NO SAFE PLACE

by Steven M. Roth

Trace was about to cross the street when he realized the young woman walking in front of him was Ibrahim’s missing friend, Jenna.

  He picked up his pace until he was almost by her side, but decided to move away a few feet so he wouldn’t startle her.

  “Hello, Jenna,” he said. “Hello.”

  Jenna stopped walking and turned her head around at the sound of her name. She looked at Trace, staring at him without any sign of recognition, then turned away, again facing the direction of her walk. She resumed her former pace.

  “Jenna,” Trace said, “it’s Trace Austin. We met on the street corner the other day with Ibrahim and that other guy. I gave you my pack of cigarettes.”

  She slowed her step, stopped, and turned back to face him. She squinted as she examined his face.

  “Oh, right.” She nodded, but did not smile. “It’s you,” she said dismissively. She turned away to resume her walk.

  “You’re supposed to be missing, arrested,” Trace said. “Ibrahim’s worried about you. How’d you get here?”

  “I’m okay,” she said. “I’ve already seen Ibrahim. Everything’s fine.”

  “Where’ve you been?” Trace said.

  “I was arrested, nothing else. They asked me some questions, kept me for three days — at least I think it was three days — then let me go.”

  Trace narrowed his eyes. Why did the authorities go through that exercise with her just to let her go?

  Jenna said, “Ibrahim’s fine.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At the hotel, still sleeping. At least he was sleeping when I left. I’m looking for something to eat,” she said.

  “Let’s go get Ibrahim,” Trace said.

  Jenna paused, contemplating Trace’s suggestion. “Okay, for now,” she said, “but at some point soon I need to eat.”

  They walked silently, each warily watching the other from the corner of their eyes, but trying not to show it. They started across Royal Palm Drive when Jenna pointed and said, “Look over there. It’s Calvet.”

  Trace followed Jenna’s pointing hand. He saw three soldiers, dressed in MOP gear, grouped around a young man. Trace recognized him.

  “It’s your friend,” Trace said.

  “He’s not our friend,” Jenna said. “We met him just before we met you. He tagged along with us. We don’t know him at all.” She paused, looked briefly at her wristwatch, then continued. “Let’s go over and see what’s going on.”

  Not waiting for Trace to agree or disagree, she started across the street.

  “Wait a second,” Trace said. “We shouldn’t get involved.”

  He was too late. Jenna was almost crossed the street and reached Calvet and the soldiers.

  He decided not to follow her. He already had too many entries into the ODMC’s computer system to risk another. He wouldn’t ignore General Vista’s warning about what would happen to him if he again was entered into ODMC’s computer system.

  CHAPTER 55

  Quarantine

  Day 23

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Derek Peterson, CNN, coming to you live from the Quarantine Zone.

  “Before I begin our regular daily broadcast, I’ve been instructed by the Office of the District Military Commander to bring you this news alert.”

  He paused briefly to let his audience ready itself to listen.

  “This past week a roving gang of vigilantes, calling themselves Friday’s Progeny, broke into and looted several private businesses and stores as well as government warehouses. Their calling card is a homemade printed broadside they leave behind in which they castigate the ODMC. This, of course, violates Field Order No. 3, and cannot be tolerated.

  “Although these gang members reputedly distribute food and other necessities to the Quarantine Zone population, make no mistake about it. Their real motive is to profit on the illegal black market, which harms all of us who obey the law and who ask for no more than our fair share under the circumstances.

  “I have been instructed by the Office of the District Military Commander to tell you that anyone who aids or cooperates with Friday’s Progeny or with any other vigilante gang will be severely punished. This also applies to anyone who participates in any manner in the black market.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, here’s a word of advice from this reporter: Don’t be foolish and risk your freedom, however tempting a transaction might be. Do not participate, directly or indirectly, in the black market.

  “To the gang members of Friday’s Progeny, and to other gang members, the commander of the Quarantine Zone, General Vista, says: If you’re caught looting, you’ll be shot on sight. There won’t be any warnings. There won’t be any second chances. Consider yourself notified.

  “Now,” Derek said, “let’s get on with today’s regular Quarantine Zone news report . . . .”

  CHAPTER 56

  Quarantine

  Day 23

  “Hey,” Calvet said, looking at Jenna, “Where’ve you been?”

  Before Jenna could answer, a soldier said to Calvet, “You know them?” The soldier looked at Jenna, then across the street at Trace. He did not wait for Calvet’s answer. He raised his arm, pointed his finger at Trace, and motioned to him to cross the street to join them.

  “Come here,” the soldier yelled.

  Trace warily walked across the street and stopped next to Jenna.

  The soldier turned back to Calvet, and said, “I asked you, do you know them?”

  Trace jumped in to head off Calvet’s answer, and said, “Not really. We briefly met the other day. We don’t really know each other at all.” He didn’t want to be associated with Calvet, an unknown quantity, if Calvet had done something wrong.

