PODs (5 page)

There has to be another way. Think, Eva, think… hurry. Make them let you stay
.

The closer we came to the school, the harder it was for me to breathe. It felt like my sweater was choking me. I pulled it away from my neck. My hands were clammy, my heart raced, and my mind spun trying to think of a way to convince my parents it was better for me to stay with them than spend the next year underground like a human mole.

“Oh, my… damn.”

My dad’s voice tore me away from my thoughts. I looked at the scene around me. I’d expected news crews, families gathered to say goodbye to their loved ones, even a protestor or two, but I never expected such complete and utter chaos.

The National Guard had erected a makeshift fence around the school; it must have been twelve feet tall. Barbed wire curled around the top. Soldiers were stationed every few feet along the outside of the fence, rifles held across their chests, keeping news crews and protestors out.

There were hundreds of protestors swarming the area. Police and National Guard members dressed in riot gear tried to hold back the angry crowd for our car to pass through, but several protestors broke through and rushed our car.

They screamed and beat the car with homemade picket signs declaring the raffle a sham and demanding a new one. They yelled profanities at us, spitting at the car as we passed by. A mother in the crowed cried and held out her infant, begging me to take him with me.

I put my palm on the cool glass of the window, fingers splayed, tears rolling down my checks as I watched the sweet face of the infant disappear as we drove past.

More of the out-of-control crowd pushed through the police barriers. The cars in front of us inched forward, honking at the rioting people. Our car was forced to a stop. Rioters screamed at us as they climbed on the hood and trunk. Others pushed the car from the sides, rocking it back and forth.

A man stood outside my window. He looked through the glass with hate in his eyes. “The raffle was fixed! It should be my family leaving, not you!” Spittle hit the window, spewing out of his mouth as he shouted. It dripped down his chin and onto the front of his stained t-shirt.

I looked into his bloodshot eyes through the glass, and fear slithered down my spine. It was like seeing a car accident. I knew I shouldn’t look, but I couldn’t pull my gaze away. That seemed to infuriate him even more. He started hitting the glass with the handle of his picket sign, trying to break through. Still I watched, frozen.

“EVA!” my dad shouted. I jumped at his tone, looking away from the rioter as I glanced toward my dad. “Close your eyes!”

Just as he yelled to me, glass flew through the car. My mom screamed. I felt chunks of glass hit me as I jerked away from the window. The man I’d been staring at laughed. He reached in, his hand feeling back and forth for the door lock. Acting on impulse, I kicked his hand as hard as I could. Using the heel of my boot I smashed his hand over and over. My stomach churned as bright-red blood ran down his hand, dripping on the pile of my dad’s crisp white papers.

I was still kicking his hand when I heard a
pop… pop… pop
. The man’s body jerked before sliding down the side of the car and hitting the ground with a thud.

“Did they shoot him?” I screamed.

“Yes, but they’re probably just rubber bullets. Police use them in riot situations,” my dad shouted over the noise of the rioters.

I jumped, a small scream escaping my lips, when I heard more pops. Looking around, I saw police with riot shields and batons, forcing the people away from the waiting cars. Some officers used Tasers; others used huge cans of pepper spray. Slowly, the rioters were pushed back and the cars continued their trek to the high school. A trip that should have taken twenty minutes took nearly an hour.

“Name?” a soldier asked when our car pulled up to the fence surrounding the school.

“Evangelina Mae Evans,” my dad answered.

“ID.” The soldier held out his hand. He looked at my identification papers and social security card, comparing the information with what he had on his list. Satisfied, he handed my papers to my dad and walked away. He signaled and the gate opened just wide enough for my dad to drive through; it closed again as soon as the car was past.

“Seven thirty. Plenty of time for you to sign in and stow your things,” my dad told me as we got out in the parking lot.

I nodded.

“Evangelina,” my mother whispered. “Come here.”

She held her arms out for me. I walked into them and she hugged me tight against her. I hadn’t realized I’d been crying until then. The hot tears stung my face. I pulled back and looked at her shirt. It was smeared with blood.

“Let me clean you up, Eva,” she murmured. She wiped the blood from my cheeks, pulling a few small pieces of glass out of the cuts.

“Miss? Do you need a medic?” a soldier asked.

I took a shuddering breath as a wave of dizziness hit me—I hated the sight of blood. “I don’t think so.”

“Fine. Take your belongings to the bus. You have fifteen minutes until boarding.” I watched him walk away, weaving around families standing in tight little clusters.

“I hope the rest of the people aren’t as chipper as he is,” I muttered.

My dad chuckled. “Come on, let’s get you to your bus.”

The bus ride to the quarantine facility took more than ten hours. I was shoved against the window by my seatmate who slept almost the entire trip. He was a big guy, taking up most of the seat, and when he slept his body lolled to the side, wedging me against the metal side of the bus.

As we traveled, the air turned hot and dry, different than the humid, sticky climate of my coastal Texas hometown. The old school bus didn’t have air conditioning and the small windows didn’t let much air in. My seatmate’s body heat didn’t help. I was hot, thirsty, and had to pee in the worst way.

Wondering how much longer I’d be drooled on by the guy next to me, I strained my face against the window, looking for anything on the flat landscape.

That’s when I saw them.

