Into the Yellow Zone

by Lynda Engler

  “Uh, huh. And they had better be blowing upstream too,” replied Luke. He helped the captain drop anchor, lower the sails and prepare the sailboat for the night, all the while worrying about the whereabouts of Isabella and her group.

  Luke was certain that they did not just get out on the shore and leave their rowboat to float downstream with all their belongings. The only way that boat could have wound up where it was, was if they had left it on purpose. The only way that was going to happen was if they had been taken forcibly. Luke knew that Isabella and her traveling companions were in extreme danger… he felt it in his bones. He did not know what to do, except to keep going up river and hope they found whoever had taken them, whether it was Eaters, other mutant tribes, or the military.

  * * *

  Isabella

  Early the next morning armed soldiers wearing chem-rad suits herded the occupants of the cells out of the Indian Point Mutant Processing Center main building. Sergeant Pokey and the other soldiers prodded and pushed the group of captives up the stairs. Isabella heard a weak cry behind her and turned back to see a small child falling on the metal staircase, almost trampled by those behind him, as the soldiers marched them relentlessly toward their fate.

  Finally emerging from the building, the soldiers pushed them toward a dock where a ferryboat waited. The two-story boat was painted blue and white. Isabella could see the faint outline of “NY WATERWAY” in large, blue, block letters on the ferry’s side, but either time had faded the lettering, or someone tried to paint over it and the cover-up paint had worn away. Armed guards stood on the roof level and aimed their guns at the mutants as they walked down the dock and boarded the ferry. More guards in environmental safety suits waited inside.

  Besides Isabella’s small group, there were three other groups of captive mutants brought on board, bringing the total number of prisoners to two dozen. Soldiers secured their arms behind their backs with the same plastic locking strips used on Isabella and her family when they had captured them. Guards steered them to the main level and forced them to sit on rows of wooden benches at gunpoint.

  Isabella’s wrists were still tender under the bandages. She ached to rub away the pain. Her wrists itched and she rubbed them along her back, trying to lessen the irritation, but she could not scratch under the gauze. She gave up and leaned back on the bench, desperately attempting to ignore both the itch and the pain.

  Because of the position of her arms, she could not lean back on the seat for long without her hands falling asleep. At least no one on the ferry was pushing, prodding, or poking her. As long as they did not resist their captors, the soldiers seemed uninterested in beating any of them, as they had done to Malcolm in the first cell.

  The engine sputtered to life and a few minutes later the ferry pushed away from the dock, the sharp smell of diesel fuel permeating the lower level of the boat. Isabella began coughing, and the others soon followed, choking on the acrid stench. She worried that this old boat would sink half way across, plunging all the captives to the bottom of the river. Although death by drowning might be better than whatever awaited them on the other side.

  She understood they were going to West Point for “further processing,” but had no idea what that meant – and she was not alone. Isabella saw the same worry on the faces of the other captives. Uncertainty was a way of life for the people Outside, but these captive’s fates were certain enough – the details might be sketchy, but everyone knew that they were headed for a future that would be bleak. Nothing good could ever come from humans holding mutants captive.

  Isabella stared out the windows of the ferry. She was sweating with fear but good at hiding it from herself. Besides the fact that she was terrified, the smell of diesel fuel was beginning to make her sick to her stomach – or maybe that was from the motion of the ferry. Waves lapped gently at the sides of the boat. The river was tranquil today, the winds equally calm, and the twenty-minute ride was uneventful. Yet she felt her jaw clench with the foreboding thoughts bouncing around her skull and her stomach roiled.

  The ferry slowed as it approached the wharf on the western side of the river. Ferrymen jumped off and tied the boat to moorings as the pilot slowed the vessel to a gentle stop. Isabella pondered the ease with which the unknown man in the pilothouse controlled the big vessel. He must have had a lot of practice. She wondered how many mutants the boat pilot had delivered into servitude across the river, and if he had been piloting the same boat for the last fifty years.

