Recoil

by Joanne Macgregor

  Without gaming to distract me, I’d spent my time completing my online school units, submitted all assignments due for the end of the semester, and even completed seven of my eight online junior-year examinations. I wasn’t much interested in school. When I tried to imagine what I’d do after my senior year, I came up blank. The idea of spending several more years at home studying online filled me with dread. I had never been interested in becoming a doctor or a mechanical engineer, but I might be tempted to register for a degree in one of them — at least then I’d get out from under Mom’s thumb for the annual four-month on-site training at the college’s quarantined facility.

  I’d always longed to travel, to see the places I’d learned about in history and read about in English Lit. But with the borders sealed, I wouldn’t be seeing the Eiffel Tower or the Great Wall of China any time soon. The government encouraged us to travel locally — someone had to support the tourist industry now that most foreigners weren’t allowed in — but Mom made us stay home, “safe and sound”. I’d had a pre-plague BFF whose mother had embroidered a pillow for her bearing the homily “There’s no place like home”. If my mom were to embroider a pillow for me, it would read, “There’s no place but home”.

  I was looking forward to the social later that day because it would get me out the house for the first time since the simulated sniper mission. Being cooped up at home had always bugged me, but at least with The Game I’d been able to immerse myself in virtual spaces and vistas. Now the house was too small to bear. I wished I could see Leya again, or get out and meet other people — real people, not my e-friends from BackChat. And really talk to them, not just message them in texts and online chat rooms. I was bored stiff with my mom, and even Robin was getting on my nerves.

  Some teens occasionally snuck out at night to hook up or party, but I was too nervous. The Plague was out there. Even if I wasn’t actually attacked by some rabid nocturnal varmint or caught by the patrols enforcing curfew, my mother might find me out. And if that happened, I’d be “virtually grounded” for months. It was bad enough to be on what practically amounted to house-arrest, but if I lost connectivity, I’d go insane within a week.

  When I went downstairs to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee, Mom was sliding a baking pan into the oven. The kitchen T.V. was tuned in to the live transmission of the Oscars, which for the last two years had been held in April. Some stick insect of an actress was accepting her award for Best Actress in a digital composite feature film. She wore a spectacular gown of yellow and sat in what looked like her living room, delivering her acceptance speech over VideoCall, clutching the statuette which had been delivered to her door mere moments before. Canned applause followed.

  “It looks so ridiculous,” I said, stirring sugar into my coffee. “Why don’t they just announce who won and show clips from the films or something? Why bother trying to have an awards ceremony?”

  “Do you remember when they still held the ceremony in that magnificent old theatre in Hollywood?”

  “Vaguely. I remember that they used to start playing the music when the acceptance speeches went on too long.”

  “They all swanned down the red carpet, and everyone who was anyone was in the audience. It was so glamorous, and the fashions were so beautiful,” Mom sighed.

  I’d never been much interested in fashion. As a kid, I’d found jeans and sneakers comfortable enough. I knew teen girls were supposed to be obsessed with clothes, but really, what was the point when nobody outside of family ever saw you in anything but a PPE suit?

  Mom cast the odd glance at the screen as she packed away the weekly groceries — ordered online and delivered by sterile drones — then spritzed and wiped the kitchen counters with anti-microbial spray. I stepped aside as she made her way to where I leaned against the refrigerator; she was quite capable of spraying me, too.

  “Well, now it totally looks pathetic.” I peered into the oven. “What are you baking?”

  “It’s a picnic, so I thought I’d make brownies. Remember?”

  I did. When Robin and I were kids, before my father died, before the world went mad, we used to go on family picnics in the city’s parks. Before we ate, we’d always have a jousting contest. Robin would climb onto Mom’s back and I’d piggy-back on Dad’s, and then we’d run at each other like knights of old, trying to score hits with lances made of long loaves of French bread until we collapsed — Robin and me in giggles, and Mom and Dad in breathless exhaustion. Then we’d break out the hot dogs and coleslaw. And always, for dessert, we devoured Mom’s homemade brownies.

