Immunity Index Read online

  Patience? I was berserk.

  * * *

  Berenike stormed into her apartment. Two of her roommates were in. Deedee looked up. “Hey, did you see what happened?”

  “Yeah, I was at work downtown.”

  “I mean in Chicago,” Deedee said angrily. “They killed people.”

  Karen, who was eating dinner, put down her fork. “They were protesters.”

  “How can they do that?” Deedee said. “I mean, not just scare them. They killed them.”

  “They can do that because we let them,” Karen said. “We’ve been letting them for too long.”

  Berenike stared at her. Karen, too?

  The message light shone on her phone. Papa had answered her. She decided to take the call outside. She grabbed a bag of cheese-flavored chips and started eating as she walked out to the old parking lot. Even if she was surrounded by mutineers, some things should be private, like Swoboda’s threats. Outside, she listened to Papa’s message:

  “I’m at home, and I have the cold. I’m here with my microbe friends. It’s in vogue, you know, having the cold. The Prez approves, have you heard?” He was coughing, and his voice was hoarse. “It came early, on wings, I guess, maybe another avian virus. Birds are smarter than scientists. A lot smarter than politicians. No birdbrain jokes, though. Or maybe another swine virus would be funnier. I’m working on it. The flying virus, what do you think? Or the snorting virus?”

  He had a coughing fit. It’s in vogue.

  “Anyway, I gotta go find some more cough medicine. Don’t get sick, Nike. This cold’s a killer.”

  She called back. He didn’t answer. She left a message. “I’ll come see you.” She had a lot to say. He might be able to help. She ran back into the building and up the stairs.

  * * *

  Avril stood next to Shinta’s bed. She seemed to be asleep but kept coughing. She had to be really sick. She needed help, but Dejope Hall didn’t have a clinic, and the building was locked down.

  She checked for campus news: no update, just the old message, campus shut down, students confined to dorms. No one answered at the dormitory hall staff number. She couldn’t connect to anything from outside, either. That disturbed her even more, and when she realized that she cared more about her phone than Shinta, she almost felt guilty, but she was looking for information to help her, so maybe it was okay.

  She hadn’t eaten much for lunch, and it was dinnertime. She’d go downstairs, quickly grab something more or less edible—she couldn’t help others if she didn’t take care of herself—and something for Shinta, too, and most of all, she’d figure out a way to get help. Cough syrup, at least—or a nurse, a premed student, something.

  She got off the elevator on the ground floor and walked into screaming chaos.

  “We need doctors!” a woman was shouting. Other voices screamed, “Let us out! We need help!” They were shouting at someone or something near the entrance at the far side of the lobby.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. Maybe other people were sick like Shinta. Or maybe the problem was something worse.

  The student next to her was staring at the floor in dejection. “Sino cold,” he murmured. “People are getting sick, really sick, so sick that sometimes they just fall over. It has to be that cold.”

  Avril froze. “Sino,” she managed to repeat. She was trapped in a building with the killer cold. The Prez had said it was just a common cold. But the Prez was a liar. Her dad had been sniffling. Shinta had said that everyone at the swim meet was sick.

  At the entrance, a centaur rose up almost to the ceiling. “Return to your rooms,” it said in a low, male, authoritative voice—creepily human.

  Avril had seen what centaurs could do. The whine of the sonic weapon started to rise. She turned and ran around the nearest corner for protection. Other people were running, too—for elevators, the stairs, anywhere.

  At what seemed like a safe alcove, she stopped, panting. If Shinta had that cold, then she probably had the cold herself, too. Everyone knew how contagious it was. She’d just spent hours in the same little room with her. No one had said what to do about it besides hate China and wave flags. For a normal cold, it was what? Fluids, and rest, and chicken soup? There had to be some actual medicine, if she could get it.

  The centaur wasn’t going to let her out, so that wasn’t going to happen. She’d do what she could. In the food court, she grabbed a jug of orangeade. Other food? Nothing looked appetizing. Well, prepackaged cookies—how bad could those be? This might be my last meal, frosted oatmeal cookies. She climbed a back stairway up to their room. Shinta was still in bed, lying in her clothes on the lower bunk, curled up into a ball.

