by Tara Ellis
“Where is it?”
Going to my closet, I get the folded up paper from the book, from under the bear. Opening it, I hope to have a revelation but I disappoint myself again. Plopping heavily back down on the couch, I lay it on the table between us.
For the next two hours, we make lists of all the different things the hieroglyphs might be referring to. I go on-line at one point and look up the roster for the police department, hoping to be inspired, but there isn’t anything obvious that connects any of them to the clues. We try reversing it, mixing them around, and any other number of varieties. As time drags on and my patience wears thin, the weight of what could be at stake bears down on me.
“Let’s give it a rest for today.” I think Chris can tell it’s taking a toll on me.
“Sure,” I say, happy to agree. “Want some lunch?”
“I would, but there are still some families left on my list that I need to check. The pastor and other senior members that I know were all sick. Out of my youth group, only one other leader was uninfected. There were four of us. Two of the fifteen kids are okay, but both have one parent sick. Or maybe by now they aren’t sick anymore either, I haven’t seen them since Monday.”
“Do you need help?” I ask, not sure what I could do, but feeling like I should offer.
“Thanks,Alex, but that’s okay. I’m meeting with Kevin, one of the other leaders, in a little bit at the library and we’re going to figure out who else we need to check on. I think there are only three or four families left so it won’t take—” Before he can finish, the phone interrupts him.
Figuring it’s the school again (we often get two calls since Jake and I go to different schools) I answer it without saying anything. “Is this Alex?” A man asks when I don’t say hello. His voice is very deep with a slight, guttural accent similar to my Grandpa Mubarak’s. I look at the caller ID and see that it’s a blocked number.
“Yes, this is Alex,” I answer quickly, somehow knowing that this is important.
“Listen to me very carefully, Alex. You must go where you are being led. It is imperative that you listen to anything your father is telling you regarding the current …. situation. Do you understand?” he asks with urgency.
I recognize the voice, but I’m not sure from where. It is so distinct that I feel like I should know, but for the life of me, I can’t remember. “I understand,” I tell him, feeling a need to keep it vague. “I’m listening.” There is a deep sigh on the other end of the line. Relief? Then it goes dead and I’m left staring at the receiver, more confused than ever.
Chris is watching me with interest and I tell him what was said. “This just keeps getting stranger,” he says. “I guess we at least know that we’re not completely alone. Maybe this guy will be able to help us, if he decides to.”
We agree to meet in the cafeteria in the morning before class, and then say goodbye. Going back to the couch, I’m not sure what to do with myself. I feel like I’m wasting precious time.
Reaching for my cell phone, I go ahead and call Missy. It goes straight to voicemail again. I pull up Grandma’s number and give her a call next. It rings four times and I’m about to hang up when the line is picked up.
“Hello?” I ask when I don’t hear anyone on the other end.
“Yes.” It sounds like her.
“Grandma?” I question, any hopes I had dashed.
“This is Mrs. Fisher. What is it that you want, Alex?”
“I was checking to see if you and Grandpa were feeling better.” I try to hold back the tears, but I don’t seem to have any control over them.
“We’re okay now. Everyone is okay.” The line goes dead and I am left staring in disbelief. They’re gone to me now, too. I put the phone down and exchange it for some of the tissue.
I get myself together and go make dinner, just going through the motions. I keep it simple. The salad and sandwiches Mom made are in the garbage.
After feeding Jacob, who is still happy to be holed up in his room, I retreat to my own. I decide to do a little digging myself on the internet. There’s no way that Chris and I are the only ones to have figured out that something is very, very wrong. If I weren’t so spooked, I would just call our family doctor, but Dad’s warning was very clear.
The official news sites are all the same. Literally. Exactly the same stories word for word. My unease grows. The social sites are still down and my email is empty. What strikes me the most is the lack of spam.
The only mention of the flu now is that it reached the East Coast but is quickly dying out. Those without complications have almost a full recovery in around four days. The death rate is, in fact, ten percent. Great.
I figure the message boards are my best bet so I log onto the conspiracy site again. It doesn’t take me long to figure out there’s less than half the normal traffic. I’m suspicious that a lot of it is fluff, or stories just posted under different users names, but not really them. I’ve been a member for over a year and have become familiar with several of them. It doesn’t feel right.
After spending some time reading through a bunch of threads, I’m sure that I’m right. They’re making it appear normal for anyone left that cares. There are a ton of members that are from other countries. I’m guessing the virus hasn’t spread that far yet, and I would expect to see all sorts of conspiracy theories popping up from them. Perhaps they’re being erased as fast as they’re posted.
As if to prove me right, the next time I refresh the page, I see an interesting title at the top of the forum: Shiners; side effect of virus or real change? I click onto it as fast as I can, before it disappears.
The author is a long-time member whose writing I have always enjoyed. He’s one of those guys who obviously takes his time and researches stuff before giving an opinion, and doesn’t jump to conclusions or get too worked up about things. It’s almost like finding out an old friend is still there and I feel relieved to know he’s still himself.
