A military truck comes to a shaky stop in front of a silver fence with a spiral of razor-sharp wire above it. On the other side is a thick yellow layer of ground atop which simple green tents are arranged in lines. Yet half of the tents have been stomped into the snow by shambling shadows with long tube-like projections surrounding their bodies.
The truck’s carriage doors swing open. Two army soldiers dressed from head to toe in silver suits step out. Their suits are much like the arc suit was in the past, before the Helping Hands altered it.
“God... I’m so tired,” one of them says in a low voice.
The other sighs. “It’s two in the morning, and we almost died yesterday.” They stare at the snow, murmuring, “So it would be weird if you weren’t.”
People gather at the fence, watching the two men. Tubers grow from their bodies, and the worst of them cannot even form a complete sentence.
“You can’t do this to us!” They shake and scream, “We didn’t consent to this quarantine!”
As they shake, a yellow cloud forms around the fence’s exterior.
One Army soldier in a silver suit stands nearby, patrolling the fence’s perimeter. “For both yours and the uninfected’s protection, everyone must remain in quarantine,” he responds with a sigh.
I stand at the edge of the fence, watching as hundreds of people shamble together. They yell and beg the soldier to be permitted to leave. ‘There are so many people… and not enough heliotrope. Are we honestly meant to pick and choose who to cure?’
While they continue to yell, I hear someone whispering from a tent on the other side of the fence, “Miss Nightingale, it's me.”
Tilting my head, I squat and peer inside the tent. There I see an older woman covered in twitching tubers. Her hair is disheveled and her clothes spattered in ash.
I lean in closer, trying to remember if I am acquainted with her. ‘Wait. Is that the ….something, something woman I was supposed to have a meeting with several weeks ago?’
She smiles stiffly at me and waves. “It’s me, Congresswoman Annette Callari.”
“Annette!?” someone says from behind me.
I look back to see Kenneth has made his way here from the Terrace.
Kenneth hurries over and squats next to me. “Long time no see, Miss Nightingale, things are fine back at the Terrace, so don’t worry,” he says with a thumbs-up. Looking toward the tent, he whispers, “Annette, is my wife in… whatever this cage is? Have you seen her?”
“Blunts! You traitor,” she barks.
“Just shut up for once in your life, Annette.”
Her jaw drops.
“I’m looking for my wife. Have you seen her or not?”
“You think I care about your wife right now!?” She motions toward the tubers on her body. “Just look at me, Blunts!”
“Annette, I can’t see you in that tent; it’s the middle of the night.”
Annette reaches toward a lantern next to her. When it shines its light, Kenneth gasps. “Oh my god, look at you!”
“You're goddamn right! I can’t even stand up anymore!” She shifts her gaze between Kenneth and me. “Get me the hell out of here, please! This quarantine, this CAGE, is a nightmare. The people in here with me are somewhere between insane and looney toons! I’d rather be locked in a cage with baboons!”
Kenneth pauses. I can see the gears in his brain turning. “Okay, so, all I got from that is, number one, you’re in quarantine, and number two, you haven’t seen my wife… So I’m gonna go look somewhere else.”
Before Annette can say anything, Kenneth has already begun to retrace his steps south.
“Miss Nightingale, please!” Annette pleads. “I’m a potential asset you don’t wanna lose, believe me!”
The arguing between the soldiers and the crowd is growing louder.
Her eyes widen with a gasp. “Crap! Those idiots broke all the other lanterns in here. I’ll have to go back to the invisible place.” She dims her lantern and covers her eyes. “Mine's the last one; I won’t let them take it!”
A second later, it’s as if she’s forgotten I am here.
I stand and back away from Annette. ‘...Is this the effect the fungus has on the mind?’
The people shake the fence so hard that I begin to wonder if I should leave.
“Back away from the fence!” the Army soldier yells. “Everyone must remain in quarantine, or you’ll be putting everyone else’s health at risk,” he counters.
A man in quarantine climbs the fence. “Screw’em!” he spits.
“Sir!” the soldier shouts, stepping closer. “Sir! Get off the fence, or I’ll be forced to shoot!”
When the man refuses to heed his order, the soldier brandishes his weapon. Everyone else moves away from the fence with a gasp.
