Third Plague Wave

"This is an emergency. Please lock all doors and cover all windows. Please do not leave the premises of your home. This is a lockdown. Please stay away from any windows and avoid contact with the sick. Please turn off any unnecessary electrical appliances; this is an emergency." The siren continued with the automatic voice booming over it, its message repeating, just like it had for the past five minutes.

"It's the fucking Holocaust all over again, I swear it." Joey cursed, taping more cardboard over the last remaining uncovered window, and Ma turned on a lamp as she nodded her head in agreement. "Lockin' us up in here, not lettin' us leave, taking our family. Might as well just shoot us! Be more humane." He rubbed a hand over his face and exhaled loudly through his nose. "I haven't left in five days."

"That isn't right," I agreed. My stomach was churning, and my fingers felt numb. My heart was pounding in my chest. They'd be here soon. They'd take him. "They won't even let you see your family."

Ma hummed, "Christ knows this is being blown out of proportion. Joey, Shianne, just wait and see. It'll be okay." She stepped into the kitchen, and I could see the worry lines around her eyes. Ma knew how bad this was. She was strong, and she'd lie to us in order to calm our nerves. It helped, if only just a little.

"My wife and child are home alone, Ma," Joey protested, pacing back and forth through the living room. "They're going to be all alone during the police raids, again! I need to be there." He rubbed the back of his hand across his nose, and I could see Joey fighting back tears. His son had been sick with nothing more than a cold, but Joey knew that he was probably taken during the first raid five days ago. Nobody was risking any chances of letting the infected live among us.

"I know, I know," Ma said. She busied herself by pulling out candles and a few matches. They would shut the power off once the sun went down, 'for our safety,' they say. It just makes for freezing nights of squinting in the dark. The infected are ill; they can't hurt us, but the police are treating them as terrorists.

Daddy says that we're in war, right in the middle of the battlefield. The healthy are the civilians, looking on and only focusing on the bloodshed. He says that we see the wrong, but it necessarily isn't there. He claims that the ill are the bad guys. The disease that they caught transforms them into a villain, and they must be stopped before they kill all of the healthy. The heros are the police and the doctors. Daddy says that they're saints for coming in here and taking our family. He says if they didn't do it, we'd be dead, and that we should be thanking them.

Joey disagrees. He says that we're all going to die, that there is no hope.

I think I agree with Joey.

"Shianne," Ma told me, "I need you to go bring the pitcher of water to the back. Your father is gonna be thirsty when he wakes up." She was currently running the tap to fill the gallon-pitcher up with water. Her eyes were now stained red, and she was chewing on her bottom lip. Daddy brought out the worst in her. He brought out the worst in all of us.

"I don't wanna," I whispered, dropping my gaze. I was ashamed, and I pulled the sleeves of my shirt over my hands. I prayed that Ma would leave it at that, but I knew if she did, Joey would bring it up. I wouldn't get to leave this one alone.

Ma tutted and Joey sighed. I felt myself blush. "He's our father," Joey spat out, "take him his damn water." He looked angry, and I didn't want to test his temper. So, swallowing down resignation, I stood and took the pitcher from Ma.

"Wake him," she ordered. "He's needs to be conscience for the raids."

I shook my head, biting back a sob. "We're not suppose to touch them," I let the words run out, and I didn't even notice I had spoken until Ma slapped me. I jumped back, and some water spilled from the glass that I held. My cheek stung, and I couldn't help myself. I broke down crying, my chest heaving from panting.

"Them? What do you mean by 'them?' He is your father, and nothing less. You will take care of him." Her voice was bitter, and I could feel Joey staring at me, eyes burning into the back of my head. "And, stop your whining, Shianne, or I'll give you something to cry about." She raised her hand again, threatening to slap me a second time.

"Yes Ma'am." I whispered.

Daddy was staying in the guest room. Ma said it was best for him to be there because that meant that we probably wouldn't get sick too. He'd have his own bathroom, his own bed, and the room was in the back of the house so no one ever went back there.

It's hard to think that he's only been sick for two days. I never saw the sickness first hand before Daddy caught it. Sure, I'd seen it on the news; thats the only thing that's on the news anymore, but this is so different. The patients on the tv are fluffed. They make the sickness look like it's a few open sores and a high fever. With Daddy, I know it's raw.

I knocked on the guest door, tears still flowing from my eyes. I didn't want to end up like him. "Dad?" I asked as I started to turn the door handle. I heard a soft groan and took that as an invitation to come in.

Daddy was sprawled on the bed, the covers in a heap on the floor. Sweat pooled on his naked belly, and little droplets dotted his forehead and neck. He glistened with the stuff, and it highlighted the open sores on him. His toes and fingers had gone grey, and he seemed to curl them when I called his name again. The tip of his nose had started to blacken, and the rest of his body was a flush pink, like he was an animated character. The sides of his neck had swollen, and there were bulges that matched on his armpits and inner thighs. There was also blood crusting on his cheek from where he must have coughed it up, and his chest heaved rapidly.

His eyes fluttered open, and he bit back a groan. "Shianne," he whispered, and I wanted to sob. He barely sounded alive.

