PODs (2 page)

A virus? A teeny, tiny virus is going to wipe humans off the face of the earth? Well, why not?

Everyone knew it was coming. We just didn’t know how or when. Call it the apocalypse, Armageddon, the end-of-life-as-we-know-it, extinction, whatever you want. Something like it killed the dinosaurs, why not us? Maybe it was our time to go—to hand over the earth to the next wave of inhabitants.

Several scientists had predicted it would be an asteroid, like the one that’d killed the dinosaurs. Only a few people thought it’d be a tiny bug—something too small for the naked eye to see—a virus so lethal people were dead before they knew they were infected. A virus that was killing people so quickly there was no need to name it something memorable—there’d be no one left to remember it.

“What are you doing?”

I jumped up at the sound of my dad’s voice. My Coke sloshed over the rim of the can, the sticky liquid dripping from my hand onto the beige carpet. I spun around, an apology on my lips, when it dawned on me—I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was watching the news.

“I’m watching pay-per-view porn. Oh, wait, that was yesterday. Today I’m learning of my impending death from the stupid news reporter and the blonde idiot sitting next to him. I mean, it’s not like my parents knew but decided not to tell me themselves. Pizza and game night on a Tuesday—I knew something was wrong.”

“Eva, I’m sorry. We needed time to process the information ourselves,” my dad told me. “Your mom and I planned to talk with you today.”

I dropped onto a chair at the kitchen table. The room was decorated in reds and whites—it seemed too cheery now, with my mom’s strawberry knick-knacks everywhere—a strawberry cookie jar, salt and pepper shakers, and placemats. I wrapped one of the placemats around my finger while I sat at the table with my dad.

“What’s gonna happen, Dad?” I asked, cold fear clutching at my heart.

“I don’t know. The scientists and doctors are working on a cure. They could find one any day—”

“But the news said they weren’t hopeful.”

“I know, but remember, penicillin was discovered by accident. So who knows what they can find in the next few months? We just have to wait and have a little patience.”

The waiting lasted a week. The dead were piling up in every country—including parts of the U.S.—the bodies burned in an attempt to kill the virus before it could infect anyone else. The sight of burning corpses heaped in large mounds like grotesque firewood filled the cable news channels. I pictured faces of people I knew and loved on the burning bodies and it made my stomach heave and bile rise in my throat. Those lifeless shells had been living, vibrant people. Now they were nothing more than charred bone. My heart skipped painfully in my chest.

Doctors and scientists were still clueless. They didn’t know the virus’s origin or how it was transmitted, and they weren’t any closer to a cure than they had been a week ago. The only progress they’d made was they were now able to locate the infected cells before symptoms surfaced. So now, people not only were going to die from the virus, they knew a week ahead of time.

Great
.

In an attempt to contain the virus, most air travel had been suspended, and the sky became empty—an eerie silence. When the sound of jets came, it was usually from small military aircraft. Most countries had closed their borders, and some had declared martial law. The television had played nothing but reports of the virus and its impact since the news had first broken. So it surprised us when the news broadcast was interrupted and the waving American flag, the presidential seal superimposed on it, filled the screen.

My parents and I were sitting at the table eating dinner together, something we’d started doing after the first reports of the virus. From the TV in the living room, a newscaster announced, “We now go to the White House, where the President has called an emergency press conference.” The three of us exchanged looks as we stood, our chairs scraping against the tiled floor. We moved to sit in front of the television and waited to hear from the President.

Maybe a cure’s been found. Or a vaccine
.

W
ednesday

The President walked to his place behind the podium. His face looked haggard and worn. Dark circles surrounded his dull eyes, adding years to his age. My throat constricted and my stomach roiled as I waited to hear what I prayed would be good news.

“My fellow Americans,” he began. The blood rushed behind my ears and I had to strain to hear him. He talked about the many deaths, the failure to find a cure, and the fact that the virus was moving through the populations of every country quickly.

“It’s lethal and seemingly unstoppable. In an effort to save as many people as possible I’m authorizing the use of the Populace Obliteration Defense, also known as the POD system. The POD system is a series of underground habitats designed to provide protection from an Extinction Level Event, such as a meteor, nuclear blast, and the like. That’s the good news.

“The bad news is, even with the use of the PODs, most of the population will die from the lethal virus, because, unfortunately, there isn’t enough room in the habitats for everyone.”

I watched him speak and was amazed at his poise. He relayed the information to the country like he was giving stats on a football game. There was no emotion in his voice, no sympathy for those who had been, and would be, lost. Every hair was in place, his tie perfectly tied, a flag pin adorning his lapel. Gold cuff links twinkled when he gestured with his hands.

He doesn’t have to worry. He has his spot in a POD
.

“Congress and I have come up with what we believe is the fairest course of action—a raffle. Each eligible person’s social security number will be entered into a database—”

“Mr. President, Mr. President!” reporters shouted over each other.