  Three new soldiers awaited them on the dock. The Indian Point unit ordered the two dozen mutants off the boat at gunpoint and when she emerged onto the dock, Isabella looked up the steep hill to the military base at West Point at the top. It would be a long hike up the mountain from where they stood.

  The ferry cast off, presumably returning to the mutant processing center across the river.

  The West Point soldiers took custody of the captives and they began their forced march up the steep stairs. Isabella’s group kept to the back because of the two little girls, but halfway up, both Andra and Shia became too tired to keep going.

  “Papa, please carry me,” pleaded Shia, but with Malcolm’s arms restrained, he could not pick her up.

  They had not restrained the little girls’ arms. How much damage could a three-year-old inflict on a bunch of armed soldiers, after all?

  Malcolm said, “Come here, Sweet Pea,” and squatted down. Shia climbed up his back and wrapped her legs around his chest.

  “Hold on tight,” said Malcolm, and she clasped her small hands into his hair.

  He shot a look at Clay; he could not carry both little girls, and Isabella knew he must feel terrible about that. He would do anything to protect the little ones.

  Clay understood. “Come here, String Bean,” and Andra copied Shia. The adopted girl did not have a nickname, so Isabella smiled slightly as she heard it.

  The last half of the trek was arduous, especially for Malcolm and Clay carrying the children. They had to work doubly hard to keep their balance going up the stairs. By the time they reached the buildings at the summit, they were all winded, and Isabella’s legs throbbed.

  When they reached the top of the stairs, the rest of the captives stood in a circle on a grassy field, waiting for the stragglers to catch up. The West Point soldier in charge must have been related to the one at Indian Point, because when he singled out Isabella and jabbed her with the end of his rifle, she immediately dubbed him Sergeant Pokey No. 2.

  He shouted, “Okay mutants, march!”

  Once Isabella began walking, he motioned the rest of the captives with his rifle to follow her across the field.

  Sergeant Pokey No. 2 suddenly laughed loudly, throwing his head back in laughter. “This is so much more fun than docking at the other end of the base. Making you mutants climb all the way up is always such a blast.” He laughed again, mostly to himself, as even the other soldiers did not take part in his joy. Evidently, they had heard this sadistic soldier’s version of humor before.

  Isabella noticed that the steep climb had tired the guards too. If there was an easier way to get to the base, Isabella was sure the other soldiers would have preferred to take it as much as she and her family would have. Having worn a chem-rad suit before, she knew how hot and stifling they were. The soldiers had suffered more during the steep climb than their captives had.

  Sweat dripped down Sergeant Pokey No. 2’s face behind his mask, yet he did not seem bothered by it. His pleasure at everyone else’s agony evidently overrode his own discomfort.

  When the group reached the other end of the field, they entered a steel building through a narrow doorway. Pokey No. 2 jabbed Isabella in the back as she walked past him.

  “Ow! Why do you people do that? I’m moving, aren’t I?”

  The soldier narrowed his eyes and snickered. Isabella picked up her feet just a little higher.

  Inside they found row after row of cells separated with metal bars. The occupants of the cells eyed t
hem as they walked past. There were at least fifty people already incarcerated in the bleak prison. One young prisoner, his shoulders slumped and his eyes vacant, gave Isabella a weak smile.

  As they reached the unoccupied section of cells, all the cell doors opened simultaneously with a loud click. The soldiers hovered over them like a gathering storm.

  “Four to a cell,” ordered one soldier.

  Isabella and Malcolm took the little girls and toward the nearest cell while Clay and Kalla stood in front of the cell next door occupied by two boys no older than themselves. The guards cut the plastic ties off each captive before entering the cell.

  After everyone was inside, the doors closed in unison and the guards left the building. Isabella was sure they were waiting just outside the entrance.

  Her entire life now was moving from one prison to another.

