Immortality (28 page)

“There’s no telling how quickly they might have had to get out.”

Mark stopped in front of his old house. He gazed at the olive trees that had been a part of his and Julie’s life. He knew it was the last time he’d see this place. His stomach felt empty. The front door was half open. He went in then came out a moment later with a piece of paper and some tape. He wrote a short note and taped it to the door. Some part of him deep inside hoped it wasn’t pointless.

The helo lifted off and headed south along the coast toward Venice Beach. Kathy had the helo’s radio patched through into the phone system. She was busy exercising her clout as the CDC’s chief on site. Mark listened as she talked. She had someone named George Gallo on the line. He was the deputy director of the local Red Cross operation. They apparently had a growing list of survivors which had not been made public yet. Kathy gave the names of Mark’s family and Gracy. Mark heard the sound of a computer keyboard being worked. There was silence for a minute or two.

“Sorry, they’re not on the list,” said Gallo. “But that doesn’t mean much. Right now we only have about three percent of the survivors entered into the database.”

“Do you have a list of identified bodies?” asked Kathy.

“I’ve already checked. They’re not listed there either, and that list is far more current than the other one. We have photographs of everybody that’s been found and cremated; about a third have no names. You’re welcome to go through the stacks of photographs.”

“Thank you for all the assistance,” said Kathy. “I’ll get back to you about the photos.”

Mark stared out the window at the Pacific Ocean. He’d heard every word, but gave no indication. Photographs of ghosts, the idea of going through those images looking for faces he knew made him feel dead inside. The helo slowed over a stretch of beach and began to descend. His house was a block away. The helo rotated during its landing, giving him a three hundred and sixty degree view.

Mark slid the door open and jumped into the sand. He’d never seen Venice Beach this empty. The place appeared frozen like the still shot of a postcard. He had to look closely at the palms to see their leaves moving and know this was real. He turned toward the ocean and watched the waves in complete silence. Not far off the coastline was a huge Navy aircraft carrier. The gray vessel had helicopters flying in a circle around it. One lifted off from its tail. Venice was the most California of beaches. It was a place where girls in bikinis roller-skated on the strand while sidewalk musicians played for dollars dropped into an open instrument case. The world had come to an abrupt halt. He glanced up toward the alley that ran behind his house and began walking. Wind blew a paper cup along the sidewalk.

Mark was not aware how long he had been standing in front of the outside door. This no longer felt like his house. He was staring at a clear plastic envelope stapled to the door. Inside the envelope was a death certificate. He was empty. His skin was cold. The certificate included a photocopy of the decedent’s driver’s license. The photo was Gracy before she’d cut her hair. Mark was having difficulty breathing. He recognized the symptoms of mild insulin shock, but didn’t care. He finally managed to turn the key he’d brought with him. The deadbolt released. The door swung opened on its own. There were tracks of mud leading in across the carpet. He hadn’t noticed until this moment that Kathy was with him. Her hand was on his back. He wondered how long she’d been there.

In the living room, Mark knelt down to pick up a newspaper crossword puzzle. Gracy had been working on it. She always did them in pencil first. Her box letters were as perfect as typeface. For a moment, she was real to him. They were on the roof sipping margaritas. The newsprint slid from his fingers and fluttered to the ground like a dying bird. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to say how sorry he was that he’d failed her. What was the point? He thought about Mary when she was three and just learning to swim. How she laughed in that water. He couldn’t bear to leave the memories behind. He wanted to stay. He couldn’t breath. He started to undo his hood. Kathy struggled with him. She was screaming for him to stop. He tried to push her off. She was strong. He couldn’t get free of her grip. He twisted sideways yanking loose.

“Stop it!” she yelled.

He raised his hand to strike her. She brought up her arms to shield her face. He didn’t move. He was breathing hard. Each breath carried with it fresh pain. He squeezed his eyes shut. The tears burned like an acid that cut him to his core.