The soldier’s gun shakes. “Goddamn it!” he shouts. Stepping forward, the soldier hits his butt against the fence. The fence warps, striking the climbing man’s face.
With a thunk, the climbing man hits the snow. His nose is crooked.
“That’s your final warning!” the soldier shouts at him.
“You bastards!” The man sees me approach. “Fairy! It was you, wasn't it!?” I flinch when he crashes against the fence. He squishes his face into one of the diamond-shaped openings in the fence. “Who do you work for!? Is it the reds, is it China, is it the pharmaceutical companies!?” He gasps, peering at the Army soldiers all around. “God in Light! Don’t tell me it’s the government!?”
In my peripheral vision, I notice General Riddick approaching in a silver suit. “Miss Nightingale, it’s good to see you’re well,” he says in a muffled voice.
I raise my hand in greeting.
“God in Light!” The climbing man gasps, goggling at General Riddick and the Army soldiers all around. “Don’t tell me it’s the government!? I always suspected it might be, but to think it was something so boring!”
“Ignore him. The infection can lead to heightened aggression, agitation, and a reduction in sensibilities.”
The climbing man shakes the fence, screaming, “Fuck youuu, I’m the epitome of peaceful, the anti-agitated.” He grabs his crooked nose. With a pop, he sets it back in place and continues, “The embodiment of all that’s sensible!”
General Riddick raises a hand toward a green tent. “Let’s catch up before discussing the quarantine.”
I follow behind General Riddick.
“I assume Miss Galtry and her ‘people’ are changing into hazmat suits, correct? She is here, isn’t she?”
Nodding, I point toward a white tent erected nearby.
“Good, and I also hear that someone named Dr. Jäger is meant to join us? He’s the one that has been studying the gases, including the purple one?”
I nod.
“Then we’ll wait for them inside with Dr. Harlow.” He steps to the side, expecting me to enter the tent first. “She’ll be leading the discussion once everyone arrives.”
Before entering the tent, I glance at the people behind the climbing man. Some scowl while others exhale in relief.
I look toward the ground and walk inside.
----------------------------------------
Outside a generator roars, while inside a woman dressed in Army attire stands in front of a white curtain. She is Dr. Harlow, an epidemiologist like Dr. Jäger. From what I have heard thus far, she is rather knowledgeable, likely why she was brought to New York.
Everyone watches Dr. Harlow point at images displayed on the white curtain while explaining basic information concerning the infections. “We’re fortunate that General Riddick was able to relay information regarding the symptoms before the attack. We hope that people will self-quarantine and take the precautionary measures we advised.”
Half the room glances at General Riddick, making a slight nod.
While Dr. Harlow sips some water and looks through her notes, I glance at the stern faces that cling to her every word. ‘I wonder if people would have valued my knowledge like they do hers if I was born closer to this time….’
She sets her water down with a sigh. Noticing me watching her intently, she asks, “Miss Nightingale, would you like a bottle of water? I have filtered, sparkling, and flavored water with me if you’d like one.”
I tilt my head. In front of me is a new whiteboard since my first one melted in the fire. “There are types of water? I only ever used water for washing, save for a few years when I was forced to.”
“You don’t drink water? Then what do you drink?”
Shaking my head, I write, “Water can be dirty; it’s best to avoid drinking it if possible. I used to drink ale, small beer, or sheep’s milk if the sheep were sheared early that season. On one occasion, I had the pleasure of enjoying a strawberry cream drink.” [1]
Her brow furrows. She is about to say something more, but General Riddick interrupts, “Dr. Harlow. I don’t mean to interrupt your discussion on beverages, but there’s a lot of people in this room that are short on time,” he says, gesturing toward the people at the table.
“Yes, General, I understand. From here forward, feel free to ask any questions you might have,” she says with black bags under her eyes. “We anticipate that there are at least an additional two to five thousand people somewhere in the vicinity of Central Park that are suffering an infection.”
Dr. Jäger leans forward in his chair, asking, “But I believe the matter we’re here to discuss is the people in quarantine, correct? Shouldn’t our primary concern be the people outside of quarantine? They’re the ones who will be spreading the infection to healthy people.”
