19 //
We are unloaded on a dock and sorted again. Masiji is forced to leave me and line up behind the elderly people. She doesn’t say a word—something is changed in her. But I see it in her limp. She’s badly injured and needs a mediport right away. I wonder what happened to her. My guesses, I pray, are worse than the truth.
They keep us in the dark at first. The warm skin of people sitting beside me makes me sweat. I don’t want them to touch me, so I inch away as far as I can to be sure they won’t. I jump with each jostle and loud noise outside. Like the sound is enough to crash down upon us and smash our bodies to bits. There’s only enough light to see the outlines of faces. Some are crying. Others are moaning.
I think about Ashiva, and how she’d bust down a wall and break this place until most of the people are free or dead, or at least have a chance. But I’m not Ashiva. I see a nightmare with my open eyes. I don’t know what’s real. I have no idea who I am, so I hold onto the simple truths. “My name is Taru,” I say. “It’s going to be okay.”
A raspy male voice rips through me, “Quiet, girl. They’ll just kill us faster.”
“Don’t be so harsh, bhai,” a girl’s voice says.
“Chup,” he says, “I know how this goes. I heard they burned villages in the Eastern District when they suspected disease. Not just the structures: the village, people, everything. The disease moves fast. My uncle told me about it. He watched the whole thing in the Americas. It’s disgusting. People suffocate as they become paralyzed.”
Children cry out.
“We have to stay calm, please,” the girl says. “My name is Jasmine, Taru,” she whispers.
“Thank you,” I say. “Jasmine.” What a beautiful name. A beautiful girl.
“Are you injured?” she asks.
“No, I just have a limp. My bones, they’re brittle.”
She nods. She shows me her forearm replacement. “We are all the same, sister.”
I don’t know how much time passes, but finally the doors open and guardians lead us into the containment shelter. Jasmine is taller than me, maybe older. We stay close, but they won’t let us look at each other as we march in the dark on a long pathway made of dirt. Water is splashing nearby.
When we enter a structure, at first, I see figures that look like animals in massive room-like cages with transparent, plastic walls. But as we get closer, it’s clear: The rooms are filled with neighbors, friends, children, all in different positions and states of health. Most look starved, thin, almost like the life has been sucked out of them. Some look as though they’ve been here for a long time, while others I know just arrived. Others are much worse, covered in bandages, sitting on the hard, metal ground, with wires embedded in their arms and heads, connecting them to a monitoring system.
They only took those of us with replacements. I recognize many faces.
“Where are we?” Jasmine asks.
We are in a dreaded place, and we aren’t alone. Hundreds or maybe more are kept here. Though I can’t tell yet, there has to be a reason for the arrangement of the cubes.
“I don’t know,” I say. I’ve heard of these places from Masiji’s stories. I feel badly for lying, but it’s best that no one knows what I know: they can do anything they please with us. This isn’t the ordinary containment in Central—the flight would have been shorter. This is something else entirely, a dark off-site. The medi-staff wanders this way and that. Their tablets, monitors and computer are in front. They look to be studying us. But for what, I don’t know. Not yet. I wonder if the world knows what’s happening or if it’s been hidden under lies from Central.
It smells like sweat. Though they run the climate system, it isn’t enough to actually cool us. And with so many bodies, it’s only a matter of time before people collapse from the heat.
“Inside,” is all a guardian says, and they push us in a unit already filled with a few children.
“This is it,” says the boy with the raspy voice. “I wonder how long we have until—”
“Oh, cool off, bhai,” Jasmine says.
There are several medi-staff roaming the facility, taking data, giving rations. Doctors, their assistants and younger people, who are probably runners. A group comes to our unit and the assistant speaks very little to us. Instead, the assistant plays a message on his device of President Ravindra that projects in a 3D holo-screen. Her fuchsia sari is beautifully clean.
“You are here because you’ve been infected by the Z Fever. You will become very ill and most likely will die. But there’s one thing you can do to help: Allow us to test the inoculation. By being a part of this project, you can save the lives of millions and, possibly, yourselves. It’s the only way. We thank you for your service and bravery for the SA Province.”
“Line up,” the assistant in gray says. He doesn’t look us in the eye, but the young boy wearing a black runner tunic at his side does. I recognize him from my childhood. My dear friend. Comrade.
“Rao,” I whisper. My old friend. Thank god.
He looks at me and shakes his head so subtly that I have to be the only one who notices. His mouth curves and shapes silent words, “Wait.”
They must’ve cleared the undermarket first.
They line us up by size and gender. Then they clip a subcutaneous port, like an IV, on the backs of our necks, which provides easy access to our nervous systems. It feels like a scorpion sting, but soon the pain recedes. They place a line in each of us and connect us to a computer that runs our stats: weight, height, temperature, etc.
“I don’t feel sick,” Jasmine says as they put the sensors around her head.
“The symptoms take weeks to appear,” the assistant wearing a gray tunic says. “There are many types: acute, chronic, and some are asymptomatic. This outbreak has become a pandemic. That’s why it’s so dangerous.” The assistant’s neural-synch glimmers gold in the fluorescent light.
I hold the girl’s hand as they run the tests and lie to her about being sick. When we are all marked and charted, Jasmine’s face is damp from weeping, and the face of the boy with the raspy voice hardens to stone.
Finally, the doctor arrives at our unit. Instantly, I know him.
He scans us, and one by one his eyes stop at each of us. “We will conduct tests daily. It’s easier if you comply with the orders you’re given.” When his eyes fall on me, his brow crinkles. “It’s easier for all of us.”
Dr. Qasim. He brought so many of us to safety, not that anyone knows that. Only our family. He can’t be working for Central like this by choice. His weary eyes, slouching posture, all tell the story of a broken man, physically tortured. No, Central forced him.
When they are done, and the children are allowed to sit down, I stand at the edge of our unit and watch, wait. The lights dim and most of us sleep, but still I stand, waiting, pacing.
Finally, hours later, the shape of a boy walks the rows and, as he passes our unit, he tosses me some rations, whispering, “Only the dead escape. It’s the only way.”
I want to scream, to beg him to let us out. But I push that down, deep below my belly. When I am sure no one is looking, I inspect the ration pods. That’s it? That’s all he’s going to do to help me?
I sit on the floor and let it sink in. Nothing makes sense. No one shows signs of the Fever in the Narrows. Masiji would have told us. Why would Central put us in containment? They hate us, but usually ignore us. There is something bigger going on . . . and I have to figure it out.
If Rao can’t see a way out, I have to find one on my own.
“Here,” I whisper and slip a pod into the hands of the raspy-voiced boy. “Eat.” If he freaks out, it’ll help no one. I’m going to need a team to work together to figure out this nightmare.
He sits up and looks at me with surprise. “Why? Why didn’t you eat it yourself?”
“Not hungry,” I lie.
He takes the pod and splits it into half, handing me a piece. “Share.”
I swallow the dark blue pill fragment that tastes of the sea. I give him another one to save for later.
Tomorrow, I’ll find a way out of this hell.