The New Order

by Chris Weitz

  No. It’s a ridiculous idea. The chance of finding him or her in a crew of thousands is—well—one in thousands. And there’s nowhere to escape to. Not yet at least. I’ve got to hang in and figure it out.

  Flight Surgeon Morris takes my hesitation as fear.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “This won’t hurt. Much.” I follow him, with the marines following me, up and down a number of stairs and around turnings that very quickly become dizzyingly hard to hold onto in my memory. But my escorts know just where they’re going, and at last we arrive at an expansion of the metal hollow. In a little cubby off one side of a row of thin beds stacked in bunks with miserly efficiency of space, a tech waits, her eyes wide with her first sight of the plague survivor.

  She starts unpeeling a needle, looking past me to the flight surgeon for directions.

  “You already took blood,” I say. “When we got here.”

  “That was for testing. This is for manufacture.”

  “Manufacture of what?”

  “I think I’ve already said too much. Go on, Ensign,” he says to the spooked medical tech. “He won’t bite. Will you?” He turns to me.

  I don’t respond—acknowledging a witticism seems like an act of collaboration. I just sit down on the metal stool and hold out my arm.

  The ensign doesn’t appear to know how to address me. “Can you—I need you to—”

  I straighten the arm, offering her the soft hinge of my elbow. The ensign cinches a blue rubber tourniquet tight, then starts jabbing at me with the point of the needle, her hands shaking.

  “Sorry,” she says. She won’t meet my eyes. I wait until she gets it right.

  Squeamishness has kind of gone by the wayside since the days and nights at the lab on Plum Island. When you’ve strangled the life out of someone, the lesser violations of the human body—even your own—come more easily.

  My blood leaks like tapped syrup into a test tube with a buttery dab of medium in the curve at the bottom. Sort of an elongated petri dish.

  Morris nods. “I’ll come back in a bit.”

  When one tube is full, the ensign pops it free of its plastic housing and pushes another one in. Two tubes and then three get filled this way.

  A figure hovers in the doorway, at the edge of my vision. I turn to see a tall black marine who, unlike the others, appears to be seeking out contact, his face open.

  “You with them?” he says. “From New York?”

  I nod. Is this my pen pal?

  The marine reaches into a pocket and withdraws a photograph printed on the corner of a creased sheet of paper. A girl, maybe fifteen, leggy, smiling in the time before the Sickness.

  “Lanita Adams,” says the marine. “You seen her? You know her?”

  I look at the name tag on the marine’s chest. “She’s your sister?”

  The marine nods. He seems about to say something but then he doesn’t, or can’t.

  “I haven’t seen her,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  The marine nods again, swallows. “What’s it like there?”

  Bad.

  “It depends,” I say. “Where did she live?”

  “Manhattan, 134th Street.”

  “Things aren’t so bad up there,” I say. “They got things together. How old was she—is she?”

  “She’s seventeen,” he says.

  We both know what it means. The Sickness might not have killed her by now, but it will soon enough. And the world the Sickness made might have already done the job just as efficiently.

  The marine’s face relaxes just a little. “Listen,” he says. “It’s not like everybody’s down with the program here.” He looks at the ensign, whose face assumes a studiedly neutral expression—I’m not hearing this. “We’re not down to just wait and let people die—”

  “What do you mean?”

  Something beyond the hatch makes Adams straighten up and move on.

  Morris pokes his head back in. “Everything all right?”

  By now four vials of blood are slotted into a little metal rack; a dozen empties wait to be filled.

  “If you want to kill me,” I say, “there are faster ways.”

  “Oh, no,” says Morris. “We wouldn’t want to do that. You’re the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

  On the way back to my cell, I puzzle over this remark and what the marine said.

  WHEN I WAKE UP in the middle of the night, somebody is just standing in the room, all horror-movie-ish.

  I don’t scream, not exactly—more of a “whathafuh!” with a reflexive reach for a gun that isn’t there. Homey is lucky that we’re not back in New York, or I would have put a few holes in him.

