesterday. After arriving at the Civic Hall, he’d spent a fair amount of time interviewing his fellow Clean Skins to find out their stories and capture their reactions. All of those he’d spoken with were local to town, and the majority had family and friends who were either missing, or over in the Striped Zone. He elicited a range of emotions from those he interviewed. Some were happy with the way the authorities handled things, some not. Many were scared and anxious as to what would happen next. Some had accepted what had already happened and just wanted to move on and get their lives back. Some talked of government conspiracies, some of military experiments gone wrong, and some suggested that footage of the ship was a hoax to cover up what they had done. Some thought Victoryville must be special to have been chosen, with many putting forward theories about why. Some had no ideas about why. Some brought religion into it, suggesting the town was being punished for something. While others thought the town had been chosen for a higher purpose.

  Everyone told stories of where they were and what they were doing before the phenomenon occurred. Each story was interesting and unique, and no doubt fascinating to the outside world, but Richard found himself to be restless. He knew the real story wasn’t here with the Clean Skins. He wanted to be in the other zone with the Striped Ones. They were the ones who were marked. The story here was them.

  The stripes were quickly becoming the symbol of this phenomenon, and the cause of everyone’s fear; TV stations across the world seemed to be utterly fixated on them. Expert after expert speculated on what the stripes could mean and whether there was any chance of this infection spreading. Richard had seen news reports showing more and more people from nearby towns packing up and moving on, wanting to get as far away from Victoryville—and the possible contagion—as they could. Some towns across the globe had succumbed to looting, with people panicking that the end of the world was nigh.

  It almost seemed like people on the outside were taking things worse than those on the inside. Maybe it was because those left in Victoryville knew they didn’t have any option but to wait things out. They were trapped in the eye of the storm until the authorities deigned to release them.

  Despite underlying fears and concerns of contagion, Richard still wanted to get closer to the Striped Ones. Their story was clearly the bigger one. They were the ones who had woken up with these strange welts. They were the ones who didn’t know whether they’d been infected with something, or why they had been chosen and others hadn’t. He wanted to be the one to speak with them and hear their story, but unfortunately he was stuck here in the Clean Zone, unable to get anywhere near them. He, like other reporters, could interview people over the phone, but it just wasn’t the same as being on the ground there. Experience had taught him that face-to-face interviews always ran deeper, always revealed more.

  He noted that the temporary names given to things now seemed to have settled in as though permanent fixtures. There were, of course, the Clean Skins and the Striped Ones and their respective zones, and now the soldiers in their hazmat gear were being referred to as “Bio-guards” or “Bios” for short.

  He was stunned when one of the Clean Skin civilians he interviewed referred, rather derogatorily, to the Striped Ones as “zebras”.

  The man had said: “It’s a good thing they herded all those zebras. Don’t want them running around wild now, infecting everything, do we?”

  Another Clean Skin man had overheard this and given a chuckle.

  Richard, upon hearing the comment and the chuckle, had paused a moment, staring at the two men. He couldn’t help but say, “That’s a little unfair, don’t you think? Calling them that. They didn’t ask for this to happen.”

  “It’s a shame what’s happened to ’em,” the second man had said shrugging, “but it is what it is.”

  “They’re infected,” the first man agreed. “And the further they stay away from us, the better.”

  “You obviously don’t have family in the Striped Zone, to be saying that,” Richard said, a little bluntly. The men stared back at him. They didn’t answer, but decided at that point to walk away from him.

  From talking with the Clean Skins, watching other interviews on the news, and scrolling through the social media feeds, knowing what he did about human beings and their reactions to things, Richard detected certain mindsets, certain groups starting to emerge as a result of this phenomenon. First, were the Clean Skins who were obviously very happy to be segregated and very scared of what illness the Striped Ones could have, such as the men he’d spoken to. Second, were those Clean Skins who didn’t want to be separated from their loved ones, people who wanted a solution and fast, like the couple he’d seen at the barrier with the child. Lastly, were the Striped Ones, but they didn’t seem to be fracturing into any groups from what he could tell. They were just one big group of people who only wanted one thing: to know what had happened to them and how they could fix it.

  When he tired of reviewing the interviews, he walked back to the barricade again, wondering if the afternoon sun would shed a different light on things. It didn’t. The barrier was still there, the streets were nearly empty, aside from a curious party or two, and the bio-guards remained on alert. As the streetlights came on, Richard watched them carefully, listening to the buzzing and crackling that emanated; there still remained some kind of weird interference with electrical equipment that the experts hadn’t been able to explain as yet. It was just there.

  As he cast his eyes up to the sky, he wondered again whether the ship was still there somewhere. He scanned the horizon, but saw no sign of it. It seemed that they were alone . . . but that buzzing, what did it mean? Why would these things come here, take some people, leave some behind with stripes, and then up and leave? What did the stripes mean? Would that ship return for them? Return for everyone?