"Hi Daddy," I said, kneeling at his side. "Ma said it's time to wake up. The raids are gonna happen soon." I grabbed the glass from the nightstand and filled it with water before I offered him the glass with shaking hands.

He didn't say anything, but he poured the water down his throat as tears ran down his eyes. The swollen glands on his neck bobbed while he drank, and I felt as if I was going to puke. This was no longer my father; I couldn't think like that. This was the sickness, and nothing more. "The pitcher," he moaned, reaching out to it.

Once I had given him the gallon-pitcher, he pressed it to his lips and began to drink. He didn't stop for air, he didn't look at me, he just drank. With his eyes clamped shut, I watched the sickness. Two days. It had taken two days for me to lose my father. I felt my stomach curl, and I thanked God when I heard my mother call my name.

I ran out the room, nearly tripping twice, but then I froze. My heart pounded, and finally, I broke down. Harsh sobs shook me, and Ma was crying too. She had her hands balled up in her sweater, and Joey rubbed her back.

"Over here," the man ordered. I hadn't even heard them come in, but there where the police and the men in hazmat suits. During the first raid, they'd had come, but Daddy was still well then. This time, they'd take him. We'd never see him again.

I obeyed the man's orders, afraid that he'd shoot me if I didn't, and walked to where he pointed me to. The front door was still wide open, and more men in hazmat suits paraded in, mumbling inaudible words. They shifted through our belongings, leaving our home in ruins. A vase was thrown to floor, leaving pieces of shattered clay everywhere. I didn't know what they were looking for.

Joey shouted at the men, and Ma continued to sob, leaning into her son's shoulders. I couldn't see them though; I just couldn't pay attention to them.

Everyone was screaming outside, and I watched from the open door.

There were lines of semis on the neighborhood street, and each one had a metal trailer attached to it. The backs were open, and police officers lead hysterical people into the backs. Some clawed at the police, desperate to get back to their families, and others walked quietly. One thing was common though: each and every single person was healthy.

I just watched, half fascinated and more than terrified by the parade into the trailers connected to the semitrucks. Curiosity flooded me, but a new sense of panic flooded my belly. They were taking us from our homes. My neighbors would not be there for dinner, and the Lord knows what the police are planning on doing to us. I've heard rumors that they plan to shoot the ill like cattle with mad cow's disease; now I'm thinking this is plan in general.

Across the street, at the Durningman's house, the front door was flung open by a group of hazmats, and a few of them pulled out guns. They didn't look right, too small, but I still shrank in fear. The Durningmans were a quiet family, not much different from my own. Their children went to my school, and I knew that their mother had been sick. The hazmats must be coming for her, or maybe for all of them.

I saw a wave of black hair, and the men grunted as something pushed them back. A woman, in her late forties, began to run down the street. She was naked, her skin bruised and the same pink as my father's; the only difference was that her limbs were turning a decomposing gray, and her face was covered in black splotches. The bulges on her armpits had grown to the size that she no longer could put her arms down, so they swung widely as she furiously ran down into the street. I couldn't help myself, and even though I didn't want to notice it, I realized that Mrs. Durningman was covered in blood. It was too much to be her own, and her eyes had gone black, almost no white visible. The closer she got, the better I could see her tattered lips, chewed to the point that pieces of skin were hanging down to touch her chin. Her fingers, gray from the disease, were also covered in cuts, with blood flying out from them as she ran.

Mrs. Durningman had gotten to the center of the street when a hazmat suit, scurrying to get closer to her, lifted his gun. A loud shot rang out, making me clasp my hands over my ears, and she fell to the floor, twitching. A long, cylinder-like tube stuck out from her chest, and I came to the conclusion that these were tranquilizer guns. The thought didn't soothe me because I knew that they had killed Mrs. Durningman, and that they would not hesitate to kill the rest of us.

A hand wrapped around my hair, tugging me back and onto my knees. I cried out, and someone slammed the front door shut. A police man stared down at me, pointing his pistol at my forehead. "What is your name?" He shouted, the hand holding the gun shaking.

Ma let out a wail, and I swallowed back my own cry. "Shianne," I finally answered, "my name is Shianne." My voice wavered, and I could barely even understand myself.

"How old are you?" The hazmats were out of the living room. They must be with Daddy now.

"Thirteen." I whispered.

"And you?" He pointed the pistol at Ma and Joey, "both of you answer!"

Ma shook, and Joey was the one who answered, "I'm twenty-five. My mother is forty-nine. My father is fifty-three."

"I didn't ask about the fucking Rot," he screamed, and I flinched, afraid that the he was going to shoot Joey. But, instead, the man took a deep breath. "Who saw him last?"

None of us answered. Ma continued to sob quietly, and Joey's eyes fell on the floor. I watched them. The police man watched all of us in return. "I asked who saw him last?" His voice raised in volume, and it sounded lethal.

"Me," I choked out, and Ma made a whimpering sound.

The man made a huff sound in the back of his throat. "So, you've been giving the Rot food and water? Haven't ya?"