“Yes?” He pointed at a woman with bottle-blonde hair.

“Geez, she has so much lip gloss on it looks like she just ate a greasy hamburger.”

“Shush, Eva,” my mom said, waving her hand at me without looking away from the screen.

“Who is deemed
eligible
and who isn’t? Shouldn’t all citizens have the same right?”

“In an ideal world everyone could be saved. In an ideal world we wouldn’t have to make such decisions. This is not an ideal world.

“Those who are considered ineligible for the raffle include anyone with a criminal record. Anyone who is in poor health now, or who has a degenerative disease that may cause further health risks in the future will also be ineligible. We have prepared a document listing the full eligibility criteria.”

“I stole a candy bar from the grocery store when I was five. Does that mean I’m ineligible?” I asked, only half-joking. “It wasn’t even that good a candy bar.”

“Eva, hush!” My mom’s eyes never left the television.

I didn’t particularly want to be quiet. When I was, I started thinking. And thinking was something I didn’t want to do. I didn’t want to think of the virus and all the people it had killed—and those it would kill.

I stared at the television, the images blurring as tears threatened to fall. I blinked them back. I was absentmindedly wringing my fingers, and my knuckles popped. My mom laid her hand gently over mine. I looked up at her. She smiled. I grabbed her hand and held it like I had when I was a little girl.

The briefing room bustled as reporters yelled to be heard over the shouts of their competitors. The President waited for the noise to stop before speaking again.

“Each eligible person’s social security number will be entered into a computer. The computer will randomly select a list of social security numbers. Each of these people will have a space in the PODs.

“There are one hundred main PODs; each holds a hundred people. Essential government workers, scientists, engineers, medical and maintenance personnel will be housed in these main PODs. An additional ten thousand political, scientific, and military personnel will be housed at separate, undisclosed locations.

“Attached to the main PODs are fifty sub-PODs. Think of the arrangement like the spokes on a bike’s wheel. Each sub-POD will hold ten people—the raffle winners. In total, the one hundred main PODs have five thousand sub-PODs.”

A flurry of questions erupted. The President held up his hand to silence the crowd.

“I apologize, but I am not taking any further questions at this time. Please let me continue. Beyond the essential political, scientific, medical, military and maintenance personnel, fifty thousand openings remain. The only fair way to fill these openings is by blind raffle. This raffle will take place tomorrow night. Those chosen will be phoned and given instructions on when and where to meet their transport. By this time Friday, the first wave of POD occupants will begin their mandatory two-week quarantine.

“When the quarantine process is completed and people are deemed virus-free, they will be escorted to their assigned PODs and the next wave of selected individuals will begin their quarantine.

“The total timeframe from first wave to third is six weeks. The POD occupants will then be sealed in their assigned PODs, where they will remain for one year, or until we are certain the virus is no longer a threat. That is all. Thank you.”

The President was whisked off the stage by the Secret Service. The reporters grabbed for the documents that staffers handed out—packets outlining the government’s course of action and the eligibility requirements for the raffle. The television shifted scenes and returned to the regular newscaster, who immediately started blathering about the President’s speech.

All I could process were the numbers.

Only seventy thousand of us will live. Twenty thousand have already been chosen. That leaves fifty thousand openings for the raffle winners. The rest of us will be left to deal with the virus, left to die
.

I could tell by my parents’ strained looks they were thinking the same thing.

No one had thought it would come to this. Everyone assumed a cure would be found, or at least a treatment—something would be able to stop it. But it looked like a tiny virus
would
be the downfall of civilization.

Sometimes life’s a bitch
.

Thursday

The raffle was scheduled to begin at seven that night. At seven sharp my parents and I sat waiting in front of the television. We squeezed together on the couch, my mom on my right and my dad on my left. The television hung over the fireplace in front of us.

Even though the room was warm, my mom and I huddled under a fleece blanket. It acted as our shield, keeping the ugliness away. My mom’s hand skimmed back and forth over the blanket on my knee in silent reassurance. My dad’s arm stretched across the couch, his hand resting on my mom’s shoulder. I was nestled, too warm, between their bodies. Drops of sweat fell from beneath my hair and slithered down my back. I shivered involuntarily and my mother hugged me tighter to her.

We waited silently for the raffle to begin. I’m not sure exactly what we expected to see. I envisioned several scenarios. In one I saw a room-sized computer—complete with flashing lights and buzzers—spitting out social security numbers like cash from an ATM. Or maybe a small laptop would scroll number after number across the screen, while a small printer beside it captured each one on paper. Then another image would fly through my thoughts. A large digital display—like the arrival and departure screens at an airport—would show nine spinning columns. One by one they’d stop, revealing a number until all nine were showing, the word “live” or “die” flashing beside it.