~

The helo lifted off creating a storm of sand. Mark had a shoebox in his lap. Inside were photographs. Memories were all that he had now. He stared at Kathy and saw tears running down her cheeks inside the mask. Seeing her cry made him feel worse but also oddly better. Her tears were comfort because he was not completely alone. The helo took up an Easterly course. They were heading inland toward a refugee camp to drop off passengers then back to the clean zone.

The Marine Sergeant was giving instructions to Kathy on how to drink water through a straw built into the gasmask. Mark tried using his. The straw led to a sealed canteen on his hip. The water tasted good. He drew on it for minutes on end. He hadn’t realized how dehydrated he’d been. Kathy returned to the seat next to him. Light from a late afternoon sun spilled through the side windows in pail yellow rays. Bits of dust swam in the light.

“You know, we used to ride our mountain bikes on the strand almost every day,” he said. “Gracy was always a little faster. She always had to be in the lead. She had to do everything first.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Kathy.

“I know. Sometimes we’d put the bikes in an old pickup I own and head for the mountains, the Sierras mostly. We’d bring a tent and go so deep into the forest that it felt like we were the only people alive. It was good between us...”

“I’m so sorry.”

Mark watched as the refugee shelter came into view. The shelter was a vast landscape of tents next to a highway that was backed up for miles with buses waiting to unload. He had listened to a conversation between Kathy and some Army doctors who were heading to the shelter. These doctors were clearly dedicated and a better breed than most people. The shelter was a few miles inside the Eastern edge of the quarantine line. Almost thirty thousand people were already warehoused in this tent city. The old, the young, the hopeful, and the distraught were mixed together; and like all colors of paint blending into a single color, the result was a dismal gray that Mark could see even before they began their descent to the helipad. The land in every direction for countless miles was open desert. The shelter was divided into a clean and dirty zone. A double fence of razor wire and armed guards separated the two worlds. In the small clean zone, pressurized rubber tunnels formed passageways from one inflatable structure to the next. It was considered safe to remove NBC suits inside the sealed and filtered environment of the unsoiled part of this little hell; but once a suit was removed, the person was banned from leaving the quarantined area for the duration. Everyone working at the shelter had to remove their suits if for no other reason than basic human necessities.

The helo lifted off immediately after the doctors had disembarked. The doctors would be there for the duration. Mark looked down and saw faces of survivors staring up at him. They were like newly arrived prisoners in a concentration camp. His heart broke as he scanned the rapidly shrinking faces for Julie and Mary. He was deserting them. They could be there right now. What was he supposed to do? Santa Monica, their home was being evacuated. If they were anywhere, they’d be in one of these places. Red Cross workers were collecting names and notifying relatives. If Mary and Julie were alive, he’d know where they were soon, and then he’d use every scrap of coercion to get them out of refugee hell or join them.

The sun was gone. The helo vibrated as it flew through the darkness. They had crossed over the southern quarantine line a few minutes ago and were over what the solders were calling
safe-land
. Running lights strobed red through the windows. Mark had decided he needed to go through the stacks of photographed bodies that the Red Cross was compiling. He needed to know if there was reason to hope. Without hesitation, Kathy had made arrangements to get him there this evening.

The pilot announced they would be landing at a quarantine control point momentarily. Mark could feel the distance between himself and the ground vanishing as if in freefall. There were clicks as landing gear locked into place. He saw hangers, various small buildings, and a control tower as they touched down. The suit intercom switched on with a recorded message that was apparently coming from the airfield.

“
This is quarantine control site Baker-Zulu-Three. All personnel are ordered to disembark for decontamination processing. Proceed to the building with the red triangle inside a circle designation over the hangar door.”

