by Karen Diem
In a sudden movement, the doctor grabbed something from her pocket, and shoved it towards Zita’s face. Surprised, the Latina ducked her head to the side, striking Trixie’s arm hard with one hand, and seizing the object with a fast twist of the other.
Trixie yelped and fell off the bed. Papers scattered across the floor.
Her heart pounding, Zita clutched the penlight in one hand, and held the IV pole in a defensive position, protecting her body. At the sound of cackling, she peered over the edge. Pues. I guess the disarm drilling paid off, even if it was just a flashlight.
The doctor stood and checked her arm. She waggled a finger at Zita, but from a distance. “For a girl who’s slept a week, you’re fast! Now you’ve bruised me and made me miss my dysfunctional friends, you should let me check your pupils for concussion, brain damage, and dents. You know, anything you didn’t have before you took your nap. At least, I’m assuming you didn’t. No hitting this time, okay?” She scooped up the papers again, setting them to order, and then putting them on the table. Looking at Zita, she held out her hand for the penlight.
While Zita returned the light, she stated, “You need to tell me what’s going on, Doctor.”
The doctor raced through the test and tapped Zita’s arm with the small light. “Let’s do blood pressure and heart rate since we’re short on nurses. Would you refrain from smacking me?”
Zita offered the arm without the IV.
Trixie performed the tests, her touch light and brisk, before secreting the penlight in a pocket. “Okay, good, no concussion. Since your reflexes are all kinds of ridiculous, you had a nonstandard awakening, normal for those here. Call me Trixie. Doctor sounds so… official. Boring. Do you have a brain-sucking squid attached to your head or is that blue and white substance supposed to be hair? Could go either way, there. Nice guns, by the way. If I could disarm someone and decorate their arm in early modern bruise without getting out of bed, I’d get to sleep in more.” Trixie reseated herself, this time further away. She grinned, displaying dimples.
Zita rolled her eyes, and looked at her in silence, lips pressed together, although she lowered the IV pole.
The blond blinked back at her for a few minutes, grimaced, and then sniffed. “Oh, fine, party pooper. Quarantine, as in, you know, separating people who might be sick from the general population to ensure they don’t spread cooties. In this case, super cooties. Literally. I’m guessing you’re a non-presenter like the majority of us in quarantine. About a week ago, a whole lot of people dropped into comas worldwide. I mean, not many compared to the world population, but lots, possibly even a million. It screwed traffic.”
Zita remained silent.
After a deep breath, Trixie continued, “In the US, the government ordered all the weird coma patients into internment—err, quarantine. Here in D.C., that translated to this decommissioned military hospital housing a few hundred quarantined people. Most woke with none of the usual coma aftereffects, but forty or fifty here had wings, lasers, or other mutations. People outside quarantine who didn’t do comas or had short ones got funky transformation cooties too. It’s as if we lost a bet; so far, nobody equals the Seventies folks, like the vegetable lady that took over northeastern Cambodia or the knight with the flying pony. You know, I always wanted a pony, but not as much as a hippo. I hear they’re fierce, but cuddly. Come to think of it, that’s how I like my men.”
Zita dredged her mind for history. She had far preferred zoology, athletics, and lunch. Mmm, lunch. “Only fifteen people worldwide showed up with powers then, right? Aren’t most of them missing or dead?” she asked. Remembering Pol Pot’s grisly death at the hands… err, plants… of one of those people, she added, “Or people hope they’re dead?”
Trixie tapped her nose and pointed at Zita. “You got it in one! Well, this time there’s more, but most aren’t as strong. The Seventies got Superman. We got the winged kid that fetches coffee for the Seventies folks. So far, the big one is a teenager in the Midwest who turned into a pink monster and stomped her town before a vet took her down with a bear dart. Oh, and a convict electrocuted other cons and flew off.”
It didn’t take a genius. “Okay, so I passed out… wait, a week? Can you hand me my phone? My family will be going nuts, and my Crock Pots will burn down my building. What’s with the shaved patch on my head, anyway?” Zita touched it.
Trixie shrugged. “No can do. All the phones and some other quarantined personal effects got stolen. You’ll be allowed to use one of three specific landline phones in the building; inmates get blocks of time to use those phones. The lines are long, and not in a porn-awesome way, either. The chart says you had a boo-boo, but you want me to check for a third eye?”