I don’t know why I was surprised. I should’ve expected it after what had happened at the high school, but I hadn’t. It was worse than at the school—rioters everywhere. They waved anti-raffle signs and signs cursing the “chosen.”

The land around the quarantine area was flat, dry, and dusty. The people lining the road sat under makeshift tents to keep out of the sun. Some stood on top of their RVs waving their handmade signs; one burned an American flag.

I watched women holding their small children toward the bus, begging with tear-stained faces for us to take them. I wanted to reach out and snatch them out of their mothers’ hands as we drove past. Several of the other people on the bus reached up and pushed their windows shut.

The National Guard at the quarantine site didn’t allow people to get close enough to touch the bus. They were shot with rubber bullets or Tasered if they tried to cross the police line. Every time I heard the shot of the riot guns I jumped. My muscles ached from tensing them—waiting for the inevitable sound.

“Why are you crying?” A boy sitting in front of me looked at me like I’d grown another head. “They’d probably kill you and steal your place in the PODs if given the chance.”

I shook my head, remembering what my dad had told me. “They’re just scared,” I said. After all, they were, essentially, the walking dead.

The rioters screamed and cursed us. They threw rocks and eggs as we drove by. An egg hit the window next to me, the slimy insides plopping against my head, matting my hair.

“Gross,” the boy sitting next to me said.

I just looked at him and rolled my eyes.

Yeah, the egg is gross. And the drool coming out of your mouth and dripping on my leg while you slept, leaning on me, was glorious
.

The bus stopped in a fenced area like the one at the high school. The crowd screamed and banged the fence posts with their crude, homemade picket signs. Some climbed on the fence, pulling at it like chimpanzees at the zoo.

“Stay seated until your name is called,” a soldier yelled. “When you are called, grab your belongings and wait to be escorted into the building.”

Oh please, call this guy’s name. He needs to move before I shove him off the seat. I’m tired of being pinned against the side of the bus. I need some room
.

Thankfully, my name was called soon after we stopped. I stood, stretched the kinks out of my muscles, and plowed through the massive body blocking me. Clambering over the other luggage that filled the aisle, I grabbed my two suitcases and stood in front of the bus. The one-story brick building was large but had no windows, only a single green door. I couldn’t see the other sides, but I had a feeling there’d be no windows there, either—no glass for rioters to break through.

The soldier walked up from behind me, tapping my suitcase with his clipboard. “Follow me.”

I shuffled into the brick building, guided by the same guardsman who’d ripped me away from my parents hours earlier…

“I love you,” my mom said through her tears, her voice thick and trembling
.

“I want to stay with you,” I pleaded
.

“Come here, kiddo.” My dad, his face distorted with grief, folded me in a tight hug. He kissed the top of my head and told me he loved me and how proud he was of me. “I know, when this is over, you are going to do great things, Eva. You’re a fighter. I love you so much.”

A rough hand grabbed my arm, pulling me away from my dad. “Get on the bus,” the male voice ordered, yelling to be heard over the crying of parents and children saying their final goodbyes
.

“I’m not done saying goodbye…” He didn’t let go, pulling me with him. My heels digging into the dirt, I tried to pull away. I needed one more hug, to hear them tell me they loved me and to tell them I loved them, too
.

“MOM!” I screamed. “DAD!” Tears stained my face. The man thrust me toward the steps of the old, yellow school bus. I screamed one more time for my parents, telling them I loved them, reaching my arms out to them
.

I could see my mom’s body rock with the force of her cries. Tears ran down my father’s face. “We love you, Evangelina,” I heard them call just before the bus door closed
.

It was the last thing I’d hear my parents say. It was the last image I’d have of them. I pressed my hand to the window of the bus, my head bowed as I sobbed. I didn’t try to hide my tears. Everyone on the bus was crying for their families. We knew what awaited them
.

Death
.

I shook my head, trying to erase the horrible memory. I wanted to remember the good things about them, not saying goodbye.

Goodbyes are hard, but this one had been different. This wasn’t a
goodbye, I’ll see you in a month
. It was a permanent goodbye. I’d never see my parents again. The overwhelming sadness took over, like a black hole sucking me in. Fat, salty tears ran down my face, and I could feel my nose running. I swiped my arm across it. My eyes were swollen, my throat sore, and my chest tight.

I was alone. My parents were gone. No brothers or sisters. Just me—an orphan of the virus.

S
aturday, quarantine day one

“Hold out your arm,” a burly nurse in a full hazmat suit told me. She swiped it with an alcohol pad and stuck the needle in without warning.

“Hey!” I rubbed the welt forming where she’d given me the shot.

A little warning would have been nice. Geez, this is going to be a long two weeks if all the nurses are as friendly as you
.

“That’s your first dose of birth control. You’ll receive a booster every three months while in the PODs.”

It’s not like it’s spring break, lady. I’m not looking to hook up with anyone
.

After the friendly nurse gave me my shot and drew a disgusting amount of blood into little test tubes, I settled in and prepared myself for my two-week quarantine stay. The doctors would test and retest me for the virus. I knew from news reports that everyone had to go through quarantine before they were allowed in the PODs. There’d have been too many people if we all came at once, so people selected for the PODs arrived in staggered groups.