The message repeated as Mark walked toward the hangar. Chain-link fencing with razor wire on top funneled everyone toward the hangar entrance. The entire area was flooded with powerful lights. It was brighter than daylight but the artificial lights made everything seem flat. At the hangar, sentries in white NBC suits stood on the other side of the fence, the clean zone. They were armed with machine guns. At the entrance, a sign directed women to one side and men to the other. Mark walked into the men’s area which was tented off with thick semi-transparent plastic sheeting. Inside, he saw more armed guards but these were in red NBC suits. There were bins overflowing with discarded suits, clothing, and shoes. A large hanging sign gave instructions to disrobe. Naked men were walking into a sealed room up ahead. On the other side of the plastic sheeting, Mark saw the vaguely distinguishable shapes of women doing the same as the men.

Marked pulled off his mask and headphones. The noise of the world returned. The hangar was filled with the clattering and spraying sounds of a carwash. A loudspeaker played a recorded message.

“
Remove all clothing and personal items. Place the NBC, all clothing, and footwear into one of the laundry bins. Place your personal property, no clothing allowed, into an empty plastic bin, firmly seal the lid, and fill out the tag on the lid with your name and serial number or social security number. Your personal property will be forwarded to you as soon as it has been processed.”

“No deposit, no return,” said a guy in front of him in line.

Mark looked at his box of photos. He was suddenly terrified of losing it. He tried to back out of the line, then stopped. The hangar door had been sealed behind them. There was no way out; and even if there was a way out, what choice did he have?

With his heart beating in his throat, Mark snapped shut the plastic bin containing all that remained of Gracy. There was a rubber conveyor belt that looked like a luggage handler used at airports. He placed the bin on the conveyor and watched as Gracy slid away. Up ahead was a room filled with portable stall showers and sinks. He could see people gargling and spitting. There was a folding table stacked with abrasive sponges, small bottles of mouthwash, nose drops, and instructions. The air smelled strongly of disinfectant. Mark recognized the odor. It was like Lysol; ingredients: phenol mixed with alcohol. Great, he thought. A large red sign warned not to swallow any of the decontamination spray. A recorded message started to play.

“
When ready, close your eyes, press the green start button, and step into the decontamination spray. Do not open your eyes at any time during this process. Injury may result. You will remain under the decontamination spray for five minutes. The spray will then change to water and you will hear an announcement confirming the change. You will remain under the water for two minutes. During the decontamination spray only, you will vigorously rub your skin with the TACM sponge. You must drop the sponge immediately when the water rinse commences. If you do not follow the procedure exactly, an attendant will order you to repeat the process.”

His new gasmask smelled of fresh rubber. Following directions from an Army clerk who was providing flight information, Mark walked out a door on the opposite side of the hangar. The airfield in front of him was busy. Above his exit was a large white triangle inside a white circle. He had on newly issued Army fatigues, underwear, socks, a barcoded plastic identification card on a chain around his neck, and over all of it, a white NBC suit. A sign in the locker room had explained the color-coding scheme: red for going into the contaminated zone and white for leaving. From where Mark stood, floodlights beamed out onto the airfields. Several helos and planes were pinned in the crossfire of lights. He identified the Blackhawk helo he was flying out on by its tail number. The aircrafts and tarmac were shiny with some liquid and a residue of white foam. All the aircraft on this side of the field had a single large white triangle inside a circle painted on their sides. Mark walked toward his Blackhawk. Vapor was rising around him like curtains of fog. Whatever they were using to scrub the aircraft was very strong. He felt odd breathing normally in the middle of what had to be toxic air. The oxygen filters and scrubbers in these suits were amazing. He heard Kathy’s voice over the radio intercom.

“Mark?”

Someone tapped his shoulder and startled him. She was right there. The noise suppressing headphones worked too well. It was uncomfortable to miss the sounds of someone walking up behind him.

“That was refreshing,” said Kathy.

“How long do you think it’ll take before our personal items catch up with us?” he asked.

“You mean our Tupperware… No idea. I think they have bigger things to worry about. Did you know they have a communications problem right now? I tried to ask one of the guards for directions, but their radios didn’t operate on the same frequency as ours. I felt like I was trying to talk to a Star Wars storm trooper.”