NO SAFE PLACE

by Steven M. Roth

  Back at the sofa, Trace crouched down until his face was at the same level as Nanna’s.

  “Nanna,” he whispered, “sorry to bother you.”

  Nanna opened her eyes wide and looked around, disoriented, then looked up at Trace.

  “What happened? Is it Pete?” she said, propping herself up on one arm. “Tell me.”

  Trace gently touched her shoulder and shook his head.

  “It’s not Pete,” he said. “He’s the same. Bella is sleeping so I wanted to tell you I’m going out for a while to see what’s going on, to try to get a reading on the situation out there. I’ll be back before curfew. Ask Bella to call me when she wakes up.”

  He kissed Nanna’s forehead. Then he left.

  Trace set off looking for an open drugstore, this time walking south from the condo. As before, all he found were closed pharmacies displaying the notice promising CDC’s relief sometime in the future.

  After an hour, he decided to head back to the condo. He walked along Commercial Boulevard as he headed home.

  He’d walked two blocks when he saw three young people, two males and a young woman, standing on a street corner not far ahead of him. They were passing a lighted cigarette among themselves.

  Three people. They better be careful. That’s an unlawful assembly under the Field Order, he thought.

  He looked around as he approached them, adding a prohibited fourth person to the unlawful assembly.

  “Hi. I’m Trace.”

  They turned and looked at him, but said nothing. The young woman took a step back away from him.

  As he spoke, Trace reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his softpack of CAMEL cigarettes. He held it out to the young woman, stretching out his arm, carefully maintaining his distance.

  “It’s okay,” he said, maintaining eye contact with her. “Help yourself.”

  The young woman looked over at one of the males, then back at Trace. She hesitated, then stepped forward, took the softpack, and stepped away again. She leaked a soft smile at Trace from behind her companions.

  The young woman pulled out three cigarettes, then tossed the softpack back to Trace with an underhand flick of her wrist.

  Trace sensed he had to win over the dark complexioned male, who probably was their leader. He was the one the young woman had looked at for implicit permission to step forward and take the CAMELs from Trace.

  He turned to face the young man.

  “I need help,” Trace said. “My son’s sick. Do you know if there’s an open drugstore anywhere around here?”

  The male looked at the young woman, then back at Trace.

  “We don’t want trouble, Mister,” he said. “We’re just sharing a smoke.”

  “No trouble intended from me,” Trace said. “Like I said, I just need help.”

  The other male shook his head. “Everything‘s closed. Nothing around here’s open that I saw.”

  He looked at the bulge in Trace’s shirt pocket.

  Trace took the hint and again pulled the open softpack from his shirt pocket. He tossed it over.

  “Keep it,” Trace said. “My wife’s been after me to quit.”

  Trace and the three youngsters huddled on the corner smoking together, trading such little information as they had, and swapping rumors.

  Suddenly, the strident sound of a ponderous, approaching vehicle interrupted them. They turned as one and looked in the direction of the rapidly accelerating noise.

  A HUMVEE rumbled to the curb and stopped just ten yards from them.

  Damn, Trace thought, there’re four of us.

  The three youngsters moved with the precision of a military drill team, bunching together and sliding behind Trace.

  Two soldiers, dressed in MOP gear — Mission Oriented Protective suits — jumped to the sidewalk, M-4s in hand. They quickly strode over, positioning themselves, one in front and one in back of Trace and his companions. A third soldier, dressed in a protective suit like the other two, stayed on the vehicle and sat behind a top-mounted M-249 weapon which he aimed in their general direction.

  Trace moved his hands into plain sight, with his palms facing outward, so they could see he wasn’t holding a weapon.

  “Down on the ground,” one soldier said, his voice sounding robot-like as it filtered through his MOP suits’ speaker system. “Show me your hands. Do it now!”

  He pointed his weapon in their general direction and took a short step toward them. He poked the tip of the weapon toward the ground, using puppeteer pantomime to emphasize his shouts, commanding them with his gestures to lie down.

  The youngsters dropped to their knees like dead weights, then stretched out face down on the pavement. Trace slowly followed them to the ground, all the while watching the soldier closest to them.

  “Don’t move until I tell you,” the soldier said.

  He stepped back from Trace and his companions, and nodded to the other soldier who moved in and patted them down.

  “They’re clean.”

  “Get up,” the first soldier said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Trace and his companions rose to their feet in exaggerated slow motion, not saying anything, and not taking their eyes off the soldier who had spoken to them.

  “You can’t be four people in public together,” the soldier said. “That’s an unlawful assembly. There’s not more than two allowed together. It’s in the Field Order. I could take you in if I had a mind to.”

  He raised his weapon slightly and took a step toward them. “Give me your IDs.”

  He took the four drivers’ licenses and looked at the photos, comparing each with its live counterpart.

  “Watch them,” he said to his colleague, nodding toward Trace, “while I check these IDs.” He walked back to the HUMVEE.

