The Infection

She watched them work on their vehicle for the next three days. During that time, the refugee population rapidly dwindled to less than a hundred souls. The cops never came back to bring in more people, and as food and water began to run out, the portable toilets filled to overflowing, and petty crime escalated, many people left to take their chances trying to make it to one of the evacuation centers.

On the third day, the Wal-Mart woman brought Anne her daily ration—this time only a bottle of water and an energy bar.

“Sorry it’s a bit meager this morning, love,” she said. “But don’t worry. We’re expecting another shipment later today, I’m told. The government promised.”

“So things are getting better outside?”

An expression of fear flashed across the woman’s face, quickly replaced by a sunny smile.

“Of course!” she said.

The mood was tense in the shelter. People were furious that the rations had been cut to almost nothing, and were looking for somebody to blame. Mothers demanded milk for babies that screamed in their hunger. Rumor spread that several women at the far end of the room had been raped in the night. Most of the refugees wanted the portable toilets cleaned and the corpses, zipped up in shiny black body bags arranged in nice neat rows against the east wall, removed. Some of the men were threatening each other over accusations of using more than their fair share of supplies. People were crowding around the leadership committee demanding answers. Eventually, the overweight man with glasses fought his way through the mob and approached the soldiers timidly.

“May I speak to the commander?” he said, his voice tight and thin.

“I’m Sergeant Toby Wilson, sir,” one of the soldiers said in a booming baritone, extending a large hand. “You can call me Sarge.”

The man shook the commander’s hand with enthusiasm, beaming at the warm reception.

“Nice to meet you, Sarge. I’m Joshua Adler.”

“So what can we do for you, Mr. Adler?”

“Me and some of the other guys, we’ve been trying to get things organized.”

“Uh huh. We’ve been watching you do that.”

“Well, you must know that our supply situation is getting bad. The government said they would be coming back with more. Now, I’ve drawn up a list of supplies…”

The man fumbled with a notebook until Sarge held up his hand.

“Mr. Adler, we have nothing to do with that. We don’t know anything about it. We’re just here to get our rig working again. It needs professional civilian maintenance. Seeing as that’s not going to happen, it’s on us to fix it using whatever we can find around here. That’s taking time.”

“I see. . .”

“We almost got it figured out and we’re hoping to return to the field as soon as we can. Getting back where we can be useful is our top priority.”

“All right, I understand, uh, Sarge, but maybe you could tell me if you have any news of things on the outside—”

“It’s bad,” said Sarge.

“Bad?”

“Bad as in really, really bad. Bad as in we are losing this fight.”

“So who’s in charge?”

Sarge shrugged. “I guess you are,” he said.

At the other end of the garage, the doors opened, letting in a blast of cool, clean air and three soldiers armed to the teeth and wearing bulky MOPP suits complete with goggled respirator masks that gave them a vaguely buglike appearance.

“Stay where you are,” one of the soldiers announced, his voice muffled by his mask. Anne could not even tell who was speaking from where she was sitting. “Please stay calm.”

The first soldier appeared to be the leader. Gripping a pistol in his clenched fist, he walked through the people crowded among the cots looking into their faces, as if searching for something, while the other soldiers followed toting automatic rifles.

Joshua excused himself, signaled to the other men in the leadership committee, and worked his way through the crowd to the soldiers.

“Captain,” one of the soldiers said.

The leader turned and raised his pistol. “Sit down, sir,” he commanded.

The soldiers standing behind him swept the room slowly with their rifles.

“But we’re—”

The Captain slid the bolt back in his service weapon, chambering a round. “Now, sir,” he added.

Joshua abruptly sat on the ground with the other men, paling.

The soldiers continued to walk through the crowd, the Captain leading the way, looking each of them in the face before moving on. Everybody was quiet, watching the soldiers, except for a few babies that cried softly in their mothers’ laps.

Finally, the Captain pointed at a man and said, “I got one here.”

One of the soldiers reached and grabbed the man by the arm, pulling him.

“Where are you taking this poor man?” a woman demanded.

“He’s Infected, Ma’am,” the Captain said. “Come on, Parker, get him up.”

The people nearest the man cried out and shrank away from him, leaving him to struggle weakly against the soldiers. He was obviously sick; his face was shiny and red with fever. Finally, one of the soldiers thrust the butt of his rifle into his head and he fell limp, moaning.

They began to drag him out of the garage.