While Trixie was amusing, Zita was disinclined to allow her to monkey with any head injuries. “No thanks, I think I’ll wait for the real doctor. You know, the one that Nurse Mouse went to get,” she commented, her voice dry.
Trixie snickered. “Caught me, did you? I am a real doctor, just not one with any power. I happen to be a non-presenter too, lucky me. They let me help here on the medical floor because I already have the cooties. I begged, and that was one less person to let into the quarantine zone. We can’t even get within a certain number of feet of the front door. Another coma patient woke up a couple hours ago, so the main doctor is testing him.”
The Latina exhaled, and ran her hand over her hair again, wincing when she touched the shaved spot. “Great. It’s nice to know where my continued existence ranks. How many others are in comas?”
“Two here. A senator’s daughter in a private room and one guy. Sensible people are scared of what’ll happen if she dies because we can’t have modern electronics. Are you in a medical profession?” Trixie confided, leaning across the bed.
The thought made Zita chortle. “Oh, no. I’m a tax preparer. Why can’t we have modern electronics? Is that why nobody came when I pulled the electrodes? Are they afraid someone will watch porn? You’d think they’d want people to be occupied and happy if they have to be confined.” She paused, then answered part of her own question, “Then again, you said this was the government. Happiness isn’t in their mandate.”
“As former military, I’d have to agree,” the other woman chortled. She explained, “Lightning strikes and electromagnetic fluctuations messed up modern electronics the first three days. The result is we can’t have anything fun in case it repeats, like the Internet or cell phones. The top three floors of this building are quarters for us non-presenters. Second floor is security; I have no idea what they hide in there other than steroids. First floor is medical, and the eerie basement is now a spooky obstacle course. They’ll test you there next. The head doctor, Singh, has all the records on paper and keeps his notes in this stupid leather-bound notebook. Between the Privacy Act and the paper I suspect he’s writing, we’ve got adorable numbers instead of names on everything but his papers. Anyone else can only get aggregate data. On the bright side, security can’t use standard surveillance gear, so we’ve more privacy, plus the ornamental bliss of brawny men cluttering up the place.”
A sliver of excitement ran through her at the thought of a new obstacle course before the reminder of captivity quelled it. The door opened, preventing further questions. Trixie sprang to her feet and scratched on Zita’s chart with a pen from her pocket, all business. An older Indian man in a spotless lab coat, navy scrubs, and a matching turban strode in, bearing a pen and a leather notebook; Nurse Mouse crept in behind him. His gaze glanced off Trixie and fixed on Zita.
She waved and tried to appear pleasant. “Hi, I’m alive. Can you please ask the nurse to remove my catheter? Without an audience would be preferable. Oh, and I need to make phone calls.”
The doctor eyed her. Without turning his head, he said, “Dr. Turner, did you perform a preliminary exam?” If his nurse was a mouse, he was a badger.
“Yes, the standard assessment. She’s a non-presenter with the usual abrupt awakening and lack of muscle loss,” T
rixie replied. Her pen posed over the chart and her attention focused on his response like a border collie awaiting orders.
His eyes narrowed. “Probable non-presenter. Assumptions without data mock science. Set up the paperwork for an obstacle course run, please, and escort the other newly awakened patient to the fifth floor before writing your reports,” he replied. The frown lines around his mouth deepened as he turned his attention to Zita.
Chapter 3
A few hours later, Trixie held open the stairwell door at the fifth floor with a flourish.
Zita stepped in, and immediately became the focus of a crowd of sky blue jumpsuit-clad strangers. The large common area boasted four couches, two old desks that may once have been nurse’s stations, and one low table, where old paperback books competed to tumble off the ends first. Halls extended to the right and left, showcasing more linoleum and fluorescents. The main attractions seemed to be a CRT television and a corded phone propped opposite each other on the desks. An old-fashioned clock hung on the wall above the phone, with a paper list on a clipboard hanging below it, pen dangling from a string. It was even odds whether the people loitering had been watching television or listening to an animated phone conversation. Two bulky guards stood by the elevator and across from the stairwell, batons at their side, but missing any other armaments. Serious weight lifters, she thought, but I can’t tell what else until I see them move.
“Singh almost popped a coronary when you mouthed off on the obstacle course,” Trixie said conversationally.