  Avril’s textbook suite included basic research resources. She turned it on and asked it about colds. It listed a bunch of symptoms, even special symptoms for the Sino cold—properly called the delta cold—some of which Shinta had, and, for care, a series of medicines and oxygen therapy, nothing that Avril could get her hands on while she was locked inside the dorm building. Generally, for colds, it recommended rest and fluids. Also, caretakers should wash their hands a lot and wear a face mask. Kind of late for that.

  She whispered, “Hey, Shinta. How are you?” If she didn’t answer, should she wake her up?

  After a few seconds, Shinta answered, “Hi.” It sounded weak. She coughed from deep in her chest.

  “How are you?”

  “Really tired. I don’t think I can go to the meet today.”

  What? Oh, confusion was a symptom. Shinta’s face was flushed. “Let me feel your forehead, if that’s okay.” Fever was a symptom.

  Shinta nodded. She felt very hot.

  “I think I swallowed some water wrong. I can’t cough it up.”

  “I think you have a cold.”

  “I don’t … I … Maybe. I feel bad.”

  “Would you like some water? Orangeade?”

  “Yeah, water.” She drank a little. She was shivering, so Avril helped tuck her in under her covers. She kept coughing and moaning.

  Avril stood staring out of the window at the evening light on the lake, not knowing what to do. Shinta said she’d defend Avril, and she wanted to return the favor. And what if this wasn’t a lockdown, what if this was a quarantine?

  Someone ran across the roof over the first-floor commons area, grabbed a pole at a corner, swung down to the ground, and kept running. That student had escaped—couldn’t they all escape? They could just break windows and dash out as a group and overwhelm campus security.

  She could drag Shinta with her. Sure. That would work. The student suddenly fell, as if jerked sideways, and lay there, struggling alone for a while, then became still. After about ten minutes, human officers wearing elaborate equipment to protect against biological infection came and took the body away. Escape? How many bullets did centaurs have? Enough, for sure.

  There had to be a plan, something. Maybe the mutiny could help. She had talk to Hetta again.

  And she needed to put on a sweater and stop shivering. Chills were a symptom.

  * * *

  Irene came close to the fence and whispered to Nimkii. “Tomorrow.” The sun was setting. The wait wouldn’t be long. The mutiny would target political prisoners, right? Maybe she could take Nimkii to Madison, and he could crash into her mother’s prison and free her.…

  No, they’d never get there in time, even if they could escape from the farm. Maybe she could hook up with the mutiny in Wausau. There had to be mutineers. That was probably the information her mother had been sending her. If she knew where her mother had gotten it from …

  The forecast didn’t include rain, so she’d sleep in the open air alongside the pen again, this time beneath mosquito netting she’d found in the barn. She went back into the house to get ready.

  Alan, Ruby, and Will were talking in the living room. Irene stood still and eavesdropped. It was wrong, but she didn’t care anymore.

  “… still can’t find a place,” Alan said. “
He doesn’t seem to want to escape, though.”

  “He’s scared to go out,” Will said. “Too bad. He deserves to wander around.”

  “We deserve our investment back,” Ruby snapped. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “I always thought it was a mistake,” Will said.

  “You never said a thing.”

  A long, uncomfortable silence was broken up by Alan’s coughing.

  “Anyway,” Ruby said, “I’ve got to go back tomorrow at six A.M. Everybody on deck. They must be expecting something. Transfers, I bet. All those protests today. They’ve gotta go somewhere.”

  Irene held her breath. Transfers because of the protests—that had to mean transfers of prisoners.

  “I’m going to get some shut-eye,” Ruby said. “It’ll be a long shift.”

  I heard what I heard, right? Camps existed for the government’s prisoners. Rumors were always flying about them, everybody trying to figure out where they were. Ruby had a part-time job away from the farm. Maybe she worked at one. If so, it might not be far away, because Alan hadn’t taken long to pick her up from work. Transfers, maybe from Madison? Mamá? Not likely, but a camp might actually be nearby. And they were expecting something.