  “Your IDs check out,” he said a few minutes later. He hooked his right thumb into his belt.

  “I’m going to let you off this time since you’re not on the watch list and don’t have priors, none until now, that is, since I entered you all into the system.”

  He turned and faced Trace. “You’re not registered,” he said to Trace.

  He turned to the young people. “You’re not registered either.”

  He paused and looked the four of them over.

  “All of you, listen here,” the soldier said. “Register before you become violators. There won’t be any second chance if you’re stopped again and haven’t registered. You’re now in the computer system.

  “And remember,” he said, “you can’t be three or more people together like you are, so split up.” He saluted with two fingers and handed all the drivers’ licenses to Trace. Then he and the other soldier walked back to the HUMVEE, climbed on board, and rode away.

  Trace and his companions stood mute and watched the vehicle noisily lumber away and disappear around a corner.

  Trace faced around and said, “Trace is my name. Trace Austin.”

  “Ibrahim,” the apparent leader said. His skin was dark, his hair coal black with tiny, tight curls, his eyes black, too. He wore a tiny silver hoop in his left earlobe. He had two or three days’ growth of beard.

  “This is my friend, Jenna Burke,” he said, nodding at the young woman. “He’s Calvet. Jenna’s with me. We’re on spring break from college, Jenna and me.”

  Jenna stepped from behind Ibrahim and said, “My cousin, Alex, comes to Fort Lauderdale every spring break. Said this place is a blast. Guess not this year though. We’re looking for him.”

  The third youngster, Calvet, stared at Trace, but said nothing.

  “We’ve got to go,” Ibrahim said.

  With that, he turned away from Trace, and began walking.

  Trace watched them walk up the street. They turned into an alley and disappeared from sight.

  Trace thought, Those kids won’t make it here alone. They better hook-up with someone experienced if they’re going to survive martial law.

  Trace walked back to the condo. He sti
ll didn’t know any more about finding an open drugstore than he did when he started out earlier that day. He just knew that Pete had to hang on until the CDC came through with the promised meds. It should be any day now based on the posted notices.

  CHAPTER 40

  Quarantine

  Day 14

  The wailing started softly, more as a deep undercurrent of noise than as an actual lament, more felt by Trace in his sleep than consciously heard by him.

  The sound progressively intensified, elevating its pitch from basso to tenor, increasing its volume, matching the rhythm of Pete’s now recurring spasms.

  Then Pete screamed, and he didn’t stop.

  His fingers closed into tight, rigid, locked hooks. His fingernails pierced his palms.

  His feet curled and locked themselves into the stiff bound feet of nineteenth century Mandarin girls.

  His torso convulsed.

  Trace and Isabella ejected from their chairs, fully roused from sleep by fear and pumping adrenalin.

  Trace put one knee up on the bed and leaned in toward Pete. He gripped Pete’s arms.

  Slowly, his own arm muscles straining, Trace tried to unfold Pete’s arms and place them back into a natural position. He couldn’t release them from the spasm’s grip. He feared fracturing Pete’s bones if he tried too hard, so he let up.

  Trace lifted Pete’s shivering, crunched-up body and pulled him in close. He pressed his forehead against the top of Pete’s head and gently rocked him as you would rock a sick toddler to calm him.

  Trace lowered himself onto the edge of Pete’s bed and sat him on his lap, wrapping his arms around Pete’s body, as much to hug him as to keep him from gyrating off his lap onto the floor.

  Pete’s eyes now were wide open, watery, unseeing.

  CHAPTER 41

  Quarantine

  Day 16

  At first Viktor was stunned.

  Then he was livid.

  Finally, he was frightened.

  Fear was an emotion Viktor had experienced so infrequently, and had managed to quickly suppress when he did experience it, that its occurrence now, in this land that had been his home for the past six years, unsettled him even more than the events that had given rise to his fright.

  Viktor was livid and, by extension, frightened because when he arrived at his gun shop that day to check on it, the gun shop was locked up, sealed tight, with a neon-yellow official notice nailed to the door stating that the business had been declared closed by the Office of the District Military Commander for the duration of martial law. The door was sealed tight by a thick chain and a military-quality lock.

  When Viktor walked to the front window to look through it and eyeball the damage the military might have done — if they had even entered the shop — he was shocked by what he saw. As far as he could tell from the little he could see through the dirty window and the weak illumination given off by the crime light he’d left burning, all his inventory was gone. The locked wall racks were open and empty; the glass-top counter-cases were empty; and, the vault door was wide open. So much for my pricey security system, he thought.

  Viktor returned to the front door and copied a telephone number from the notice tacked to it. As the notice stated, he could obtain information about the property-taking and about the closure of his business by calling the Office of the District Military Commander. Viktor would call and would find out why they had locked up his shop, closed down his business, and stolen his inventory.

  Maybe, if he asked nicely, he thought, they would tell him how the hell he was supposed to earn a living in this so-called land of the brave and the free while his business was closed down.