Zita grumped, “It’s not my fault he got excited. I work out all the time and could’ve done his course in my sleep. Blindfolds would have been an efficient and economical addition. You’d think people would appreciate my suggestions to improve the challenge.” Stopping, Zita folded up the ankles on her own jumpsuit again. She suspected that the other four issued jumpsuits would also be oversized. At least the too-small bras would make decent sports bras if she tried not to bounce. The panties fit and stayed on without squishing anything she might use in the next ten years. She sniffed. “The clothing counts as a handicap as well!”
Trixie gurgled another laugh and waved to people as she herded Zita down the lengthy hallway on the right. Their feet squeaked on the tile floor as they moved. “I must’ve missed that, probably good for my continued employment. I was referring to when you declined to participate in his study and then threatened him with the Civil Liberties Union and ‘the most humongous lawsuit he’s ever seen’ if he went against your wishes. Writing your refusal on a sheet of paper and handing to him was a nice flourish,” she answered. They passed close enough to read the Homeland Security patches on the bulging sleeves of the guards’ black uniforms. Both women nodded as they passed.
The guards did not reply or nod back, but that could have been a limitation of their neck movement range. She disapproved of their regimen. What use is a man if he’s so muscle-bound he can’t move well? That’s no fun in or out of bed.
With a shrug, Zita kept going. “It wasn’t mean. Written notice of refusal is more legally binding. He had enough information to verify I’m healthy, and the government doesn’t need more. What’s with the schizoid personality switches, anyway? You’re a person one minute, and then Dr. All Business the next, right before you disappear.” Many doors stood open, and those who noticed them waved, stared, or did both. The rooms were uniform: two beds, two tables, two trunks, all in aged industrial tones, with only the scents of habitation to differentiate them.
As she slowed near the end of the hallway, Trixie panted a little and sulked. “Why did I let you talk me into taking the stairs up? I never take the stairs, ever. Singh has no sense of humor. If I demonstrate one, he’ll stick me back up here and deprive me of what pitiful entertainment I can get. As far as disappearing, I took the other new person to his room. Wait until you meet him! He’s so pretty half the women will fall for him, and the other half will be jealous. I prefer friendly bears, myself, especially with picnic baskets. He’s next door to you, lucky girl. This’ll be your room. You’ve got a roomie like all us peons. Only Sleeping Beauty gets her own place in case senator daddy complains.” She knocked, a staccato quick shave and a haircut, on the open door. A woman within blinked, wire-rimmed glasses magnifying the curiosity in calm hazel eyes as she unfolded from a lotus pose on an unmade bed.
Trixie waved. “Wyn, this is Zita Garcia. Zita, this is Wyn. You’re roomies. Enjoy! I have to get back before they miss my breathtaking alphabetization abilities. See you around.” She wiggled her fingers and made a swift retreat. Her hair bounced as she left. Zita moved to the doorway, holding her things.
Her roommate stood and floated over, one hand outstretched in welcome. Her smile, echoed in her eyes, counteracted the sterility of the sparsely furnished room. Based on her grace and slim form, Zita was guessing her roommate had taken a few dance classes, but the sylph before her lacked the toning of a serious athlete or dancer. She seems familiar, but I don’t see her in martial arts movies or nature documentaries, and I don’t watch anything else. She could be a model, but she looks too healthy. So, not malnourished, just needs muscle tone. Ooh, maybe she’ll let me design a workout regimen for her, she thought, perking up. A low, sweet voice, further gentled by a subtle Southern accent, interrupted Zita’s musing. “And here I thought I’d get a private room! I’m Ellynwyn Diamond, but my friends call me Wyn. Blessings of the day to you! Wait… your last name is Garcia? Do you have two brothers, Miguel and Quentin?”
Zita gave her hand a brisk shake. “Yes… Have we met?” she replied, dropping the other’s hand and looking at her face. I have to look at faces first, and save figuring out their exercise habits as a treat for doing the boring bit first.
Wyn laughed. “Goddess, you haven’t changed! You always did look to see if a person would be any fun before you looked at their face, and you’re even wearing your hair like those clown wigs after chemo! Don’t you remember me from the cancer gene therapy group?” She spread elegant arms with a flourish, glanced downwards through long lashes, and smiled. Something about the unsteady corners of that smile tickled Zita’s memory.