  Irene turned, tiptoed to the door, opened it a bit, and then shut it with a slam: I just walked in. I didn’t hear a thing. Somehow she’d have to find out where Ruby worked. Before tomorrow.

  * * *

  Berenike took a bus to her father’s apartment—both her parents’ apartment until her mother had died. It was another one of those cheap apartment buildings from the twentieth century, a plain brick-faced box with small windows. The hallways smelled of mold and skunky marijuana. The carpet might not have been cleaned for a decade, and it felt thin under her feet as she climbed the stairs. She knew the door code to his unit.

  It opened into a living room/kitchenette. Papa sat at the kitchen table, his head resting on his arms as if he’d fallen asleep, a cup of coffee in front of him. Then, judging by the odor, he’d lost control of his bowels. A cold? Maybe not. She needed to clean him up and get him to bed.

  As she approached, she saw that his hands looked pale, grayish. He must be really sick. Should she call an ambulance?

  “Papa?” She reached around and put a hand on his forehead to see if he had a fever. He felt cold, like she’d put her hand on a leather purse. That didn’t make sense. His face was pale but mottled red, like a rash.

  “Papa?” Something red had pooled on the table. Thick. Blood?

  “Papa!” Maybe … she leaned over and looked closer. His eyes were shut, and his mouth was slack and frothed with blood and saliva. No breathing.

  “Papa!” A pulse, did he have a pulse? She picked up his arm, and his hand drooped, slack. She felt nothing in his wrist. Was there a pulse in the artery in his neck? Nothing there, nothing, just cold flesh. Nothing.

  “Papa.” She dropped into a chair. He’d had a cold! Just a cold! But he had a rash and bleeding—that wasn’t right for a cold. He’d sent a message only an hour ago.

  She tried to breathe the way the AI counselor had taught. Her chest spasmed. Was she sick, too? She had to call for … what, for help? He was dead. Nothing could be done. She tried to breathe again. Yes, breathe. In. Out.

  She raised her phone. Her wrist shook. Stay calm. Breathe. Be responsible. Call 911. An operator answered. “I’m calling because I came to visit my father and he’s dead.… Yes, I’m sure.… He said he was sick, he had the cold.… Yes, there’s blood from his mouth.… Yes, a rash. I talked to him just an hour ago.… Oh. That fast?… Yes, I’ll wait.… I can do that. Not Sino cold?… Okay.”

  Something was killing people just that fast, but it wasn’t Sino—the delta cold. The delta cold hadn’t yet reached the United States. Don’t move him. Wash your hands. Touch nothing. Don’t touch your face. And wait, because other people have died.

  Maybe she should leave. Whatever killed him might be contagious—but it wasn’t the delta cold. And besides, this was her father. She wasn’t going to abandon her father.

  He’d been telling jokes until the end. I’m here with my microbe friends. She’d wait there with him and his friends. And think about all his jokes. Even a trip to a restaurant with him could be funny. She thought about the good times, like when Papa took her to an amusement park and he enjoyed the rides as much as she did. Or he bought her real ice cream with lots of real chocolate sauce. He came to her school musical performance, even though Berenike was just working backstage on the sound system, and he had plenty of specific praise for technical details about how good it sounded, especially since the sound crew had to overcome inadequate equipment.

  Then she sat and listened to a silence that was full of words, of Papa and Momma fighting, of the summer when the neighbor lady realized that little Berenike was underfed and gave her a banana every afternoon, which was why she hated bananas now. Yet, for all that they did wrong, the neglect, the lies, they’d taken care of her and protected her.

  The coroner’s team came, three hours after she’d called—were that many other people dying?—actually not the coroner, instead a private funeral service subcontracted by the county. They seemed businesslike, wearing white suits like a hazmat team. She had to sign some documents, and a woman gave her a flyer and a little lecture. “He may have had a cold, but the cause of death is likely food poisoning. There’s been an outbreak of that, and people are afraid it’s the Sino cold, but really he had a minor cold and then this on top of it.”