  But the phone call would have to wait. Viktor had one other thing to take care of first.

  He walked to the back of the free-standing, former single-family house he rented and used as his retail gun shop. When he reached the backyard, he looked for indications that someone had been there.

  Convinced his backyard also had been subject to trespass, Viktor walked to the far end of the property to a small tool shed where he kept a lawn mower and other basic maintenance tools. The padlock he’d placed on its door had been cut off and was lying on the ground in front of the entrance. No surprise there.

  He opened the shed door and turned on the light. The interior had been ransacked, but that was all right. He would have done the same thing had he been in the occupying military here. If anything was missing, that would be fine, too. Everything he kept above ground in this shack could be replaced.

  Viktor stepped outside and looked around to be sure he was alone. Then he re-entered the shack and closed the door behind him.

  The only important question, he thought, was whether the fascists had discovered the cache of weapons and ammunition he’d hidden in the small space below his feet.

  CHAPTER 42

  Quarantine

  Day 16

  Trace sat in the darkened bedroom staring at Pete. Isabella had left hours before, returning to their bedroom to try to sleep.

  Pete had been sleeping fitfully, reflecting his body’s prolonged struggle with his fever and, more recently, his muscle spasms.

  Trace had finally stopped fighting his own inclination to sleep, and allowed himself to slip away into a deep slumber. He awoke two hours later, ripped from sleep by Pete’s shriek.

  Trace bolted upright and looked over at Pete.

  As Trace’s eyes settled on him, Pete silently jerked his body up off the bed. He arched his back and twisted his torso in a wrenching muscle spasm. Then, just as abruptly, his body released its tension and dropped back onto the mattress.

  Pete curled on his side with his chin tucked into his chest, his legs and arms drawn up into a rigid fetal position. He shivered and sweated. Perspiration streamed down his cheeks.

  Throughout this contortion, Pete emitted no cry, no moan, absolutely no sound at all.

  Pete’s anomalous silence in the face of the spasms and contortions unnerved Trace even more than seeing the spasms and contortions themselves.

  Pete never opened his eyes.

  Trace stared at his contorted body.

  Nothing more happened.

  Pete lay curled on his side, his eyes closed, sucking his thumb.

  CHAPTER 43

  Quarantine

  Day 16

  The mandatory registration process required by Field Order No. 2 was simple: You stood in line to obtain your registration form, filled it out and signed the form, then stood in another line to have it checked for completeness and against your photo identification. If the completed form and your ID passed muster, you then moved to another line which led you to yet another ODMC clerk.

  This ODMC clerk took your completed form and scanned the information into a template on the clerk’s desktop computer. The clerk then sent your formatted information over the Pentagon’s secure, post-9/11 survivable telecommunications network, feeding the information directly into one of the Cray X1E Supercomputers located deep beneath the Pentagon.

  The Cray took your information and used its high-speed vector processing powers to mine government and private databases for other information about you. Then, processing with lightning speed, the Cray filtered and sorted this other information according to parameters that had been created as part of OPERATION TESTING GROUND specifically for the Quarantine Zone.

  The Cray Supercomputer returned the results of its acquiring and sorting processes back to the ODMC clerk in less time, from start to finish, than it originally took the clerk to scan the completed form into the desktop template.

  Trace and Nanna left the condo to register themselves, to register Pete who could not register himself, and to register Isabella who had stayed behind to take care of Pete. Such absentee registrations were permitted under Field Order No. 2, but did cause the people who were registered in absentia, as well as the people who registered them, to be entered into ODMC’s central database.

  After they completed the four registratio
ns, Trace and Nanna returned home without incident.

  CHAPTER 44

  Quarantine

  Day 16

  After Trace returned from registering, Isabella hovered over Trace and Pete, keeping one hand on Pete’s shoulder and one hand on Trace’s shoulder. Her eyes flicked from Trace to Pete and back again.

  Pete’s occasional howling had modulated to a soft, continuing moan. Then he suddenly shut down and became silent. A shudder waved through his body.

  Trace looked for recognition in Pete’s wide-open eyes, but saw none. He looked over at Isabella, then turned back to Pete. He placed two fingers on Pete’s neck, pressing Pete’s carotid artery, searching for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  Trace leaned in close to Pete’s head to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but could not get past Pete’s knees which remained tucked up above his chin.

  He took Pete’s head in his hands and tried to turn Pete’s face toward him, but Pete’s neck was fixed in place.

  Isabella stood up slowly and leaned in close, looming over them.

  She combed her fingers through Pete’s hair. She sobbed and trembled. Tears cascaded down her cheeks.

  Trace again searched for Pete’s pulse, refusing to remove his fingers from the stilled carotid, waiting for a beat, however faint, to reveal itself.

  Nothing.

  He looked into Pete’s unseeing eyes, then over at Isabella. He shook his head.

  Isabella’s eyes widened, silently answering her own unasked question.