In reality, we all have been giving Daddy what he needed. Ma would feed him breakfast, Joey would give him some painkillers. We were taking care of him as a family, no matter how much he scared us. "Yes." The man's eyes burned solely on me, and it was evident that hatred fueled them.

"Just you?" He asked. The gun was trained on me again, and he was slowing getting closer and closer.

I nodded, not being able to find words.

Joey flinched, like he was about to get up, but the man shoved the barrel of the gun against my temple. "You're what we like to call a level three." He smirked, as if this was a fun situation, "That means that if you or your family misbehaves, then I will not hesitate to shoot you." He cocked the pistol, and I closed my eyes.

All I thought I could hear was my heart pounding, my pulse rapidly moving, but I was wrong. Another loud shot rang out, and for a second I thought the man had pulled the trigger on me, but then I realized.

Metallic wheels scraped across the tile that lined the hallway floor, and the hazmats left the guest bedroom as two of them pushed a gurney. Daddy laid on it, his eyes still open, but they didn't move. His chest didn't heave, and just below his rib cage, a tube was stuck into his body. It was exactly identical to the same tube that had been shot into Mrs. Durningman, and I could see that it was slowly beginning to fill up with what looked to be blood. Or, maybe this was being emptied into Daddy.

Ma wailed, a loud sound that broke my heart. She began to babble Daddy's name, tears running down her eyes, and she tried to pull herself away from Joey, in order to hold Daddy, but he held her back, struggling to keep her pressed against his chest.

"You fucking pigs," Joey spat, his own tears running down his cheeks, "you fucking Nazi pigs!" His insults ran together, and he began to pet Ma's hair.

I just stared at Daddy, expecting to see him move. I knew he was dead. I knew that this sickness would kill him. But, I still needed him. I felt empty inside, and I moved when the police man began to pull me to my feet by my hair. I didn't do anything that could provoke him because I couldn't comprehend anything.

Daddy was dead.

These raids were meant to save the sick, to keep the healthy well. This disease was suppose to die out, but now they're the ones who are doing the killing.

A man in a hazmat suit looked at Ma and Joey. He cocked his head, "We should label these two as level sevens, just to be safe. The girl is a level three?"

The man holding me by my hair nodded, "Yeah, that's the best bet to put her in."

Two hazmats pulled out their own pistols and pointed them at Ma and Joey. They simultaneously loaded them, and I felt my stomach sank. Ma hung her head sobbing, and Joey clenched his eyes shut.

The front door swung open, and the police pushed me hard towards the opening. His gun was lodged into my lower back, and I felt like cattle. Disease ridden cattle that's nothing good for except for shooting.

Once I was out the door, a large man wrapped in what looked like astronaut's suit grabbed me, ripping me from where I stood. I called for Ma, screaming for help, but the man covered my mouth with a gloved hand. "Bite me, and I'll fucking shoot you, you rat." He whispered into my eat, but the shield that covered his face muffled the sound.

I saw Joey yank forward, Ma screaming my name, and then Joey was on the floor. There was blood spilling from his head, and his body was slack as it laid on the living room floor. I screamed, but I wasn't the only one screaming. Everyone was.

There were multiple astronauts now, and they were all shoving people into the trailers. The hazmats suits began to make their way up the neighborhood, and most of the police were busy in other homes. Gurneys were lined up on the curb, as if they were cars, and each one of them held someone who had the sickness, but they were all dead, and each of them had a tube in their chest.

Some astronauts carried people out into the front lawns, and their suits were covered in blood. They dumped them on the grass as if they weren't people, and each one of them had been shot. Some of them weren't even dead yet, and they still whimpered in pain.

A hazmat suit carried Ma outside, and she kicked and screamed. She shouted for Joey, and she called for me. Daddy's name was there too, and her eyes were so red. Her face was drenched with tears, but I still couldn't cry.

I tried to call for her, but my shouts were muffled by the astronaut's glove, and I sobbed when I saw the final hazmat leave our home. He carried Joey, and left him on our doorstep for someone else to gather. Blood was everywhere, and it continued to ooze out of the hole that the bullet had made.

I felt like I was going to puke, but I couldn't look away from my brother. He was alive not even a minute ago, and this morning he had given me a kiss while he made me breakfast. But, he was dead. Joey who had a one-year-old son and a wife was gone, and all because he reached for me. He reacted because I was being taken. I couldn't help it that Daddy got sick, but Joey was dead because of me.

The astronaut threw me into the back of a trailer that had a giant three painted on the side of it. The trailer itself was full with people cowering, some holding onto others but most were alone. I didn't recognize any of them.

"Ma!" I screamed, leaning out of the trailer. She was being carried to a separate semitruck, one labeled with a seven. She writhed in her astronauts grip, frenzied, but eventually she was out of sight, and I was pushed back deeper into the trailer.

A man grabbed my hand, pulling me against the trailer's wall. "Stay back," he mumbled close into my ear, "we'll be moving soon. You don't want to get shot."

He held me close to him when they finally closed it up, and we began to move.

I leaned into the man's shoulder, and I sobbed. My body shook for the entire ride, and the man let me cry on him. He only offered a few words for comfort, but they didn't help much.

"We'll be dead soon, and then we'll be with our families again."