  Berenike tried to think of the symptoms of food poisoning. Didn’t people usually throw up instead of foam at the mouth? “What about that cold? Was I exposed?”

  “It’s really mild. Don’t worry about it.”

  They told her to contact the funeral home. She could receive more information about adjusted funeral services if she had limited funds. Be sure to clean up with proper precautions against the bacteria and toxins from the food poisoning. They gave her a pair of gloves. They were sorry for her loss. The faces inside the clear plastic visors looked sorry. Or worried. Or angry. At her? What had she done?

  After they were gone, after she’d sat for a little while longer, she found some bleach-based bathroom cleaner, put on the plastic gloves, and wiped up the blood on the table and stain on the chair. The fake wood faded from the bleach. She didn’t care.

  The entire apartment would need to be cleaned. Cleaned out. The rent canceled. So much to do. But not tonight, and not tomorrow. Tomorrow! She poured out the cold coffee her father had been drinking, put the cup in the sink, and left.

  She caught a late-night bus home. That funeral-home team had lied to her about something, she felt sure. Bacteria and toxins. Toxins. That was it! Papa had been poisoned. Rather than round him up and throw him in jail, they’d simply killed him. A clever cover-up, food poisoning. The Prez’s assholes killed Papa. For a moment, her tears dried up. She felt rage surge strong enough for her to tear up the bus seats and throw them out of the windows. But the bus had surveillance. She had to sit nice and quiet and normal. Mutiny—oh, she was going to be dangerous tomorrow.

  She arrived, shaking with anger, stomped off the bus and up the sidewalk to a different twentieth-century brick-faced apartment box with even tinier units. The hallway smelled a little better, but the air seemed thick, resistant, hard to walk through. Someone was listening to happy dance music somewhere down the hall. Even when she closed her own door, she could still hear it. Two of her roommates were asleep in bed, and Deedee was sprawled on the old sofa in the corner drowsing as some video game waited for her next play on her phone.

  Karen coughed.

  Deedee opened her eyes. “She has that cold,” she whispered.

  Not food poisoning, I hope. Karen might have crossed a line somehow and been targeted like her father. No, not Karen. Or maybe she just had that cold. Berenike had no way to know. The AI counselor had tried to teach her not to worry about things she couldn’t change, to think about something else i
nstead. Yes, she could think about the mutiny.

  She had a lot to do tomorrow—she had to change the world! She went to bed, hoping to fall asleep fast, and please, please, no dreams. But rather than sleep, she wept silently for what seemed like a long time and couldn’t find a way to stop crying, or maybe her dreams were all about crying.

  * * *

  By evening, we had returned to teamwork, and we had at our disposal a small treasure of Earth’s rarest substance: accurate data—patchy and incomplete, more like a rough nugget than a solid coin, much of it in narrative form, but honest gold. I held my breath.

  The virus meant as a vaccine had been released by aerosols three days earlier at hundreds of locations throughout the United States, often at flag-distribution centers, as well as at major military installations. The Prez’s political team had spearheaded the entire operation from conception to execution. (This proved that they were all criminally reckless idiots—but we’d known that for quite some time.) (Also, how did those idiots create something that sublime?) As of twenty-four hours ago, stores nationwide had reported upticks in cold remedy sales, and hospital emergency rooms nationwide had reported fewer than one hundred cases of complications from colds and influenza above baseline numbers, and perhaps an additional three deaths above baseline.

  “Satisfied?” Node 6 challenged me.

  “The virus has been successfully released, and it’s not entirely harmless,” I said. I didn’t mention that the figures seemed optimistic, perhaps not the solid-gold truth.

  Then I had a sudden terrifying thought of something we all should have realized earlier, especially the Prez’s team (but they were idiots). “How will people respond,” I said, my voice sounding faraway, “when they learn it’s a form of the delta virus? Because doctors will test their patients. Results should be back by now.”

  I might have heard gasps from my teammates.

  “What do you mean?” Node 6 snapped.