As I eagerly read it, for the first time today I feel encouraged. He’s writing from somewhere in Europe and apparently, the flu has just started creeping up in spots but is spreading rapidly. They’ve had the time though to observe what was happening in the States before the media blackout and internet control. Groups have started to form in advance of the virus and are trying to avoid infection by bunkering down. They have begun calling those infected “Shiners,” due to their eyes glowing in the dark. It’s suspected that among several other attributes, they have enhanced night vision, much like cats, which causes their eyes to reflect the light.
No one claims to know what the infection really is, but they made the connection to the meteor shower and that it’s alien. It increases all five senses as well as overall IQ, while at the same time making them uncaring and nearly emotionless.
The only other observation that was news to me was that the attribute unique to those not infected was their race. Or rather, percentage and purity of race. It all made sense now. Jake and I are both fifty percent Egyptian and Chris is like seventy-five percent Okanagan Indian. I guess if the virus targets DNA, then it would all tie into that somehow. We have greater resistance to the infection and maybe even immunity because of our heritage.
I type out a response as soon as I finish reading. I tell him that about eighty percent or more are infected and that the assessments of the symptoms are accurate. I suggest that if they can’t isolate themselves, they should take off for an unpopulated area.
I hit enter and then immediately regret it. I should have printed the post out first. My worst fears are confirmed, as I look at the list of threads after the page is done refreshing. Not there. I try to go back to it, but get a 404 message. Doing a search, I find another old thread authored by him and try to send him a private message. Selecting his profile, it comes up as banned. Well, that’s it then.
Dejected, I sit back in my chair. Shiners. Having it all confirmed makes the reality of it set in even more. It’s spreading around the world. People are chang
ing everywhere. Somehow, my father knew this would happen and it has now fallen on me to do something about it.
A whining behind me gets my attention and I turn around to see Baxter sitting patiently at my door. “Whatchya need boy?” I ask. In response, he runs back down the hall and disappears around the corner.
Groaning a little, I pull myself up and follow. In the family room, I find him sitting at the coffee table. Figuring he’s helping himself to the rest of the crackers, I get ready to scold him. To my surprise, when I crouch down next to him I find the page with hieroglyphs under his nose, the food ignored.
I look at him, and he returns my gaze. Most dogs will look away immediately, but not Baxter. He’s always been like that, but tonight he seems even more determined to win this contest. “Okay, okay,” I say, kissing him on the nose. “I won’t give up.”
FIFTEEN
I’m back in a dream world. I’m sitting cross-legged on a chilly dirt floor in a large cave. The room is dim, lit only by some torches scattered around the rock walls. Although I can’t see the top, I am aware of its immense height and can hear the beating of wings far above me in the blackness.
The smell of damp earth mingles with wood smoke and I notice a small stream running between the far wall and me. Looking up, I catch a glimmer of movement and turn to my right in time to see the same vulture from before swooping down. Silently gliding in one large circle, it heads for the wall, and before I can call out, slams into it. But instead of hearing a thud, the vulture explodes out as if made of mist, which is then absorbed into the rock.
Once the mist is gone, I see that left on the wall behind it is the same hieroglyphic drawing from the note, the one that means mountains. Leaning towards it, I squint, trying to see it clearly. I’m convinced that the lines of the picture are starting to move. The motion becomes more exaggerated and it’s obvious that the dark lines are in fact unraveling and slithering across the rock. More curious than alarmed, I watch in fascination as they dance around each other and eventually form the archer hieroglyph.
I gasp as the archer leaps away from the wall, landing in the dirt not twenty feet from me, swinging his bow and arrow back and forth, looking for prey. As it begins to walk along the creek, the bow morphs into a rifle and he shifts it to his shoulder. Turning quickly in my direction, he aims the rifle above my head and I look to see what he is hunting. Coming in low over the water is the duck from the message, quacking as it passes over me.
A shot rings out and I jump at the sound. Looking back at the archer, I see that he’s splashing through the water towards his fallen prey. Before he reaches the duck, another loud sound explodes, causing me to jump again. It is a grating sound, like a horn, and it blasts over and over, echoing through the cave.
I fight to keep the vision, but it fades into grayness to be replaced by my room in early morning light. Opening my eyes all the way, I’m disoriented for a moment, until I realize that my alarm is going off. Slamming my hand down on it almost hard enough to knock it off the nightstand, I can’t believe my bad luck. I almost had it!
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I tap at my forehead, trying to remember everything I saw. A vulture flying into the picture of mountains, an archer shooting an arrow … no, a gun at the duck. Pushing away from the bed, I run to my closet and get the paper. At my desk, I turn it over and write out my dream on the back of it. I don’t want to forget any details.
Looking back at the culprit clock, I can’t believe what time it is. It must have gone off a couple of times. I’m irritated that I have to go to school, but I know it’s the best chance of buying us some more time and possibly figuring some other things out, like who else isn’t sick.
Jacob got pretty upset last night when I told him about school. He was terrified of facing everyone there that’s changed. After Mom called last night and said she was pulling a double shift and sleeping at the hospital, I gave in and told him he didn’t have to go. She won’t be back until tonight and we’ll tell the school he’s still sick. We can probably get away with that for at least today and tomorrow. That’ll give us the weekend to plan what to do next.