  But the socials didn’t allow members to bring their own food, even for picnics. The risk of someone secretly being a terr cell-member and spiking the food or drink was too great. All food, checked and sterilized and sealed, would be provided by the Social Program and doled out by the SP hosts.

  “You know you can’t take it along, right?” I asked Mom.

  “I know, I know. I’m being a bit silly, I guess.” Not silly, no. Mom was getting anxious as she always did when we went out, and baking soothed her nerves. “We can have it when we get home. I’ve got some good news for you. Well, you’ll think it’s good news, I’m not so sure. So I thought we could make a little celebration of it.”

  “What good news?”

  Three sharp pips sounded from the T.V. Mom and I turned automatically to check the screen. There was always the chance it could be an announcement of an attack, or of a sighting of an infected person in our area with a caution to stay indoors. But this time it was merely a Public Service Announcement by Alex Hawke, President of the Southern Sector. I liked Hawke. He seemed like a strong, honorable guy, and I figured we were lucky to have him as the leader of our sector. When Mom hadn’t been sure who to vote for in the last election, I’d persuaded her to vote for him.

  “Why him?” she’d asked. “I know he’s popular with you youngsters, but what precisely do you like about him?”

  “I don’t know exactly, I just think he’s someone we can rely on, like we can trust him to do what’s best.”

  Her look had been something close to pity when she replied, “I think he’s something of a father figure to you, Jinxy.”

  Maybe she was right. But as father figures went, I thought — staring at his thick, wavy brown hair, beginning to grey at the temples, and strong, square face — you could do a lot worse.

  “I think he’s too smooth, a bit too slick.” Mom never lingered on any conversation that might deal with Dad. “Then again, he is a politician.”

  A very successful politician. He’d swept into office with the largest victory margin in history.

  Hawke was talking now. “In the Southern Sector alone, we have an estimated 1.3 million illegals living in the shadows, which leaves this nation vulnerable to a myriad of dangers. Do you suspect someone you know of being here illegally? He might be the person who delivers your groceries, or the woman you see on the street that somehow doesn’t belong, or that anonymous commenter on your workplace’s online forum who questions the need for immigration reform. For the safety of this nation, it is each citizen’s responsibility, each citizen’s national duty, to report suspicious activity or persons to the proper authorities. Be observant and stay vigilant.”

  It ended with the familiar jingle: “If you see something, say something. Call our tip-off hotline on 1-800-U-SEE-SAY.”

  My mother always watched these PSA’s like they conveyed life-and-death information, which I guess they did, but she’d seen this one scads of times before and could probably recite it word for word. Even I already had the hotline number memorized. I tried not to let myself tune out the PSA’s. As Mom often pointed out: complacency leads to danger. The terrorists counted on us letting our guards down, getting bored, and becoming unobservant and sloppy, and the virus thrived when we neglected our safety measures.

  “What good news?” I asked impatiently.

  “I’ll tell you later — it’s a surprise.” She glanced at her watch an
d exclaimed, “Will you look at the time! The Fun Bus is due here in half an hour, and I haven’t done my hair. Please, Jinxy, go and chase Robin for me. Check he hasn’t fallen back asleep or gotten lost in a story or a program in that blessed game, will you? And make sure he puts on his PPE gear.”

  “What surprise?”

  “Later! Here.” She shoved a box of heavy-duty, double-thick latex gloves into my hands.

  I trudged upstairs to Robin’s room, while Mom hurried off to her own bedroom, presumably to do something intricate to her hair. So little of ourselves showed above the masks and jump-suits that people tended to go crazy with hair and eye decoration. I couldn’t be bothered with braiding and twisting and spiking my hair into the outlandish styles so fashionable when people did get together. My blue streaks were distinctive enough, though for today I had also stuck long, indigo-colored false lashes over my own.