  That thought alone worried him immensely.

  If it came back, what would these beings do to those of them left?

  He made his way back to the Civic Hall and sat down in front of the large screen, now allocated to the adults as the children had been given another room filled with toys and games. He caught up on what his colleagues were reporting on from the outside—many of them were using amateur footage sent to them by residents. He saw an interview with Democrat leader, Joe Calder, admonishing the Republicans for not reacting to the event quickly enough and segregating the people of Victoryville earlier. He likened the event to the disaster of Hurricane Katrina and the weak, delayed response. The Republicans reply consisted of highlighting irrelevant issues that the Democrats had caused.

  After the news reports, the station went to yet another live debate via satellite between a series of experts. They discussed the barricade between the zones, and what would happen next. Apparently, the White House had just announced a press conference for the following day, so they attempted to preempt what would be said.

  The panel then discussed where this alien presence might have come from and why they attacked. It became heated, however, when talk turned to whether or not this alien ship would return. Most on the panel agreed that it was a strong possibility. Some argued that their visit had been of a friendly nature because the fighter jets had not been destroyed, while others argued that it was an outright attack and the human race was facing extinction. And just as the host was calling for the panel to remain calm and not cause panic, the debate was suddenly cut off and a rerun of some 1980s sitcom began.


  Richard’s mind began to turn over, wondering whether the cut off had been accidental or intentional. He thought about the faces he’d filmed with their welts, wondering again what this alien life-form had done to them. Was it some kind of radiation sickness? But why had it only affected some people and not others?

  He heard that mechanical noise, that staticky buzzing again, and looked up at the screen’s speakers. He thought of the streetlights again. What was with this interference? Was it just an aftereffect of the ship’s visit? His eyes glanced around the lights that were on in the room, remembered the lights and power going out in his hotel room the day of the Occurrence.

  He sat there shaking his leg, both eager and worried.

  And helpless.

  He was sick of sitting here in this safe haven of Clean Skins and listening to people on the outside debating over the lives of those here in Victoryville. He wanted to do something. Three days in and the public had received very little information from the government. What were the scientists doing? What had they learned about the alien ship? How long did they plan to keep everyone prisoner in this town? Were they hiding something from the people?

  The story was calling him. And he knew that when a story called, you answered it. Because if there was one thing he’d learned in his nine years as a journalist, it was that wherever there was smoke, there was generally fire.

  And so he decided. It was time he became part of the external discussion. He had to call Harry and get access to that White House press conference.

  *

  The mayor watched Chief Blackstone enter his office.

  “Mayor,” the chief acknowledged. His hat was still on, shading his eyes. The man never seemed to take it off. Russo wondered if he even slept with the damn thing on.

  “Chief,” Russo nodded back. “What’s the latest?”

  “I had a call from your good friend,” he said, tucking his thumbs behind his belt, accentuating the medium bulge of his stomach. “Magnus Bracks.”

  Russo scoffed a laugh. “That man is no friend of mine.”

  “Oh, I know,” Blackstone said. “I enjoy watching the two of you every council meeting, like dogs fighting over a bone.”

  Russo ignored the comment, staring at the chief with his dry, sleep-deprived eyes.

  “Anyway,” Blackstone said, “Bracks wants to speak with you. Says he’s tried calling, but you haven’t returned his calls. He wants to know what’s going on and how long the barricades will be in place.”

  “We’d all like the answer to that question, chief.”

  “Well, he wants it now. No, he demands it now.”

  “Magnus Bracks is good at demanding things, but he should know by now that I don’t bow to his foot stamping.”

  “I’m well aware of it, and don’t I just love being the messenger boy for you two. It’s my favorite thing about this job.”

  Russo sighed, relaxing his shoulders as he sat back in his chair. “You’re doing a good job, Earl. Unfortunately, our jobs require us to deal with zealots like him from time to time. It’s important to ensure these zealots know their place.”

  “Bracks certainly isn’t shy of spouting his opinion,” the chief shrugged. “I’ll give him that.”

  “Don’t be fooled into sympathy by that wheelchair, chief. The man is cunning.”

  Blackstone looked back at him, his eyes twinkling a little despite the shade of his hat.

  “What?” Russo enquired.

  “As long as you’re in office, he’s going to target you. You know that, right?”

  Russo’s skin prickled a little. He nodded. “I know.”

  Again the chief eyed him, but said nothing.

  “What?” Russo asked again, letting his annoyance escape.

  Blackstone shrugged. “I gotta admit, I kinda understand his anger.”

  Russo sat forward again. “That is history and the courts have decided. I wasn’t at fault that day. He needs to move on from that and drop this ridiculous grudge.”

  Blackstone shrugged again. “I know. Folks just tend to have a long memory when they feel they’ve been wronged, is all.”

  “Then I should hold a grudge against Bracks for every legal proceeding he’s tried to tie me up in; dragging my name through the mud, trying to destroy my career. I’ve worked damn hard to get where I am, and he won’t take that from me!”