  Him: “Take it easy. I’m with the good guys.”

  Well, I’ve heard that before. I think the last time was in the lab on Plum Island. The Old Man, who turned out to be this freaky, evil scientist dude all jacked up on steroids, was telling us that we should see the bright side of getting injected with stuff that sped up the Sickness. His point was, he was trying to find a cure, which I guess was pretty cool of him? Except that he and his buddies were the ones who had let the Sickness out of the lab in the first place. Whoops!

  Anyhow, Brainbox earned his trust, and then he spiked his steroids and poisoned his ass. Which was a pretty harsh thing to do, but, you know, the guy was going to kill us all. Just goes to show you—as if Game of Thrones and stuff wasn’t enough to do it—there’s no such thing as the good guys. Though, weirdly, unfairly, there are bad guys.

  I suddenly remember that I had shucked off my camouflage before going to sleep and am now, as a neon sign I saw in front of a strip bar once put it, “strictly naked.” Notwithstanding that, I resist the urge to cover up. There’s no way I can figure to do it that wouldn’t look weak and cringey. So there I am in the altogether, giving out as hostile a vibe as I can, totally mean-mugging him. I’m hoping he won’t mistake it for a “come-hither” look, as Mom used to call it. It’s definitely more of a go-thither look, but there’s no accounting for taste.

  Him: “Don’t worry.” He casts a what-do-you-call-it gimlet eye over yours truly’s secondary sexual characteristics, such as they are. “Not my thing.”

  Figures, I think to myself. The kid is too good-looking to be straight. Fit and trim and smooth and easy on the eyes.

  Me: “Okay. I am super not worried. To what do I owe the, like, pleasure of your visit, Mr.—”

  Him: “Let’s steer clear of names for now. Do you mind if I sit?”

  Me: “Well, you’ve already let yourself in, watched me sleeping, and seen me naked, so I don’t see how sitting down would be such a big step in our relationship.”

  As he turns to fetch the Ed chair, I take the opportunity to cover up my glorious form.

  He must be in his twenties, but he has a face that hasn’t quite lost the round softness of boyhood. A pleasant mug under carefully trimmed auburn hair. A self-contained air.

  Him: “Did you get our message?”

  Me: “I did. But I thought it was all hush-hush. How are you keeping this little visit a secret? I’m pretty sure this room is bugged.”

  Him: “Oh, it is. Normally. Everything you do or say in here is recorded. But right now it’s gone dark. There are sporadic breakdowns in our systems, since we’ve been out of port for a long time and we’re due for an overhaul. They’re not worried, because usually you’d be asleep at this time.”

  Me: “What about the guards?”

  Him: “This shift is on our side.”

  Me: “What side is that?”

  Maybe I’m not being very friendly, but I’m all out of belief in mankind; my trust fund, as it were, has run kind of low.

  Him: “That would take more explaining than I have time for.”

  Me: “Try. Gimme the tl;dr.”

  Him: “People don’t say that anymore.”

  Me: “I do, and last time I checked, I was people.”

  Him: “It’s better that you not know.”

  Me: �
��With respect, fuck you. It’s better that I do know. If you want anything out of me, spill.”

  Him: “Okay. Well, you’ve probably worked out that the plague didn’t kill every adult in the world.”

  Me: “Yeah, I figured you guys must have cracked it, since you’re not wearing a big rubber suit.”

  Him: “More or less. In fact, there was no guarantee that we would survive exposure to you and your friends. We’ve been inoculating the crew against any transgenic shift that may have taken place in your version.”

  Me: “Trans who in the what, now? We have a different version? Like plague 2.0?”

  Him: “The bug has been jumping around and mutating inside all of you. It happens.”

  Me: “That’s why you haven’t landed yet?”

  Him: “Partly.”

  I can tell that there’s something he doesn’t want to say.

  Me: “So… was it just all the ships at sea that made it through? Are you, like, all Waterworld up in this bitch?”

  Him (smiles): “No, quite a few people made it.”

  Me: “How many?”

  Him: “Six billion.”

