Into the Yellow Zone

by Lynda Engler

  The passage up-river against the strong current was exhilarating and Luke was looking forward to the remaining trek to West Point. It was only about twelve more miles. Luke still could not think in leagues. He had spent sixteen years living in an underground shelter and had never traveled a mile, a league, or a kilometer in his life until he left. Everything he had ever learned about distance was measured in miles. People had traveled for miles in books he had read, except for science fiction characters who sometimes measured distance with invented terminology. That is what “leagues” sounded like to him… fictional units of measurement from an alien world.

  From this point northward, the river became more constricted and he realized that he would be able to see both shores clearly from the deck. His spirits brightened as he realized he might still be able to find some sign of Isabella.

  A dull roar broke his reverie. It came from the north and was coming toward them swiftly.

  “I can’t believe it!” shouted Dr. Rosario. “If that’s what I think it is…” His voice trailed off as the roar of engines drowned it out. Four high-speed boats bore down upon their sailboat, plumes spurting behind them. Within moments, there were two boats on either side of the Globe. Luke now knew what had sliced up the fish on shore: boat propellers.

  “Ahoy!” yelled Dr. Rosario from the pilothouse as he slowed the sailboat to greet the newcomers.

  As the sails came down, the Globe slowed and the speedboats came alongside. Luke saw soldiers in NBC suits aboard and his arms blossomed with goose bumps as the recollection of his capture by Picatinny’s forces came unbidden to his brain. He realized these troops were from West Point – which had been their destination all along – but he did not expect an escort. If this was an escort. Although his head understood the facts, that did not stop sweat from dripping down his brow and his heart beating in staccato thunder bursts. Stop! He told himself. It’ll be okay as soon as the doc explains why we’re here.

  A warning command came from a bullhorn aboard the closest patrol boat. “Attention aboard the sailboat! By order of the United States Joint Military Forces, we are boarding your vessel. Any suspicious movements will be treated as a threat and you will be shot. Put your hands in the air to indicate you have understood these orders.”

  Dr. Rosario looked confused for a moment, but then put his arms in the air. “Do what he said, boy. It’ll be all right.”

  “Our hands are up, Corporal. We are no threat to you,” said the scientist loudly, keeping an even tone.

  Soldiers from two of the boats boarded the sailboat and surrounded them, the one who spoke before in the lead. “Who are you?” He looked as confused to see them as the doctor had been at the command to put his arms to the sky.

  “I am Dr. Alfred Rosario, PhD. I am the chief theoretical researcher at Le Rochér Pharmaceuticals in New Jersey and I am on an important mission to reach West Point. I have valuable information that must reach the base Commander. Can I put my hands down now? This is hard work for an old man, you know.” The doc’s faux bonhomie smile exuded cheerfulness and friendliness, but his left leg was twitching with nerves. Luke glanced around furtively, but saw that no one had noticed except himself.

  “Put them down,” ordered the Corporal. He examined the sailboat from the pilothouse before deploying his troops to search the craft. “Nice boat, Doctor. Where did you get it? It is yours, isn’t it?”

  “Well of course it is, my friend. It is a Vendēe Globe racing yacht, one of the finest sailing vessels ever created. It was built back at the turn of the 21st century to be raced around the world. Of course, we haven’t had any races in the last fifty years, much to my dismay. But she still handles well.”

  “Who’s the kid, Doctor? He’s not a mutant is he?” The soldier gestured towards Luke with his weapon.

  “This is my first mate. Although the Globe can be sailed alone, I am an old man and it serves me well to have a strong young hand for the heavier tasks.”

  Dr. Rosario turned to Luke and said, “Cat got your tongue, boy? Give the nice soldier your name.”

  Luke smiled at the uniformed man, the butterflies in his stomach fluttered again as he envisioned the malicious delight the Corporal would take in torturing him if he were a mutant. “My name is Luke, sir.” He held his right hand out to shake hands in greeting.