“Right. As of now, we have around fourteen hundred people in quarantine. Most of those people have already manifested advanced tuber growth.” Dr. Harlow points at an image of a man’s neck with tubers that have sprouted from his skin. “And as you can see on the projector here, tuber growth is typically a late-stage symptom. The people in quarantine are already at this stage, likely because they inhaled a large number of spores and accelerated the infection. That makes the people in quarantine not only the most severe cases but far more infectious.”
“More infectious?” Dr. Jäger questions, glancing at the pictures on the curtain. “Can the infection not be spread by people that haven’t manifested tuber growth?”
“It can, but only through skin cells from the infected and neighboring areas of the epidermis. Good hygiene helps on that front, but all the hygiene in the world won’t keep the tubers from spreading spores.”
“So infection spread is low in the prodromal and early-illness periods. [2] What about the mental symptoms of advanced patients exhibiting tuber growth? Do they have difficulty adhering to the precautionary and quarantine measures?”
She nods. “Yes, after tubers have manifested, people tend to become severely paranoid and can be aggressive. Those two symptoms can lead to someone leaving quarantine, abandoning precautionary measures, and ultimately infecting more people.”
Dr. Jäger makes a face like someone forced him to eat a whole lemon. “I’m sure you’re aware of the dangers that a symptom like severe paranoia can cause?” he asks.
Making a slight frown, Dr. Harlow nods. “Someone exhibiting symptoms of severe paranoia will not only avoid adhering to protocol but may even actively work against officially endorsed preventatives and precautions. It’s important we keep an eye out for anyone suffering from it, or we’ll inevitably find ourselves right back where we started.”
“Well, I guess it’s fortunate then that it’s a later symptom,” General Riddick adds.
Terra glances at the two doctors, asking, “Either way, couldn’t we just keep these people confined until we have the supplies to cure them?”
“A good point,” Dr. Jäger remarks. “I assume there’s a reason that isn’t an option.”
Pointing toward an image near the end, Dr. Harlow says, “The next symptom after paranoia is ‘loss of awareness.’ Which is another way of saying….” She pauses for a moment and then sighs. “Another way of saying, ‘brain dead.’ As far as modern medicine is concerned, they’re effectively irremediable.”
Everyone turns quiet, scanning on her words.
Uncertain of the difference between ‘dead’ and ‘brain dead,’ I ask, “If they were cured after that stage, what would happen?”
“If they ‘cured,’ we'd expect them to either collapse into a vegetative state or die immediately.”
I erase the whiteboard and then write, “So there’s a terminus, and these people are inching closer to it. [3] How long before the people outside quarantine and in quarantine reach the same terminus?”
Dr. Harlow shakes her head. “For those outside the quarantine, anywhere between five days and three weeks. It all just depends on numerous factors that we’ve yet to have the opportunity to assess or study in detail. As for those that are in quarantine, it could be anywhere between… four and sixteen hours.”
I recoil. {That’s it!? That’s hardly any time at all for Earl to produce additional heliotrope!}
Watching Dr. Harlow’s reaction closely, Dr. Jäger says, “Earlier you mentioned that the number of spores inhaled will increase the infection rate. Wouldn’t that mean the people in quarantine are being infected at an accelerated rate? They’re all grouped together after all.”
She hesitates to answer.
“Should I take your silence as a yes?”
“...Y-yes. The people in quarantine will have an accelerated infection rate, but it’s all we could do to keep them from mingling with the uninfected on such short notice.”
“What would have been their infection rate if they were outside the quarantine?”
“Anywhere between twenty-four and thirty-six hours, but again, there’s a lot of factors we aren’t aware of.”
“That’s a lot of time lost. Couldn’t the patients have been split into several smaller quarantine areas instead of one large one? Then the air wouldn’t be so thick in spores, and the infection rate could have been reduced.”
“Those fences around the quarantine outside are mine,” Terra says. “They were going to go around the drinking water reservoir to the north. A section of it was already put together and standing upright, but it was still waiting on cement to anchor it in place.”
“As Miss Galtry says, they were already assembled. All we did was drag the fence over and then force them into the snow using post drivers we recovered from Pilgrim Hill Schematic and a construction firm up the street.” Dr. Harlow gestures toward Dr. Jäger. “So to answer your question, given the resources, time, and information available to us, I think we did what we could to preserve the park’s security and stability.”
