The Infection

“Senior,” he says, worrying in the pit of his stomach that the woman would check up on him and realize he lied about that and his age. But then he notices the stacks of index cards tied with rubber bands being carted by the other bureaucrats, and realizes he can pretty much say anything he wants and there would be no way that she could confirm or deny it.

“Do you want to go back to school? We offer schooling here. You could get your diploma.”

“No thanks,” he says sunnily, his brain working hard on how to defend that decision.

The woman shrugs, does not care.

“Any job skills?” she asks.

“I’ve had jobs before but nothing that required skills,” he tells her. “I am really good with computers, though. What kind of skills are you looking for the most?”

“Psychotherapist,” she answers.

He laughs.

“I’m not kidding,” she adds.

Todd opens his mouth, but she silences him by holding up her index finger, the universal sign for wait a minute. The woman pulls an old mechanical typewriter towards her and starts pecking at the keys with agonizing slowness, glancing frequently at the index card. She finally yanks a business card-sized piece of paper out of machine, stamps it with a seal, and hands it to him with a thick manila envelope.

“This is your resident card,” she tells him, explaining that he will use it to obtain his rations, access the showers and medical services, and apply for other government help. “This is your information packet. In it you will find a recap of your orientation—a map of the camp, the rules you are expected to follow here, and a list of services and where to find them. There is currently a small surplus in shelters so you do not have to build your own; your allotment is marked in yellow highlighter. This is your claim ticket so you can pick up the property you brought into the camp with you. And finally, here are two flea collars. Put one around each ankle. Keeps the lice away.”

“Gross!” Todd says. “I mean, thanks.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Just one. Do you have stores or anything like that?”

“There are six outdoor markets. Four are where people sell pretty much anything. Another is for produce grown in the camp, and the last is for meat.”

“What’s the accepted currency?” he presses. “Is it a barter system, or is the dollar—”

The woman glances over his shoulder and yells, “Twenty-one!”

Todd stands, trying to think of something biting, but a family approaches, wild-eyed and holding out their cardboard number to the woman like an offering, and he tells himself she is not worth it. She is not going to get me down. I survived out there weeks while she was in here sitting on her ass filling out index cards. I have fought and killed to survive.

He has a sudden flashback to Sarge standing in front of the hospital, spitting tongues of flame and smoke with his AK47 in the dark. He remembers throwing a Molotov into a mob of the Infected. The Bradley smashed through the parked cars, its gun booming. He smiles.

“Ha,” he says, and walks away to find Ethan standing near one of the tables, wringing his hands. He asks the man how the search is going.

“Slow,” Ethan says with a sad smile, but he appears happy to be trying, and this is something, Todd realizes. At least there is that.

“Where’s everybody else?”

“The Army took Sarge and Steve away for debriefing. Wendy got a job as a cop and is heading to where they told her she could live. She gets priority housing being a cop. And Paul is on his way to one of the food distribution centers. He got a job there passing out food.”

“Well,” Todd says, feeling awkward.

“How about you? You going back to school? They offer that here, you know.”

“I don’t really see the advantage of learning calculus,” Todd says before catching himself. “Oh, sorry, man.”

Ethan nods sadly. “It’s okay. I don’t see the point in teaching it anymore, either.”

“I’ve got big plans, Ethan. I’ve got this stash—”

“One hundred and eight!” a voice cries from one of the tables.

Ethan perks up. “That’s me.”

“Well,” Todd says, frowning. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”

“Right,” Ethan says vacantly. “Take care of yourself, Todd.”

Todd collects his duffel bag, weapon and ammunition in another room and walks outside into hazy sunlight, feeling tickled and breathless with excitement.

I’m here, he thinks. I made it.