  “Corporal Menagh.” When the soldier did not extend his gloved hand, Luke got the message and let his hand drop back down to his side. Shaking hands was not the military way.

  When the troops returned to the sailboat’s deck, reporting no other occupants of the boat, Luke wondered where Pumpkin was hiding. Wherever he had snuck off to, Luke envied the cat. He would like to be hiding too.

  “Doctor, we will escort you to West Point as you requested and let the General deal with you. We will tow your vessel behind the Logan and three of my men will remain on board. I will ask you to stay aboard, because I would never ask the captain of his vessel to leave it, but don’t get any ideas. No matter how fast this racing yacht is, my boats have far superior speed and we’ll sink her to the river’s bottom if you do anything suspicious.” He clearly acknowledged the doctor was an old man and was not harboring any mutants, but he still did not seem convinced that Dr. Rosario or Luke was not a threat.

  Dr. Rosario nodded his response sweetly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Alpha team, remain on board with the good doctor and make sure he behaves himself. Beta team, secure this boat to the Logan and tow her home.”

  Six soldiers saluted simultaneously and answered, “Yes, sir!” The rest of the troops returned to their boats and within moments, they were underway.

  With a good tailwind, it would have taken them hours under sail, but twelve miles under power passed in just under half an hour, even with the sailboat in tow.

  A nuclear power plant stood on the eastern shore, but there did not appear to be much activity there. Luke wondered if it was still operational after all these decades. Probably not.

  The buildings on the bluffs of the old military academy loomed ahead like Mt. Everest. Luke appreciated architecture, and had learned a fair amount about it from books. West Point’s buildings were a military gothic and neoclassical style, most made of gray and black granite and limestone. The windows were blast-resistant glass. They looked like just the kind of thing to have survived the war.

  They also looked completely impenetrable and foreboding from the outside. Somehow, he did not think it would be any friendlier from the inside, either.

  * * *

  Isabella

  Awakened by the moldy smell of the thin blankets beneath her, Isabella could no longer wait. There was no denying it: she had to pee, but squatting over a hole in full view of everyone was too humiliating.

  “Malcolm, please. Get up. I have to go.” She shook his arm until he stirred.

  “Go where?” he asked, only half awake.

  Her eyes flashed to the hole in the floor.

  He followed her gaze and said, “Oh. So go.”

  “I can’t! Could you hold the blanket around me?” She picked up the dirty rag and held it for him to take before moving to the corner of the cell. He obliged her sense of modesty by creating a curtain around her while she took care of business.

  Andra woke shortly after and, having no sense of modesty, proceeded in her morning constitutional unhindered. Shia asked for the curtain, emulating Isabella.

  “Girls!” muttered Malcolm, shaking his head as he unzipped the fly of his shorts.

  All the girls turned their backs to him, giggling. Men had been peeing in full view of the world forever – and they always seemed to think it was funny that girls were not comfortable with that! Of course, it was not the same thing at all – girls had to bare their whole backsides, while boys had but to point and shoot.

  At the far end of the steel building, the outer doors flew open with a bang, sunlight streaming in along with fresh air. Isabella breathed deeply, taking the clean air into her lungs,
hoping to cleanse the smell of mold and urine and fecal matter from her nose.

  A troop of soldiers in chem-rad suits entered, unrolling flat hoses from rotating wheels in the center of the aisle. Once the hoses were unwound from their reels, a soldier turned on the water and the entire troop began ruthlessly spraying the captives in each of the cells. Prisoners shrieked as the fire hoses pelted them with cold spray.

  “Shower time!” shouted the soldier who sprayed Isabella’s cell. The powerful stream forced Shia to the floor, her small and unbalanced legs unable to hold her upright. Withstanding the force of the water, Malcolm pulled Shia off the floor with one powerful arm, while holding Andra with his left hand. He sat with his body between the water and the little girls, letting it slam into his back but shielding them from the painful deluge.

  Isabella fell over from the water, but with more willpower than physical strength, pulled herself up from the floor and stood to her full height of five feet four inches, defying the soldier to knock her over again.