  Six. Billion.

  My mind turns upside down.

  I’m used to the idea of everybody being dead. Well, almost everybody.

  Me: “Grown-ups?”

  He nods.

  Me: “Little kids?”

  My voice goes wobbly in a way that I hate his hearing.

  Him: “Grown-ups, kids, the whole shebang. Well, it’s not all good news. Unfortunately, all of the Americas went down. Except for the likes of you, of course. But, basically, a billion people gone. A total goatfuck from the Northwest Passage down to Tierra del Fuego. The rest of the world, however, made it.”

  Me: “But how? I mean—there must have been thousands of airplanes—ships—all kinds of things that could carry the disease…”

  He’s thinking of a way to phrase it.

  Him: “Let’s just say that extraordinary measures were taken.”

  Just now, I don’t want to know what that means. Not yet. Just now, I want to think about a world with families, happiness, food, law and order, civilization, red velvet cupcakes.

  Me: “But we never knew—nobody ever came to get us—”

  Him: “Quarantine. Enforced by the death penalty. And believe me, there has been enough to occupy us in the rest of the world.”

  Me: “But—couldn’t you have airlifted us some food—”

  Him: “We were busy with the refugees back in the Old World. Besides, the rest of the world thinks you’re all dead. The press is totally muzzled.”

  Me: “Somebody could have contacted us—told us—”

  Him: “That’d get them locked up. The military won’t allow it. They’ve got a stranglehold on information going either way.”

  Me: “But we’d have heard radio signals—”

  Him: “Only shortwave would reach the US. And those frequencies were jammed.”

  Me: “Brainbox—that’s my friend—”

  Him: “Yes, I know.”

  Me: “He found a signal.”

  At the island, Brainbox had tracked down a creepy broadcast—a mechanical voice reciting numbers, followed by a crappy earworm of a ditty. Very found-footage-movie spooky.

  Him: “Yeah, the numbers station? The Lincolnshire Poacher? That was us.” He smiles.

  Me: “Who is us?”

  Him: “I told you. The good guys.”

  Yeah.

  I take a deep breath and get ready for a truth slap.

  Me: “So… I’m guessing that things are just hunky-dory?”

  Him: “Well—it’s not as simple as that.”

  Me: “Illuminate me.”

  Him: “For starters, you can probably imagine that things got a little messy when the continental US went down. What you call a power vacuum.”

  Me: “Nature abhors a vacuum.” I remember Jefferson saying that once.

  Him: “Totally.” He smiles.

  Me: “Hence the sides.”

  Him: “Hence the sides. Actually, sides implies that there are only two, or only a few. It might be more useful to look at them as facets. Of a very big diamond. Or… groupings. Fluid groupings. Sometimes they change, based on the circumstances.”

  Me: “So what are the circumstances? I mean… the circumstances that lead one facet to keep us here in the brig or whatever and the other facet to be you coming to visit me.”

  Him: “America is gone, but ‘America’ isn’t.” He makes the distinction clear with finger quotes. “For one thing, there are—were—over a hundred and fifty thousand American troops stationed abroad; that and one and a half million American civilians.”

  Me: “So this… the aircraft carrier…”

  Him: “Still American. Still large and in charge.”

  Me: “And what about you?”

  Him: “I think of myself as a patriot.”

  I decide to swim back to the shallow end. Only so much I can take at once. “Can I ask you a question? The rest of the world. Do they still have, like, television and computers and clothes and running water and toilets and stuff?”

  Him: “All of that good stuff. And more.”

  Me: “And for me and my friends to get out of here and get to—there, what do you want from us?”

  Him: “Who said I wanted something?”

  Me: “Uh, puh-lease, Man with No Name.” I take my eyes for a roll. “I might be young and semiferal, but I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Him: “Okay, simple. I want you to go back to New York.”

  THIS IS HOW the goose felt after it laid too many eggs.

  I don’t know how much blood I have left in me, but it’s not enough to keep all systems running. For a while I feel too weak to get out of bed, and my spirit, sapped like my body, can’t find a reason to try.