  The image of the tattoo next to Leya’s eye flashed in my mind. What was she doing today? Did she feel the same sense of anticlimax I did now that we’d played a real game? Then I remembered that Bruce had asked about today’s social and groaned to myself. He’d said he lived a few blocks away, so it was quite likely he’d be in my group and on my bus, as they tended to organize these things in neighborhoods.

  Robin was in his bedroom, folded into his favorite spot — the cushioned window seat beside the sealed window which overlooked the neighbor’s yard. The Johnsons had a pool which they kept filled and sparkling blue, though I never saw anyone swimming in it. They also had a pretty daughter of about our age. Perhaps Robin sat there so often in the hopes of catching her in a bikini.

  “Mom says I have to check you’re ready for the” — I made jazzy star-fingers — “social!”

  “I’m dressed, brushed, and as enthusiastic as a turkey at Thanksgiving,” said Robin, not looking up from the spiral notebook in which he was writing.

  His PPE suit and gloves were lying on the bed. I exchanged the lightweight gloves he had laid out for a pair of double-thicks from the box Mom had given me, and checked his mask for any tears.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “Writing a poem.”

  Robin was always writing poems — when he wasn’t writing stories. Or reading. Inexplicably, he preferred poetry and reading about giant trees ambling around Middle Earth to gaming. I poked around his room, which was messier than my own, checked his digital reader for his latest downloads, studied his corkboard — a new haiku about the view of sky seen from a window, an old photo of Dad — and pulled a face at his old skateboard, which still hung on the wall directly above his bed. It had been Mom and Dad’s gift to him on his eleventh birthday.

  “Why do you still keep that thing?” I said, irked. The skateboard always reminded me of the time before. “What’s the point? The skate-parks are closed, and no way would Mom allow you on the streets. You’ll never get to use it again.”

  “I can hope, can’t I? Things might change one day.” Robin glanced out the window then wrote another line.

  “Phff. It’s like a leftover from the time before,” I grumbled.

  “A relic from ancient times … Maybe that’s why I keep it.”

  Robin often said deep stuff like that.

  As I plonked myself down next to him, my stomach growled a welcome to the smell of baking chocolate drifting up from the kitchen.

  “Mom’s making brownies.” I peered over his shoulder, read the title of his poem. “An Unmarked Grave. What’s it about?”

  “A little death.”

  “Nice,” I said. “Very cheerful.”

  Not particularly wanting to read further, I looked out the window. Beyond the fence, Mr. Johnson, our neighbor, was lowering a bulky bundle wrapped in what looked like white canvas into a large hole dug beside a huge rhododendron bush heavy with yellow flowers.

  “What the heck’s he doing?” Mr. Johnson was now dropping shovels full of dirt into the hole. He was working quickly; it would soon be filled up. “It looks like a grave, like he’s burying hidden treasure,” I joked.

  “He is, in a way,” said Robin. He put down his pencil and looked out the window, sighing deeply.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That was Maisy.”

  Maisy was the Johnson’s dog, a friendly golden retriever with a gray muzzle, a loud bark and a perpetually wagging tail. She was one of the very few pets left in our neighborhood.

  Because of the danger of contagion, most people who wanted pets had switched to animals that couldn’t get outside, couldn’t get infected and couldn’t bite — tropical fish, seahorses, or reptiles like pet lizards which were resistant to the virus. Or, of course, robots. Robocats came complete with shed-free, easy-clean fur and purring function. RoboDogs barked and did tricks like sitting and back-flipping. Chatty Parrots repeated whatever you said. Mom was always a little freaked out by the neighbors’ real live dog, and the fact that it was allowed out into their yard several times a day to run around and do its business really worried her.

  “But, but, how did it die?” I asked, confused and beginning to get concerned. “And why are they burying it in the yard?”

  “She was really old. And I guess they’re burying her there because they want to keep her close in some way,” said Robin, rubbing at the dent the pencil had left in his finger.