  The man laughed at her through the bars and turned off the hose. Gray-green eyes, hard and cold behind thin, black framed glasses glared at her through the clear faceplate of his protective suit. “Spunky little lady, aren’t you?” It was Sergeant Pokey No. 2. “Well, little girl, you’ll be pleased to hear that you are cleared to ship out today.”

  All the cell doors sprung open at once and guards ushered the prisoners outside to dry in the sun. Though the sun was still low in the sky, the temperature was already over 80 and the humidity at least the same percentage. It would probably top 100 again by mid-day – not that they had a thermometer to verify that.

  The fenced enclosure easily held all the captives, and those that had been there longer did not seem surprised by the morning’s unusual beginning. They stood in line for plastic bowls of bland oatmeal and glasses of warm water to wash it down.

  Isabella found a spot in the prison yard’s grass to eat, and Clay and Kalla joined her. Malcolm and the girls soon arrived and Kalla gave each of them a strong hug before sitting down to her breakfast. The little ones ate their oatmeal ravenously, unaware of its taste, or lack thereof.

  Across the grassy enclosure, two older prisoners were talking to each other when one of them leaned back against the fence. A guard outside hit him hard in the back with the butt of his rifle. The female prisoner screamed at the abuse and everyone turned to see what was going on. Isabella craned her neck to see, then began to get up but Malcolm pulled her back down to the grass.

  “But that poor girl,” whispered Isabella loudly to Malcolm.

  Malcolm squeezed her hand in sympathy and she knew he was right to stop her. His squeeze said Don’t get involved. We can’t do anything to help her. We’ll just be hit too if we try.

  The two young men who shared the cell with her friends came to join them and sat down across from Kalla and Clay, eagerly inhaling spoonfuls of bland oatmeal like it was the greatest delicacy on the planet.

  Isabella returned to eating her own oatmeal. “So, where do you think they are sending us?” she asked between bites. Bland food was nothing new to her, but at least the food in her shelter had flavor. This gruel was just disgusting.

  One of the boys answered. “Someone said a place called Mt. Weather.”

  Isabella nodded her understanding. Obviously, the young boy had never heard of their nation’s capital. “Funny, I’ve always wanted to go there, but somehow this wasn’t the way I’d pictured it.”

  Mt. Weather was a remarkable habitat. Just 46 miles from the old capital of Washington DC, the secret underground military base during the “cold war” was turned into a government center before the Terror War made it truly useful. Located deep inside a mountain in rural Virginia, the doomsday hideaway was a completely self-contained city. Back in 2050, Mt. Weather housed 250 support staff and the “shadow” government, a duplicate US Congress, President, Vice President, Secretary of State, and other important officials. In the event of a nuclear war, or other event that could devastate the city of Washington DC, the shadow government would take its place. On that fateful day back in 2050 when the maniacs unleashed the nuclear bomb on her country’s capital, Mt. Weather performed its ultimate function.

  Today the city was home to almost 6,000 people, more than anywhere else in the world, as far as she knew.

  She and her family were being sent there now as prisoners. This really was not how she pictured her first visit!

  Isabella found solace in her bland breakfast, momentarily combating her anxiety with the food.

  Malcolm’s cure for worry or depression still impressed Isabella. Every morning, right after breakfast, he exercised, and though locked in a prison, today would be no different. Isabella watched him do his morning stretches and calisthenics, his ebony skin outlining every muscle in his well-toned body.

  When she had asked him once why he was so faithful to his exercise routine, he told her that everything Outside was trying to kill him; the least he could do was fight back by keeping his body as healthy as possible.

  Isabella lay back onto the well-worn grass. She admired Malcolm’s dedication to keeping fit; she admired his muscles even more.

  Once their oatmeal was gone, Shia and Andra began a game of tag, and a few others joined them. There were no other children as young as their three-year-olds among the captives, but five others a little older joined in their game. The guards did not look like they were going to stop the children from playing. They did not seem the least bit interested in what any of the prisoners did, as long as they stayed away from the fence.