  Calvet glared at Trace.

  “Move along then,” the soldier said to Calvet, “before we start over with you after we finish with your friends here.” He nodded his weapon at Jenna and Trace.

  Calvet walked away without saying another word. He looked back over his shoulder once, then turned a corner and was gone.

  The soldier turned his attention back to Trace and Jenna.

  “Give me your IDs,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Trace and Jenna handed over their registration photoID cards.

  “Down on your stomachs”, the soldier said. “Keep your hands where we can see them.”

  He turned to one of his companions. “Check them for weapons.”

  A few minutes later the soldier returned from the HUMVEE. Trace assumed he had checked their identities, any priors, and any entries into the computer system. This worried him. He remained mindful of General Vista’s warning.

  “Get up,” the soldier said.

  Trace and Jenna started to stand, but the soldier poked the tip of his weapon into the small of Trace’s back, and said, “Not you. Just her.” Trace lowered himself back down to the sidewalk.

  The soldier handed Jenna her ID.

  “We haven’t entered you into the system as a courtesy,” he said to her. “I’m letting you go with a warning. Watch your step.”

  Trace could see Jenna from the corner of his eyes. She was looking down at him. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but apparently thought better of it because she remained silent.

  Trace turned his head slightly and craned his neck to face her. He said, “Jenna, call my wife. Her name’s Isabella. He recited Nanna’s landline telephone number. Tell her what happened. Please, call her.”

  Jenna looked at the soldier and then back at Trace. She seemed to hesitate.

  “I will,” she said.

  The soldier looked at Jenna, and said, “Go before I change my mind.”

  “Yes, Sir,” she said, and walked away.

  The soldier turned his attention to Trace who still was prone on the sidewalk. He poked him with his M-4.

  “Stay down,” he said. “Put your hands behind you.”

  Trace obeyed.

  A soldier yelled from the HUMVEE, “This guy’s been flagged on the watch
list. Restrain his wrists and legs. We’re taking him in.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Quarantine

  Day 23

  The soldiers drove Trace from the street corner where they’d grabbed him to the Broward County Detention Center, now under the control of ODMC. They handed him off to two intake soldiers.

  After he was processed, two other soldiers escorted Trace to a room, told him to sit in one of the two available chairs, and then chained his leg shackles to an iron ring protruding from the floor near the chairs. They checked his wrist restraints, left them in place, then left him alone.

  The room was windowless, illuminated only by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The two chairs and a small medical gurney comprised the room’s furniture. There was a waste basket with a lid, marked on its side and top, Caution. Hazardous Medical Waste. A skull and cross-bones decal dominated the lid.

  Trace sat quietly and waited.

  After what seemed to Trace to be an interminable wait, the door opened. An armed guard and another person walked in, both dressed in MOP gear. Neither spoke.

  The guard took a position near the door, facing Trace. The other person walked over to the gurney, retrieved some apparatus from it, walked back to Trace, then sat in the other chair next to him.

  “I’m going to draw blood to test if you’ve been infected. Then we’ll know if we have to wear these protective suits when we’re with you.”

  Trace nodded at the face mask.

  “We’ll have the results in about an hour.” The voice was that of a woman.

  “That fast?”

  The woman nodded. “New technique. Getting faster every day.”

  Almost two hours later, two soldiers, not wearing protective gear this time, entered the room. They said nothing, but Trace inferred from the absence of their MOP suits that he wasn’t infected.

  They unhooked his leg shackles from the ring in the floor, but did not remove the shackles from his legs. They motioned for Trace to follow them. Trace shuffled out into the hallway. They led him down another long, windowless corridor.

  They entered a room that was similar to the room Trace had just left, except this room contained a raised platform, like a small stage, at one end. An officer sat behind a desk up on the platform, facing out toward the rest of the room. The table seemed to Trace to be bare except for an open laptop.

  A folding chair, down in front of the stage, faced the platform. The limited light in the room emanated from a single bare bulb which dangled over the officer, hanging from the ceiling at the end of a long cord.

  The guard ordered Trace to sit.

  Trace shuffled over to the chair and lowered himself onto it. He placed his cuffed wrists and hands on his lap and fixed his eyes on the officer up on the platform.

  The guard walked over to the platform, went up the four steps, and walked over to the table. He saluted the officer, placed the envelope containing Trace’s personal effects on the table, saluted again, and walked back down and off to the far side of the room, somewhere behind Trace, out of his sight.

  The officer sitting on the platform stared at Trace, but said nothing. After several minutes passed, he lifted a pen from the table, glanced at it and then set it back down, sorted through some papers, and looked back at Trace.

  “Tell me your name, age, home, and work addresses. Tell me the names of your immediate family members.”

  He entered Trace’s answers into a computer form.

  “While you’re here you’ll have no contact with any other detainee. Should you inadvertently see someone else while you’re here, you will not communicate with that person. Do you understand?”

  Trace nodded.