  “Mom needs to see this.”

  “Jinxy, no, don’t —”

  “Mom!” I called out loudly. “Come quick!”

  Chapter 8

  Overkill

  “Jinx!” Robin thumped his notebook down hard on the seat cushions. “What did you call her for? Now she’s going make a fat fuss. Their poor old dog died, and they’re burying her. It’s not a federal offense!”

  “Sorry to correct you, but I think it may well be,” I said, my eyes still fixed on Mr. Johnson next door. He was patting down the earth on top of the grave. “It’s definitely illegal. That dog could have died from the plague — it could have infected them. Heck, it could have infected us!”

  “You are so your mother’s daughter!” Robin’s look was scathing.

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  Mom came running in, looking totally freaked out. She freaked out easily.

  I pointed out the window, ignoring the stink-eye Robin was giving me, and explained what was happening.

  “I can’t believe some people! When they know full well what could happen.” Mom immediately snatched up Robin’s phone and called the hotline to report the death. “Which is what they should have done themselves,” she said when she’d supplied the authorities with all the details and hung up. She said it a little defensively because Robin was glaring at both of us.

  “You two are completely overreacting,” he said. “And you’re causing real problems for the Johnsons.”

  “That animal might well be infected. It needs to be disposed of properly, Robin James, and you know it. Otherwise it could be a risk to all of us,” said Mom.

  “How? She’s dead! Is she going to turn into a vampire dog or a werewolf?”

  “When its corpse decays, the virus could get into the groundwater.”

  “Mom, we don’t get our water from a well in the back yard!”

  “The contagion could still be spread —”

  “A contagion it probably never even had,” Robin interrupted.

  “— if something digs it up.”

  “Like what?” Robin challenged.

  “Like another dog — they do that, you know — or some foraging critter. A raccoon or a coyote” — her voice rose because Robin was pulling a contemptuous face and mouthing the phrase ‘foraging critter’ as if it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard — “or even a rat! The point is, the laws are there for good reason, and this is against the law. And that,” she said when Robin looked set to argue, “is the end of the discussion. The Fun Bus will be here soon, get dressed please.”

  “I am dressed,” said Robin.

  “I meant,
put on your suit and gloves and respirator, both of you.” Mom stalked out, looking annoyed.

  Robin snorted and rolled his eyes at me in disgust.

  “She’s right, you know,” I said.

  “She’s not. Nothing about this” — he swept a hand to indicate the sealed window, the neighbor’s yard beyond, the protective gear lying waiting on his bed — “is right.”

  All three of us were suited up and waiting in the living room when the Fun Bus’s horn sounded its usual perky tune. We were all tense — Mom because she hated any of us leaving the safety of the house, Robin because he was still angry that Mom had reported the neighbors, and me because I didn’t much feel like seeing Bruce again.

  Mom, Robin and I each took our turns in the decon unit, then emerged, blinking in the sunshine, and headed down the front path toward the long Fun Bus parked in front of our house. Displayed on the side of the bus was the familiar official advertisement about the need to repatriate illegal immigrants to their countries of origin. In the photograph, a family, perhaps Mexican or Puerto Rican, welcomed a long-lost member into their open arms, above the slogan, “Support Immigration Reform, because families belong together.”

  But my gaze, along with Mom and Robin’s, and every person’s on the bus, was fixed on the three official vehicles parked in the street in front of the Johnsons’ front yard.

  Two techs in full hazmat suits carried a sealed level 4 biohazard bin to a white van, labeled Purification Centre Disposal Unit. I guessed Maisy’s body was inside the bin, about to be taken off for testing and incineration. The second vehicle was a police car. Its blue lights flashed silently, while Mr. and Mrs. Johnson and their rosy-cheeked daughter were escorted by more full-suited techs to the third vehicle, a minivan marked Q-Bay Transport.

  “Such overkill,” muttered Robin, turning toward the bus.