  Kalla and Clay spoke with the other younger prisoners, quietly enough that Isabella could not hear what they were saying, but at least the guards would not be able to hear them either. Although, unless someone was planning to escape, Isabella doubted that the guards would have paid much attention to anything any of them said anyway.

  An hour later, three military vehicles drove up to the outside of the fence. Prisoners gathered around to watch, but no one was stupid enough to touch the fence now. The trucks were about thirty feet long with a cab at the front that was separate from the back area. Small windows ran the length of the cargo compartment, which made Isabella assume the cargo these trucks would carry was human.

  One of the vehicles backed up to the gate, and then opened an airlock door.

  “Line up!” shouted one of the guards and all the prisoners, including Malcolm, Isabella and their group, formed into a line that snaked around the prison yard. The gate opened and guards pushed eight prisoners through the gate and into the vehicle’s airlock.

  Five minutes later, the airlock opened again. Again, the guards ordered eight more prisoners to enter.

  In a little over an hour, the trucks had collected their human cargo. The whole group from the West Point prison yard had been split up into the three hermetically sealed personnel carrier trucks – HSPCs – and the caravan unceremoniously hit the road for the long trek to Virginia.

  Chapter Twenty

  Luke

  Like fortress walls reaching for the sun, the Administration Building at West Point loomed above luxuriant green lawns. Sealed since the war and connected to the other buildings by underground tunnels, the occupants of West Point’s imposing structures looked out over the grounds from sheltered safety. The air smelled empty after the variety of odors Outdoors. Two teenagers, both mutants, pushed manual lawn trimmers across the central square.

  Luke looked through the triple-paned glass at the magnificent sunny day but felt no joy at the beatific scene. Behind him, Dr. Rosario sat at a polished mahogany conference table with the General, a military doctor, and a General’s aid who took notes on a hand-held computer tablet. The scientist had been detailing the results of his experiments for over an hour, ever since their arrival at the military facility. Every now and then, the General would make Dr. Rosario stop and rephrase his explanation in non-technical language.

  “And how are we to be sure that your inoculation
is safe for humans, much less effective at forestalling the ravages of the current bio-atmospheric conditions?” asked the military doctor whose name Luke could not remember.

  “He’s standing right there at your window, gentlemen. I injected that boy six days ago before we left my lab and he has exhibited no adverse effects to the formula. Whether or not my inoculation is preventing further physical damage remains to be seen, but I can assure you that at the very least, it does no harm. Isn’t that the core premise of medicine; to do no harm? Or has something changed since Hypocrites’ time that I haven’t been made aware of?”

  Luke listened to Dr. Rosario, but kept his eyes focused outside the window, observing the grounds. The scientist was amazingly persuasive, and as Luke found out when the Globe was boarded, he could also be sneaky and sarcastic when it suited him. He came across as a gruff but technically brilliant man, but was also good with handling people. He just had not had practice for many decades. Luke admired the man more and more every day.

  Volunteering to be a guinea pig might not have been the smartest thing he had done since he left his shelter, but Luke had lost count of how many other less-than-brilliant things he had done. So much for Granmama’s superior education, he thought.

  Luke finally turned to the room of adults and got their attention. “Look, I don’t mean to intrude on your discussions, folks, but all this scientific mumbo jumbo really doesn’t interest me. Any chance I could get a tour?”

  The General, who Luke concluded was not used to being interrupted and likely had no use for teenagers unless they were cadets – and maybe not even then – glared at him. A smile briefly crossed his face. “Yes, I think that could be arranged. I’m sure you’ve never seen anything quite like West Point.”

  The General nodded at a cadet stationed by the door and the youth returned the unspoken order with a salute and a “Right away, sir!”

  “If you’ll follow me please,” the cadet said.

  Luke needed no further encouragement to vacate the conference room. A tour was all well and good, but what he really needed was to find out what happened to Isabella – and getting out of that room was his best chance.