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
Dr. Jäger sighs while making a slight nod.
Crossing her legs, Terra says, “More importantly, if we’re only looking at four hours of leeway, I want to go ahead and begin discussing the cure.” She looks at General Riddick. “Miss Nightingale informed me that she gave Sergeant Saxe and Specialist Brooks our stores of heliotrope to boost your efforts against the Maw. One of the men notified me that they took both our stores and our reserve. I trust you’ve been conservative with their use?”
General Riddick stands with a nod. Stepping outside, he calls for Sergeant Saxe and Specialist Brooks. The two are at the door less than a minute later. While General Riddick retakes his seat, Sergeant Saxe and Specialist Brooks march inside carrying four silver canisters.
Setting the canisters on the table, everyone stares at them in silence.
Raising a hand, Terra asks, “...Is this it? There were at least thirty canisters in the shipping containers.” She reaches out and jostles one of the canisters. “One of these isn’t even full.”
“We were forced to use them to deter the spider and cure infected soldiers.” Before anyone may question him further, Sergeant Saxe adds, “It was my decision alone to use them as needed.”
“And I imagine you didn’t use it to its full effect when you used it to ‘deter’ the spider? How much heliotrope was just allowed to blow away?”
“I’m sorry Miss Galtry, but it was a very touch-and-go situation.”
“I’m not sure why you’re apologizing to me; I’m not infected. I’m not in jeopardy of becoming brain dead from a disease with a cure.”
Specialist Brooks interjects, “Miss Galtry, there were clouds of the stuff everywhere. Sergeant Saxe can’t be blamed for not knowing there would be a shortage!“
“Specialist!” General Riddick barks.
Her back straightens.
“This is a formal discussion that you aren’t to get involved in unless spoken to first. Don’t interrupt.”
“Yes, General,” she replies, maintaining a stiff posture.
As if nothing happened, Terra continues, “I’m only speaking frankly, Sergeant Saxe. I don’t blame anyone other than the Maw for what's happened. But that doesn’t mean others aren’t going to be looking to place blame on someone. We must all be willing to stand by our choices, but what about you, Sergeant? Knowing what you know now, would you have done anything differently?”
He shakes his head. ”I couldn’t say in good conscience that I’d have done anything differently than what I did, ma’am.”
“Good, well, don’t torture yourself too much. The important thing was you made a decision when a decision needed to be made, same as Dr. Harlow.”
Sergeant Saxe, Specialist Brooks, and Dr. Harlow all wince while General Riddick chuckles.
Terra continues, “But I think it’s time we address the elephant in the room.”
With a nod, General Riddick dismisses Sergeant Saxe and Specialist Brooks. The two depart, trying their best to not look at Terra.
Reinvigorated, Dr. Harlow begins organizing a stack of papers. “We’ve been debating the best approaches for several hours before you arrived. But please give me just a few more minutes.”
Terra nods.
Meanwhile, I am looking around the room, hunting for something Terra mentioned.
{Hey, Terra.}
{Yes?}
Raising my hands, I ask, {Where’s the elephant?}
{...You mean, ‘the elephant in the room?’}
{Aye, I have never seen an elephant before. I do not know what to look for.}
I can hear Terra holding her breath next to me. {It’s just a figure of speech. There is no actual elephant.}
{Oh… Someone once told me an elephant resembled a horse with a long bag over its nose. } Setting my hands in my lap, I ask, {Is that true?}
She stifles a laugh, masking it as a small cough. {How… How about I just show you an elephant later?}
I nod.
“Okay,” Dr. Harlow sighs.
The room’s mood turns somber.
Terra’s eyes narrow. {But it’s time to be serious and address the question we came here to answer.}
Dr. Harlow sets two sheets of paper in front of Terra and me.
{Aye...} My eyes resist reading the paper. {Who lives, and who....}
Before I can finish my thought, Dr. Harlow begins explaining their reasoning for what’s written on the paper. “With how fast the infection is spreading, there isn’t time to take things on a case-by-case basis. Hence, we’ve conceived of four ‘foundational approaches.’ Each approach has its own advantages and shortcomings.”