  “Why are they doing this to us?!” Isabella let out a strangled cry. “Why, why?” She sat heavily upon the cement floor, her bottom lip quivering; finally feeling the terror she had been fighting to keep at bay. “Oh, Malcolm, I’m so sorry!”

  Her husband put his strong arms around her and kissed her head. Then he smoothed her hair back and kissed her head again.

  The little girls deposited themselves in his lap for comfort. Andra was crying along with her adopted mother, while Shia sniffled.

  “Don’t cry, Isabella,” said Shia. Tears pooled in her eyes, and one ran down her cheek. “We’ll be okay. Papa will make sure. He always does.” The little girl sniffled up her running nose and wiped her eyes.

  “She’s right, Belle. Somehow, I’ll get us out of here. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get my girls to safety, I promise.” Malcolm smiled reassuringly, but Isabella could see the bleak, dark look in his eyes.

  “How?” cried Isabella, just as Andra wiggled over from Malcolm’s lap into hers. The little girl almost curled up into a ball. Isabella gently rubbed Andra’s hair, comforting her as Malcolm had for her moments ago. She kissed the child’s head gently.

  “I don’t know … yet,” replied Malcolm.

  Drying her tears but unable to dry up the shame of bringing her new family to this predicament, she took in the features of their new cell. There was not much to digest. There were no beds, no toilets, and no sinks. A heap of dirty blankets in the corner and a depressed waste hole in the far corner of the cell were the only features. Bars separated them from Clay and Kalla’s cell on one side and the four captives on the other.

  “I just don’t understand. Why are they locking us up? If they want us dead, why don’t they just kill us already and end the suspense?” Isabella was supposed to be the smart one of the group but still could not figure out why they were being so mistreated or what the old woman doctor meant by service. Obviously, though, you could not serve if you were dead.

  A voice that struggled to control quavering answered from the next cell. “Didn’t they tell you? They’re using us to clean up their poisoned cities.”

  “What? Where?” asked Isabella, turning her head to look at the speaker. The boy was almost Clay’s height so he was most likely about nine or ten years old. He had blond hair that hung in waves down to his shoulders and his eyes had a haunted look. His head was smaller than it should have been for his height, and his left arm was way too short.

  “Not sure. Does it matter? They ship us off to some center where we’ll be put into service groups and sent out to places full of poison and radiation.”

  “What? We don’t want to clean up their mess. That would be crazy. We would have to go into the Yellow Zone – and not just in. We would have to go deep into the cities!” said Malcolm, still holding Shia in his lap. He put his daughter down and walked over to the bars separating him from the mutant boy.

  “I don’t deem we have a choice,” said the mutant boy. His green eyes darted manically about the gloomy cell, and his hands balled into fists so tight his long nails dug into his dirty palms.

  Isabella’s stomach clenched at his words. Suddenly everything made sense. She understood. The feeling came upon her so suddenly that it felt more like something remembered than something she had just learned.

  Going into the deadly, poisoned cities to clean them up would kill them. They would get sick with radiation poisoning and die an agonizing and horrible death. She visualized the deer she had killed at Alpine. That would be them. All of them, dead like the deer, but so much slower and more painfully.

  “Why?” she asked.

  The boy chewed his lip and tried unsuccessfully to control a spasm that crossed his face. “I don’t know.”

  However, Isabella knew. Mutant’s lives were worthless to humans.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Luke

  The day broke sunny and calm, the wind non-existent. They would get nowhere this morning, so Luke lowered his sister’s abandoned rowboat from the deck of the Globe and set off to look for clues of her whereabouts. His map was not very detailed, but as close as he could determine, they were about two miles south of the spit of land called Stony Point, in a cove near the old town of Haverstraw.