  The officer looked at his papers and entered some information. Then he looked at the two soldiers standing at the far end of the room.

  “We’re finished for now. Remove him.”

  Trace was hungry and thirsty. No one had offered him anything to eat or drink. He had a headache. When he looked up at the window, dim light no longer stole into the room. It’s nighttime, he thought. He worried that Bella probably was worrying about him. He was thankful he had asked Jenna to call her and explain what had happened.

  “I’ve seen enough. I’m ready for him,” the officer said, as he turned off the monitor he’d been watching.

  The officer turned from the monitor to the corporal. “Bring Austin to Interrogation Room Two.”

  While he waited in the room to see what would happen next, Trace practiced T’ai chi’s standing meditation, clearing his mind, pouring out his stress. After approximately twenty minutes into his practice, the door opened. A corporal and two guards walked in.

  The corporal said, “Follow us.”

  One guard stepped in front of Trace. The second moved behind him. The corporal followed the three of them.

  They left the room and turned left, walking along the same poorly lighted corridor Trace had walked before, but in the opposite direction. When they almost reached the end, the lead soldier stopped, pulled open a door, and stepped away.

  Trace and the corporal entered the room.

  This room, like the others, was almost bare except that an officer sat behind a large, government-issue, dark green metal desk. A folding chair stood open in front of the desk.

  The seated officer told Trace to move forward and stand in front of the desk.

  Trace’s arm remained cuffed and his ankles shackled.

  The officer stared at Trace as if he was contemplating something unfathomable about him. Then he smiled, but it was not the smile of a friend.

  “Sit,” the officer said.

  Trace lowered himself onto the chair.

  “I have questions. I advise you to consider your answers carefully. By the time we’re through with you, we’ll know whether you are a misguided patriot or an enemy of the people.”

  Why would he call me that? Trace wondered.

  CHAPTER 58

  Quarantine

  Day 23

  “Identify yourself,” the officer said.

  “Trace Austin—.”

  “Speak up. I can’t hear you.”

  “I said, Trace Austin.” His eyes swept the major and then noticed the darkened two-way window or mirror set flush into the wall behind the officer. He could not tell which it was, but he had no doubt about its function. Someone was watching the interrogation.

  “Why did you abandon the SEALs, abandon your warrior brothers?”

  Trace did a mental double-take. That again? What’s that have to do with anything?

  “I can’t hear you. Answer the question.”

  “Personal reasons. It’s not important anymore.”

  “What’s your address?”

  “Do you mean here in Florida or when I’m not in the Quarantine Zone?”

  The interrogator remained silent, not clarifying his question. Then he said, “I am asking you again: Why did you abandon your privileged position with the SEALs?”

  Trace’s stomach tightened. He didn’t answer.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “Why am I here?” Trace said. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I’m not saying anything until you tell me why I’m here.”

  “Very well.” The major paused and gathered his papers into a pile. “You’re here because you are a potential troublemaker. The computer model says so. Now, answer the question.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Answer the question. I’m losing patience with you.”

  “Why am I being held?”

  “You’ve been entered into the watch list. That’s a serious offense. Only terrorists and enemies of the people are entered into the watch list.”

  “That’s nonsense. I haven’t done anything wrong. The only thing I’m guilty of is bad timing, being in Fort Lauderdale when the terrorists attacked.”

  “You must answer my questions and confess what you’ve done or plan to d
o that caused you to be placed on the watch list.”

  The officer turned to his right as if he was about to address some invisible person standing there. He glanced up at the wall, then turned back to face Trace.

  “Listen,” Trace said. “I’m telling you there’s been a mistake. I’m not what you seem to think I am.”

  “We don’t make mistakes where homeland security and terrorism are concerned. You’re in the computer system, on the watch list for a reason. Confess your offenses.”

  “Think about what you just said to me,” Trace said. “It’s right out of Kafka.” Trace paused to take a deep breath. “I haven’t done anything wrong, I tell you.”

  “No, it is not out of Kafka. This is America, not Czechoslovakia in the 1930s. Kafka isn’t relevant here. Now answer my questions.”

  “This is absurd,” Trace said again, his voice becoming louder. “I haven’t done anything wrong.” His tone grew more insistent.

  “Of course you have,” the major said, “otherwise you wouldn’t be here and you wouldn’t be on the watch list. We don’t make mistakes.”

  Trace took a deep breath. He deliberately slowed down his breathing. He paused a beat, then addressed the major again.

  “Let’s start over,” Trace said. “We can clear this up.” He paused. “What exactly am I accused of doing wrong?”

  “You are accused of being an enemy of the people or, to be more precise, accused of being a person who’s likely to become an enemy of America. You might as well confess what you intend to do. We’re on to you.”

  Trace expelled his breath with a rush. He shook his head.

  “This is bullshit. Your argument’s circular. I’m a loyal, law abiding, patriotic American citizen. I love my country. I haven’t done anything to harm it and wouldn’t.”