Glancing at the paper, Terra questions, “‘Foundational approaches? Why call them that?”
“These are just essentially just basic plans of action. I’m sure there will still be exceptions and added specifications.”
Terra lowers the paper and raises an eyebrow. “The catch with all these approaches is if we begin making exceptions and additions, we’d have to narrow who fits under any one of these four approaches, correct?”
“...That is unfortunately correct.”
Glancing over a paper himself, Dr. Jäger asks, “Do we have an idea of the number of people we’ll be able to cure?”
“Save for the half-empty one, each of the canisters holds around five-hundred-fifty liters of gas. The only means of treatment I’m aware of is full immersion in the gas.” Dr. Harlow’s expression flashes a hint of hope. “But you’ve been studying the gases. I hoped you’d have other suggestions concerning the application of the curative.”
“I’ve been examining the ailments produced by the haze and techniques of reducing death within those that are being awakened.” He shakes his head, saying, “But the interaction between these spores and the heliotrope is something I learned of only a few hours ago. So I’m sorry to say, I’m not confident enough to advise any alternative methods of application.”
She frowns. “Then, if we’re careful to remove some of the tubers before immediately immersing the patients, I’d estimate each canister will only be capable of curing… between five and ten people each.”
His jaw drops open. “That’s it?” he asks. “Out of thirteen hundred people, we’ll only be able to cure thirty-five at best.”
Dr. Harlow looks toward me. “Maybe.”
The room’s gaze shifts to me. {...Earl.}
Earl Interface:
Statement: This one has been absorbing the colossus’s discarded torso into the roots and nodes. The amount of heliotrope that can be successfully removed from the root network is low but no longer null.
Estimation: Depending on the efficiency at which the fleshies apply the heliotrope, this one estimates a possible ‘curing’ of approximately… 450 to 700 fleshies.
The purple wall vanishes. ‘...So not even half.’
I take my whiteboard and write, “Between four hundred fifty and seven hundred, depending on efficiency.”
The room remains quiet.
Dr. Jäger’s chair squeaks as he slumps lower. “There’s another two heliotrope canisters in Fairy’s Pantry. I was about to run some tests when Summer came into the camp and told me what happened. I hadn’t unsealed them, so they’re still full.”
“The Consortium may still have a canister or two they haven’t sent away yet,” Terra adds.
With a heavy sigh, Dr. Harlow says, “So to answer your question, Dr. Jäger. Somewhere between five hundred and eight hundred people may receive the curative and five hundred to eight hundred people won’t.”
“Is there a chance of self-recovery?” Dr. Jäger asks.
“Awakened people have shown a chance of recovery. Depending on stat values and stat distribution, the recovery rate can be as high as fifty percent. Unawoken people have a recovery rate as high as three percent with persistent tuber removal, but they’re typically left comatose after recovery. They aren’t brain dead, like those with the advanced symptoms, but they are vegetative.”
“How many awoken people do we anticipate? Do we know which stat contributes to their recovery?”
“We think there are around fifty awoken people in quarantine, but we can’t say for sure. As for the stats, the patients ‘Constitution’ and ‘Fortitude’ seem to be the primary contributors to a successful recovery.”
‘Constitution? I think Terra told me it was similar to my Sturdiness.’
Dr. Jäger glances at the paper with the four ‘approaches’ written on it. “And these approaches, in your professional opinion, should we implemen—”
Raising a finger, General Riddick interrupts, “Before this discussion is allowed to go any further, I want to make something clear. ...The government isn’t making any final decisions on this matter. In other words, there isn’t a ‘we.’ There’s only Miss Galtry and Miss Nightingale.”
“But these people are American citizens,” Dr. Jäger says with a furrowed brow.
“Everyone in Central Park is consciously residing in the city against government orders. And hell, half of the people here aren’t American citizens. They’re people that just flew in from out of the county to join the Fairy, much like yourself, Dr. Jäger.” He stares at Terra and me, declaring, “Neither I, nor my soldiers, are going to have these people’s blood on our hands. You led them here, and you encouraged them to stay. It’s your responsibility, your burden to carry, not mine or anyone else’s.”