I rush to get ready and make Jacob breakfast, waking him up when I set it next to his bed. I let Baxter out for his morning outing and then drive reluctantly to school.
I manage to make it into the cafeteria by the designated time and to my relief I see Chris right away. Without saying a word, he turns and starts to walk towards the same exit we went through on Monday for the courtyard. As we wind our way through the tables, I notice for the first time how unusually quiet it is. The room is almost as full as on a normal day, but the constant din I find so annoying is gone.
A bit flustered, I look around at everyone. Aside from a small group clustered together at a table in a far corner, the rest are either reading, writing or eating quietly. To my dismay, I realize they are all watching us as we walk through. I quickly avert my gaze and try to wear a neutral expression, but I can feel the weight of their eyes on my back.
Once outside, Chris crosses over to the bench furthest away and I follow without a word. There are only a few other students in the yard, but they are on the opposite side talking loudly. One of them, a girl from my science class named Heather, is openly crying, and waving her arms around. One of the other kids is trying to calm her down, shushing her, and looking around them, obviously scared.
“What do we do?” I whisper to Chris, afraid to even look at him. Instead, I sit down stiffly and remove one of my books from my backpack. Setting it in my lap, I pretend to be studying it.
“Just make it through the day. Act like them, no matter what. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. Avoid any emotional displays, even a smile. We have no idea what’s going to happen next. It could get worse, or it may be nothing. I mean, maybe this will eventually wear off, and they’ll all go back to normal.”
I cling to those words, hoping that they’re true. In my heart though, and that part of me that I guess you would call instinct, tells me otherwise. … You cannot trust anyone who is or has been sick … It was carefully designed and its intent is evil. My dad’s words of caution come to mind and I know that we are in danger, no matter how much we want everything to be okay.
“No,” I tell him. “Its intent is evil, Chris. That’s what my dad said and I believe him. We both know this is all in preparation for something else.” I take a chance and look at him, to find him already watching me.
“Right,” he finally says, looking back down at his hands. “I’ve been thinking and praying about that a lot and what it might mean.”
“Well?” I ask, not sure if I want to hear what he has to say.
“I wish I had an answer for you, but I don’t. Other than I agree with your dad. This is born from something evil, not of God. What you said yesterday though stuck with me. There’s a reason that we have been left unaffected. I think we have a role to play in all of this and when our faith is tested, we have to believe that love will prevail.”
“I’m not sure what faith is, to be honest with you Chris. But I’ll take all the help we can get, so if you think God is listening, then say a prayer for me too, next time.”
“I already did,” he tells me, taking a textbook out also. More kids are walking by now, as it gets closer to class time.
“Maybe that’s why I had another dream this morning,” I say and hand him the paper with the details written out on the back. He studies it silently and then gives it back. I quickly put it away.
“Mean anything to you?” he asks, a hopeful note in his voice.
Not wanting to disappoint him, I try to stay positive. “I really haven’t had time to think about it. There’s something that’s tugging at me the same way the picture of the vulture did. Something familiar, like a distant memory that’s a bit faded. I just can’t quite put my finger on it.”
He’s nodding his head as if I’ve said something meaningful. “That’s good! Like I said, I think it is something personal that will
only make sense to you. We better get going,” he continues, putting away his books. “I have a feeling that the only people rushing in before the bell rings will be those of us that haven’t been sick.”
Suddenly scared, I stand up timidly and sling my backpack over my shoulder. “I feel so alone here, Chris. What if they figure it out?”
“I did some math,” he says, keeping his back to the walkway. “There are around 500 students, so if eighty percent got sick, that means there should be about a hundred of us here that are still normal. There should be a couple of other students in each class in the same position we are, so you aren’t alone. Just don’t talk to them. I know you’ll want to and I’m going to try and keep a list of everyone I’m familiar with so we can contact them later. But not here at school.”
“Okay,” I whisper, practicing my emotionless expression. “Meet me at my house after school? My mom won’t be home until late.” Nodding, he walks away and I head in the direction of my first class.
The morning is a mixture of weirdness and fear. I swear my heart is going over a hundred beats a minute the whole time and I am fighting to hold it all in. When I walk into first period, everyone already seated turns simultaneously to look at me. I continue to head for my assigned seat and manage not to meet any of their gazes.
After I sit down, they all face the head of the class where Ms. Easton is standing. I do my best to mimic them and sit staring at her. Just when I think my chest is about to burst, the bell finally rings. Going to her desk, she directs everyone to come forward to get their new reading assignment.
Trying to hide my normally very expressive face, I take my place in the orderly line that’s forming and get the book. Sitting back down, I read the title; “A Guide to Socialism: How to Implement it and be Successful.” Okay, not your typical assignment.
There’s a disturbance in the back of the class and I do my best to turn my head in time with the others. Chris was right. Tim and Matt, two guys that are always running late, have pushed through the door. They’re standing there, disheveled and obviously upset.