  Then I think of Donna, and try to stand, and fall over.

  They come in and help me back up, feed me some kind of protein drink, put me back to bed.

  At length I feel stronger, and I devour a tray of food, and when the marine comes to get the tray back, I take a swing at him, thinking to escape, against all reason. The marine takes a half step back so my fist sails past his face, then he deftly catches me as I fall and gently puts me back in bed.

  “Rest up, Hoss,” says the marine.

  Then one day Morris appears and tells me to get up.

  “You won’t want to miss this,” he says.

  I rise, my limbs unexpectedly light, and follow Morris and the marines through another unmemorizable sequence of doors and passages. Finally, we spill into a big chamber laid out in a semicircle.

  It looks like a briefing room of some kind. A man and a woman in flight suits linger curiously at the opposite door. Then the round-headed interrogator appears behind them, with a gray-haired officer in tow who must be high-ranking since the pilots snap tight salutes at him and vanish.

  I follow Morris to the dais with the electronic billboard that stands at the apex.

  My interrogator smiles. “Jefferson! How are you feeling?”

  This is uncharacteristically bright and friendly. I follow the bounce of the man’s eyes and realize that he’s at pains to impress or appease the officer at his shoulder.

  “Anemic,” I say.

  The officer and the interrogator share a look, then Morris chips in. “This is Jefferson Hirayama. Mr. Hirayama has been kind enough to help us with our antibody production.”

  Mr. Hirayama? Kind?

  “Are you Japanese, son?” The gray-haired officer makes a show of taking an interest. “I mean your family. I was stationed in Okinawa.”

  “Part,” I say. “Mostly I was just American.”

  “Why the past tense?” The officer seems genuinely interested. I have nothing to say.

  “This is Rear Admiral Rosen,” says the interrogator.

  “Your boss,” I say.

  “Yes,” says the interrogator, but there’s a moment’s hesitation preceding
it. He has another boss somewhere.

  Rosen holds out his hand to shake, and I shake it. The admiral’s hand is dry and firm and devoid of any macho finger crushing.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” says the admiral.

  “Which loss in particular?” I say. The admiral chooses to ignore this.

  “We brought you a treat,” says the interrogator, and a marine sets down a tray laden with cups and bags.

  The insignia, a two-tailed green mermaid, is instantly recognizable.

  “Starbucks?”

  “We have one onboard,” says the admiral.

  “Of course,” I say.

  The admiral makes an expansive knock-yourself-out gesture toward the tray, and I approach it cautiously. I take a sip of coffee and look into the bag. An assortment of pastries is jumbled together. I pick a cinnamon roll. The others watch me as if they have just given an Amazon tribesman a mirror.

  I take a bite and feel the gorgeous engineered fat-and-carbohydrate rush of flour and sugar and palm oil. My eyes water, a Pavlovian emotional kick, and I turn away in embarrassment.

  That’s when the door in the other corner opens and Donna walks in.

  To be exact, Peter, his head sprouting the stumpy beginnings of some dreadlocks he’s been diligently tending, walks in, followed by Theo, his big frame tensed and wary, then Brainbox, whippet-thin as ever, then Captain, his head shaved almost to the scalp, and finally Donna, peeking over the others’ shoulders, her eyes bright.

  But Donna is all I really notice at the moment.

  I set down the food. I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands, what to do with my mouth. I want to go and kiss her, but I don’t know if, under the eyes of the sailors and the marines, I should.

  Donna bumps past the others and jumps into me, gluing her mouth to mine.

  KISSING JEFFERSON IS more than good; he tastes of sugar and cinnamon, which is even better than I remembered, and then I realize it’s because he’s been chowing down on snacks. He’s acting a little shy, maybe because we’re in the company of a military escort, but I just go full-on The Notebook on him, and the old guy in the uniform does a sort of kids-these-days chuckle, which is clearly out of embarrassment and meant to forestall further smooching, but I decide to ignore all that and let my feelings dart down inside of Jeff, where I know I’m always home.