With a slight frown, Terra asks, “General, just tell me, do I need to organize my men to do the actual ‘curing,’ or are you willing to at least handle that?”
“Do you not agree with what I’ve said?”
“It just seems to me like there’s a lot of questionable handwashing going on right now.”
“Think what you may, but there’s plenty of responsibility going around every day that you’re totally unaware of.” He sighs. “We’ll be doing the ‘curing’ so we can study the gas while we do so.
Tapping her nails against the table, Terra asks, “Is that so? There’s no other reason?” Her brow furrows. “None at all?”
General Riddick and Terra stare at one another.
With a shake of her head, she says, “If you aren’t going to say anything, I’ll just ask then.” She stops rapping her nails against the table. “What about the people we don’t cure?”
Raising an eyebrow, Dr. Jäger nods. “That’s true. The victims are said to be ‘brain dead,’ but there hasn’t been mention of dying at any point.”
Terra raises a hand toward Dr. Jäger while asking General Riddick, “Do they just lie on the ground? Do they stand there? What’s happening to these people after they go brain dead?”
I scribble on my whiteboard. “Is it like the rat that attacked me? Do they keep shambling about even after they have suffered ‘brain death?’ Are their bodies transformed?”
“It’s not something we’re keeping a secret. Not after recent events anyway,” General Riddick says. “But yes, after ‘brain death,’ the body will keep walking around and spreading the infection.”
“Dear lord, this is really another Anchorage!?” Dr. Jäger says with wide eyes.
“No, not exactly. The ‘brain dead’ are more territorial and don’t wander indiscriminately. They’ll typically keep to ‘zones’ of dense infection, only expanding if their numbers have ballooned or if something provokes them.”
Glancing at Terra’s grim face, I begin to understand the ‘other reason’ General Riddick is helping us.
I take my whiteboard and write, “And what’s to be done with the people we do not cure?”
Dr. Harlow interjects, “We’ll do what’s ethical and humane in the most painless way poss—”
Raising her hand, Terra interrupts, “I’m sure you are, Dr. Harlow, but let’s not beat around the bush. ...The Army is using these people as a source of Essence. ...And it’s not the first time either, is it?”
“Is that true?” Dr. Jäger asks. “Is that the reason the Army bothered gathering all these people but refuses to help decide on how the cure is to be distributed?”
General Riddick’s fist hits the table. “None of you understand shit!” he shouts. “None of you have had to gather whole families, talk to them, laugh with them, and then watch them become abominations right before your eyes. And, after all that, you have to come out like some goddamn grim reaper and end their fucking lives. All the while, the thing that gets you through it is, ‘we did what we could.’ Today I found out there was a cure the whole time, and now I’m cursed with knowing that there actually was something we could have done.”
His eyes shift between Terra and me. “...But we have a shortage, and someone needs to pick and choose people. ...I’m not putting my men through that, and I’m not putting myself through it either. It’s time for you two to take your share of the weight. Prove to me that your words match your actions and fucking choose which mother, friend, brother, child, father... gets to live.”
He leans back in his chair and glares at the door with a flushed face.
Some time passes in silence.
{...Terra,} I say in my mind.
{You okay?}
I shake my head.
With a nod, Terra says, “Miss Nightingale and I would like a little time alone to look over the four approaches alone.”
General Riddick stands and immediately moves to the door. “I’m sure everyone could use some fresh air.”
“Dr. Jäger.” Terra takes the second paper and gives it to him. “Look these over outside; we’ll call you back in after a few minutes.”
“Of course.”
A minute later, it’s just Terra and me.
She scooches her chair closer and draws the remaining sheet of paper between us. “It’s just us now.”
{Should… should we have said something to the General?}
“Whatever we could have said wouldn’t have helped.”
{Perhaps we should have simply given them the heliotrope they required.}
She looks at me and shakes her head. “Well, I’ll be frank, even if we had, we don’t have the capacity to support an army. Excluding some canisters we traded to the Consortium, those thirty canisters of heliotrope they used up in a couple of hours, contained all the heliotrope we’ve ever successfully stored.”