  Luke had never rowed a boat before and although the scientist had taught him quite a lot about sailing over the last week, his maritime education had not included any knowledge of how a rowboat worked. Thankfully, it was not hard to figure out. He was clumsy in his effort, the oars rarely hitting the water in unison, and he splashed water onto himself more than once, but eventually he maneuvered from the anchored sailboat in the middle of the Hudson to the edge of the river. Unlike the haphazard manner he had found the small boat, Luke now secured it to a tree with a rope and set off along the shoreline to explore.

  Perhaps Isabella’s group had come ashore and the rowboat had drifted away. If so, they might have walked north along the river and left a trail. Luke’s lips were set in a grim line as he searched for any signs. They would not be stupid enough to let all their stuff float away … but he held out hope. It was the only thing he could do.

  He felt like he was looking for fairy tale breadcrumbs! Luke forked his fingers through his hair for the third time. If only life were as easy as in those fairy tales his mother had read him when he was a little kid. All he would have to do is kill the nasty old witch and there would be a happy-ever-after. Real life did not work that way.

  He had to think harder. Even if they had wandered off, they could be on the other side of the river, or maybe not even have made it this far north, or perhaps they went inland. He just knew they would not have abandoned their boat with all their belongings and food. He was grasping at straws.

  All the clues he had followed since leaving home were now gone and their trail was completely cold. Luke stared through the woods along the riverbank, desperate to see or hear anything that could be Isabella! He wrapped his arms around himself as a shiver ran up his spine.

  He knew this feeling, and he did not want it. Despair. Hopelessness.

  He shook his arms loose, like a boxer readying for a match, but the action hurt his tender chest muscles. He did relax enough to keep looking for signs … broken branches, recently scuffed dirt, anything that might indicate someone had walked here recently.

  By the time the sun was high in the sky and the wind was picking up, the only thing he had found was a bunch of raspberry bushes he recognized from his grandfather’s hydroponics garden at home and some smelly dead fish that had washed up on the rocky shore. The fish were sliced as if someone had knifed their sides and left them for dead. Luke did not understand why anyone would do that. If an animal had clawed them to death, he was sure it would have eaten the fish! It had to have been humans – no animal would do this.

  Why cut up the fish and then leave them to rot in the sun? It made no sense.

  Luke wanted to gather the raspberries and thought about just placing them in his shirt, but knew the juice would stain it. Not that he had to worry about his mother or grandmother being angry about his dirty clothes out here, but if a bear or some other dangerous ani
mal smelled the berries, he would prefer to be able to drop them and run; not carry the scent of the food along with himself! He winced as the still-mending muscles of this chest recalled the sharp claws of the tiger.

  Luke created a makeshift satchel out of broad-leafed plants and held together with thin branches he wove through the leaf edges like a basket weaver, a trick he had learned from the hero character in his grandfather’s survivalist books. He spent almost an hour picking berries from the thorny bushes. At least they would have some fresh fruit, he thought, as he worked his way back to the shore and climbed into the rowboat. He took one more look around for signs of human life and finally pushed away from the shore with an oar and headed out into the river.

  When he arrived back at the Globe, Dr. Rosario helped haul the little boat aboard. “Did you find anything?” asked the scientist-cum-sailboat captain.

  “Only berries,” replied Luke sadly and he presented his haul. He ached from the rowing and he rubbed his chest to sooth the soreness. “Are we ready to get going?”

  “Yes.” Although Dr. Rosario’s people skills were severely underdeveloped, it seemed even he knew when to let a subject rest. “Haul the anchor up and let’s move on.”

  The wind had indeed picked up, though not exactly near the sustained gale-force speeds that Luke suspected they would need to propel the racing sailboat through the rough waters at Stony Point.

  After losing his sister’s trail, Luke’s only choice now was to go back to Telemark and wait for Isabella. If she was not a prisoner somewhere, and she survived the TB she was carrying, she would go back there before the winter. So for now, he might as well go with the scientist on the rest of his journey. He was so close; Luke needed to know if the old man’s protective inoculation really worked.

  If it did, it would change the world! Talk about cliché, Luke thought.