through me.
“They were on patrol moving from the woods toward the south checkpoint on the coast road when...”
I had a terrible feeling what he was about to tell us. It turned out I was right.
“There was confusion at the checkpoint with the patrol schedules,” Martin explained. “They thought that sector should be clear. When they saw movement, they thought enemy.”
“No,” Elaine said, and she turned to press her face against my shoulder.
“Friendly fire,” I said.
Martin nodded, looking up now, a skim of tears over his eyes.
“We should never, ever lose anyone like this,” he said. “Never. There’s been too much death already. If we have to lose people it can’t be for stupid things like this.”
“It’s an accident, Martin,” I said.
“I know.”
He did know that. And I knew that he accepted it. But, regardless of his position now, having stepped away from a leadership position in Bandon, he still felt responsible in some way. I was certain that in his head he was running over scenarios of things he might have done when he was in charge. Things which could have prepared those at the checkpoint, which could have prepared everyone, to better handle the uncertainties of such a situation.
That, though, was but a wish wrapped in a dream. He’d done a remarkable job keeping all of Bandon safe, and together. But he couldn’t work magic, or turn back time.
“I have to go,” Martin said. “The kid will be back in a few minutes if you need anything.”
He turned, the darkness he’d dragged into the space seeming to envelope him.
“Martin,” I said.
He stopped, but did not look back at me.
“This isn’t on you.”
Still he did not turn to face me, but the words he spoke were plain and painful.
“Everything’s on me,” he said.
Those were the words he left us with. For the moment I knew he believed them. In time, though, he would not. The realities and randomness and dangers of our world, and our current situation, would nudge him back toward some acceptance that his role in this tragedy was not even minimal—it was nonexistent.
“I thought we could just live again,” Elaine said, easing back from my shoulder and looking up to me. “Just live.”
I knew what she meant. What she wanted. It was all anyone in Bandon wanted. Just to be allowed to move forward, with the new hope we’d found, and fought for. That was it. A chance at some new, acceptable normal.
It seemed, though, that we weren’t done fighting for the future we wanted to make.
Eleven
W e were sprung from isolation two days after the terrible incident on the coast highway. Ninety-six hours of total quarantine for me, and a bit less for Elaine.
For nothing.
“It doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Genesee said from his position on the ‘safe’ side of the barrier. “I don’t know what to make of it.”
Neither did Schiavo, or Martin, or Doc Allen, all of whom had gathered to mark the end of the time period during which something had been expected to manifest. A sneeze. A sniffle. A rash. An ache. Fever.
But no symptoms arose. Not a one.
“I doubt we’re looking at something with a longer incubation period,” Genesee said.
“I agree,” Doc Allen concurred.
“What about smallpox?” Schiavo asked. “Or something similar? A weaponized agent?”
“You don’t need an implant to infect someone with anything like that,” Genesee said. “A simple injection would suffice.”
“One we might never have noticed,” Doc Allen said. “Just a prick in the skin.”
I looked to Elaine, puzzled. A mix of relief and confusion similar to mine formed her expression.
“We’re okay,” she said, though there might have been the slightest hint of a question in how she delivered the simple statement.
Martin stepped to the barrier and gripped the seal that held it in place, peeling it downward so the entire wall of plastic fell into a long, low heap on the floor.
“Welcome to Bandon,” Martin said,
“They were on patrol moving from the woods toward the south checkpoint on the coast road when...”
I had a terrible feeling what he was about to tell us. It turned out I was right.
“There was confusion at the checkpoint with the patrol schedules,” Martin explained. “They thought that sector should be clear. When they saw movement, they thought enemy.”
“No,” Elaine said, and she turned to press her face against my shoulder.
“Friendly fire,” I said.
Martin nodded, looking up now, a skim of tears over his eyes.
“We should never, ever lose anyone like this,” he said. “Never. There’s been too much death already. If we have to lose people it can’t be for stupid things like this.”
“It’s an accident, Martin,” I said.
“I know.”
He did know that. And I knew that he accepted it. But, regardless of his position now, having stepped away from a leadership position in Bandon, he still felt responsible in some way. I was certain that in his head he was running over scenarios of things he might have done when he was in charge. Things which could have prepared those at the checkpoint, which could have prepared everyone, to better handle the uncertainties of such a situation.
That, though, was but a wish wrapped in a dream. He’d done a remarkable job keeping all of Bandon safe, and together. But he couldn’t work magic, or turn back time.
“I have to go,” Martin said. “The kid will be back in a few minutes if you need anything.”
He turned, the darkness he’d dragged into the space seeming to envelope him.
“Martin,” I said.
He stopped, but did not look back at me.
“This isn’t on you.”
Still he did not turn to face me, but the words he spoke were plain and painful.
“Everything’s on me,” he said.
Those were the words he left us with. For the moment I knew he believed them. In time, though, he would not. The realities and randomness and dangers of our world, and our current situation, would nudge him back toward some acceptance that his role in this tragedy was not even minimal—it was nonexistent.
“I thought we could just live again,” Elaine said, easing back from my shoulder and looking up to me. “Just live.”
I knew what she meant. What she wanted. It was all anyone in Bandon wanted. Just to be allowed to move forward, with the new hope we’d found, and fought for. That was it. A chance at some new, acceptable normal.
It seemed, though, that we weren’t done fighting for the future we wanted to make.
Eleven
W e were sprung from isolation two days after the terrible incident on the coast highway. Ninety-six hours of total quarantine for me, and a bit less for Elaine.
For nothing.
“It doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Genesee said from his position on the ‘safe’ side of the barrier. “I don’t know what to make of it.”
Neither did Schiavo, or Martin, or Doc Allen, all of whom had gathered to mark the end of the time period during which something had been expected to manifest. A sneeze. A sniffle. A rash. An ache. Fever.
But no symptoms arose. Not a one.
“I doubt we’re looking at something with a longer incubation period,” Genesee said.
“I agree,” Doc Allen concurred.
“What about smallpox?” Schiavo asked. “Or something similar? A weaponized agent?”
“You don’t need an implant to infect someone with anything like that,” Genesee said. “A simple injection would suffice.”
“One we might never have noticed,” Doc Allen said. “Just a prick in the skin.”
I looked to Elaine, puzzled. A mix of relief and confusion similar to mine formed her expression.
“We’re okay,” she said, though there might have been the slightest hint of a question in how she delivered the simple statement.
Martin stepped to the barrier and gripped the seal that held it in place, peeling it downward so the entire wall of plastic fell into a long, low heap on the floor.
“Welcome to Bandon,” Martin said,
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