Zita frowned. Chica needs to tone down the posing, was her first thought, followed by, I’m cutting my hair after I get out of here. The group didn’t have a Wyn, but a skinny brown-haired white girl, hazel eyes, symmetrical face with a straight nose, and above-average height…It can’t be. As she watched, the woman nudged a tattered paperback book with a couple embracing under her pillow in a familiar motion. She blinked, and her mouth fell open. “Dorrie? Dorcas McCurdy?”
Dorcas’—no, Wyn’s—eyes widened, and she slapped her hand over Zita’s mouth. She seemed oblivious to the aborted defensive move that Zita had stopped at the last second. The scents of soap and old books rose from her hand. “Shh! Not so loud! If people hear that evil name, they might use it, and that would be awful! If anyone makes fun of it, you will be helping me wreak my vengeance,” she hissed. She dropped her hand and hesitated, then gave the Latina’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “It’s fabulous to see you! Two of the others from the experimental group are here too, but you and Andy were my best friends.”
Without hesitation, Zita hugged her, and then blurted, “It is one of the worst names ever, but you know your parents were deranged. They needed strong meds the way the rest of us need air.” She shook her head, remembering them. After a few seconds, she apologized, words scrambling out in haste, “But they were your parents and all, so I’m sorry. I hope they’re…”Not incarcerated or in a mental hospital, she thought, before concluding, “well.” She swore internally. Smooth, Zita.
One corner of the other woman’s mouth curved up, and then the other. Wyn threw back her head and laughed so hard that tears shimmered at the corners of her eyes. She dabbed at her lashes with a tissue from a pocket. “No, tell me what you really think, Zita! Last I checked my parents were fine, other than the insanity. They think I’m going to Hell. I’m certain crabgrass will be their next reinc
arnation. They tossed me out on my eighteenth birthday. Now, I enjoy doing ninety-five percent of the things they warned me against, and with a better name. The bed and box by the window are yours. I’m not an early morning person, so enjoy the sun! Sit down, and we’ll chat until the hordes show up to meet you. We’re short on entertainment around here, so two new people are exciting news.”
As she stowed her meager supplies in her decrepit footlocker, Zita watched her new roommate out of the corner of her eye. Adulthood had given her friend the warm, quiet beauty only suggested in the pretty teen, and a serenity that had been lacking. The way she moved bespoke self-confidence, except for now and again when her old timidity peeked out from behind the graciousness. Her body was loose and relaxed, so Wyn must have forgiven her gaffe. She wracked her brain to reply. “Wasn’t that on your to-do list? Change your name, date lots, fall in love, and live a life of endless books and luxury?” she queried.
Zita tried to pay attention while Wyn enthused about her life, but her attention scurried to their shared room. It was similar to the room she had woken in, except that the paint in this room was a faded yellow, the ceiling fluorescents lacked insect life (or death), and a wooden door hid what she hoped was a bathroom behind flaking white paint. Tray tables arched over two small twin beds instead of hospital beds. A damp towel and two navy wool blankets lay in a tangle atop her bed, which bore military corners from whoever had made it. Each table had a towel draped over it like a tablecloth, and white flowers made of socks bloomed from a water glass on one. Wyn’s bed was a rumpled swirl of sheets, with a pile of blue and white clothing in a heap beneath it. A solitary coffee cup stood on her table, half-filled with water. The smell of coffee and soap mingled with faint overtones of dust. After drifting to the window, she surreptitiously pried up more of the shedding translucent window film.
The fifth floor afforded her an excellent view of the surrounding buildings, all of which were old brick with ornate fretwork. If this building was similar, she could climb down, even without gear. The lack of decent shoes would be a problem, but she could wrap her feet to avoid damage. Guards stood at attention near the door of the neighboring building, and she could see men patrolling the length of a chain link fence. A shrubby garden sat abandoned and forlorn next to the fence, unrestrained weeds strangling stubborn roses. A squirrel peeked from the sanctuary of the overgrown bushes before bounding to another tangle of vegetation; Zita imagined herself doing the same, and felt her mouth twist upward. While the fence wouldn’t be a problem, she would have to be careful if she wanted to get around the guards. On her way up from the basement, she had noted three guards, all in Homeland Security drab, posted on the first and second floor entrances. The third floor boasted four, while the fourth and fifth floors had two each; outside, armed guards patrolled.