  Blackstone held out a placating hand. “Just so long as your issues with him don’t get in the way of everything else we got going on here right now.”

  “Why would it?”

  “Bracks is over in the Striped Zone. You and I are over here in the Clean Zone. I’ve been checking on the barricade in my patrols, speaking to my deputy over the wall, and I’ve seen Bracks milling about. Seen his mind ticking over. And he’s talking to people over there, have no doubt. He didn’t actually say anything when we spoke over the phone, but the tone of his voice spoke for him. I know what he’s thinking. You’re the mayor of Victoryville. He sees you as responsible for that wall. He sees you, and him, and that wall. The man’s been looking for an excuse. If you’re not careful, he’s gonna use that wall against you.”

  Russo stared back at Blackstone for a moment, then gave a careful nod. “Thank you, chief, but Magnus Bracks will not intimidate me. I’ve handled him in the past, and I can handle him now if need be.”

  “You don’t want to maybe return his call and smooth things over? Blow out the smoke before it becomes a fire.”

  Russo gave him a plain look. “Victoryville has just come under an unprecedented attack, chief. My partner is missing. Half the council is missing. The town is at risk of a potentially deadly contagion. I have other things to deal with here. Bracks isn’t high on my list of priorities right now. He can wait his goddamn turn.”

  Blackstone’s eyes surveyed him for a moment, before he gave a nod. “Alright, your call.”

  “If there’s nothing else, I’m about to visit the hospital and say thanks to our medical professionals,” Russo said, standing up.

  Blackstone tipped his hat and moved for the door.

  *

  Abbie plunged her arm into the water, pulling it through before her opposite arm broke the surface, arced over and dived beneath the waves. She inhaled deeply, kicking her feet as she did. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breath. The water was cool, but invigorating. She swam the length of the pool, touched the wall, then turned and swam back down the length again. It felt peaceful. It centered her. She focused on her breathing, sucking the air into her lungs, thought of nothing but the stroke, her breathing, and the kicking of her feet.

  It was so nice not to think about the alien ship.

  Or the stripes. Or the barricade. Or her missing family.

  She’d come down to the VAC to escape her house for a while. To escape everything really. She needed to feel normal again. To feel alive and free. To not feel marked.

  She touched the wall of the pool and turned for yet another lap. She wasn’t sure how many she’d done so far, but she wanted to keep going. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breath. Her arms and lungs were beginning to burn, but that was good. Her body was working, stretching itself, forcing the tension out.

  She touched the wall and turned again. Catching sight of movement in her periphery, she abruptly pulled up and wiped her eyes. She thought she was alone. She had unlocked the gate to get in and had locked it behind her. Treading water, she studied the VAC’s entrance. The gate looked closed. She saw movement again in her periphery and flicked her head in its direction. She caught the front door to the gym closing.

  She watched it a moment, then swam back to the opposite side of the pool, deciding to get out. Her bubble of peace and isolation was disturbed. She dried off, keeping her eyes on the gym’s door, expecting to see someone exit, but no one did. Maybe someone felt like her, needed a workout to take their mind off things? She was well aware of the looting that had occurred in some places around the world, though, and
for a moment she wondered whether someone had picked the locks and was planning to do the same here.

  Apprehensive as she was, she grabbed her things, and cautiously approached the gym. She moved her face up to the window, shading her eyes to take a look inside. The main gym floor looked empty as it sat in semi-darkness, the only light source being the window at which she stood. The various pieces of equipment within sat idle and unused. There was no one to be seen. But then she noticed a door ajar toward the back left-hand side. The lights within were on and someone inside cast a shadow onto the floor outside.

  She glanced at her surroundings. No one else was around. Did she go for help, or did she venture in alone? She examined the lock on the front door; it didn’t look as if it had been tampered with. Perhaps it was an employee then? She swallowed hard and turned the handle, deciding to be brave.

  She slowed as she approached the open doorway, pausing at the edge to carefully peer inside. The room was a small office, and she saw Austin sitting on the desk, his back slightly to her, looking down into his lap.

  “Hey,” she said.

  Austin jumped and flashed her a startled look as he yanked a syringe out of his thigh.

  “Oh!” Abbie held her hand up in apology. “I’m sorry!”

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded, standing up and swiftly throwing the syringe into the bin.

  “I was swimming. I saw someone was in here. I thought maybe someone had broken in.”

  “I work here!” he said angrily.

  “So do I,” she said, her hand still held up in apology. “I didn’t know it was you.”

  “What the hell are you doing sneaking up on people! We’ve just had aliens here!”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, darting her eyes to a small box of vials that he quickly closed the lid on and shoved into his gym bag. “I was worried someone might be trying to loot the place.”

  “Well, it’s just me!” he said, an angry furrow still present across his brow. “So get out!”