Pausing to think for a moment, she sighs and then continues, “Storing something that’s filled with living organisms like your haze or those spores isn’t an easy or quick process, and it’s only possible because of the Consortium’s technology. Of the four varieties, the hoary and heliotrope are by far the hardest to store successfully, and to be honest, most of the haze we siphon is just the standard mixed variety. It’s the most stable of all of them and the most useful for awakening people. Heliotrope and hoary meanwhile sit in storage, corroding our limited supply of canisters. It’ll take us weeks or months to rebuild our stock of canistered heliotrope, depending on our approach. ...But that kind of logistical answer isn’t what someone wants to be told when they’re upset.”
{...So we did not tell them because of ‘logistics?’}
“No. We didn’t tell them because, since we have a logistical problem, they might be inclined to put a rifle to our head to get what they want. Then we’ll be doing nothing but struggling to siphon heliotrope to support the Army. ….Heliotrope’s ability to stop the fungus is the definition of “a blessing and a curse.” At least when there’s bigger fish around that need it.”
I nod. {We had discussed this before, but I suppose I did not fully grasp the ramifications until this moment.}
Nodding back, she taps on the paper with the four approaches and stares at me. “What about this? Are you ready to talk about it?”
My eyes rest on the paper but read not a single word of it. {...All my life, I have believed that everyone should be responsible for their own fate. Never before have I been ‘responsible’ for something of this magnitude for anyone other than myself.}
“It’s not a normal situation, and if not for you, then there would be no cure for anyone. Not to mention, you and Scarlett stopping the spider meant that the Army could gather these infected people to cure them. There’s no way we would have been able to do that otherwise.” She looks at me with sharp eyes. “And finally, this is ‘our’ responsibility. You aren’t alone, okay?”
{Thou art…}
Shaking her head, she raises a hand. “Don’t say anything because we’ll go off on a tangent. We need to work out the details ASAP.” She taps on the paper. “So I’m going to read and summarize these four approaches. Just close your eyes, and listen.”
I close my membranes.
In a soft voice, Terra begins to read all four choices.
“One. A life-saving approach. We can save the greatest number of people, choosing those that have the least severe infections. That would allow us to maximize the gas we have available. This would save the most lives, but it will also rip apart friends and families that are in the quarantine together. Separating from loved ones like that could lead to trauma and survivor-guilt.”
Two. A utilitarian approach. We’d choose the strongest, healthiest, and most valuable people. The ones we save would be the fittest and most capable of enduring future disasters, but it has the same problems as the first.”
Three. A family-based approach. We’d prioritize children of a certain age and their families. This would keep families together, preventing widows, widowers, and orphans, at least inside the quarantine. We can’t be sure entire families are in the quarantine; they may have been separated at some point.
Four. An age-based approach. This one requires us to pick an initial age group somewhere between five and eighteen years old. From there, we’d cure everyone in the initial age group and then work our way up. So if we started at five years old, we’d cure all five-year-olds, then six, seven, and so on until we’ve run out of heliotrope.”
A few minutes pass as the two of us sit in silence.
“What do you think? Does one of those four sound any less bad than the others?”
I raise my hand and freeze in that position. A few more minutes of silence crawl by.
...I tap my finger on the paper.
“The family-based approach? I didn’t expect you to p—”
Shaking my head, I lower my finger and tap on the one below it. {I think we should blend the family and age approaches.}
“I’ll admit I expected you to choose the life-saving approach, and the family was the last one. What I was thinking was a combination of the utilitarian and the age approaches.” Looking at me, she asks, “Is there any reason you chose the two you chose?”
{The thought of sentencing children to dwell in Tenebrous makes me feel sick, but I have also lived life as an orphan and… I have seen the rotten corpses of some orphans who lived it alongside me. At the same time, I died at only twenty-one, and when I did, I still felt young, if not haggard. So the thought of lots of others that still feel ‘young’ having to endure Tenebrous as I did, again, makes me feel sick. That’s why I think we should blend those two in some way… Oh, we also need to search for Kenneth’s wife in quarantine ...and cure Annette I suppose.}
“Kenneth’s wife and Annette?” she mutters. Her eyes glance at the utilitarian approach. Pursing her lips, she says, “...Sometimes you make me feel so heartless.”
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A soldier stands on a raised platform overlooking the quarantine area.
Dozens of his comrades stand around the outside of the fence. Each of them is wearing a silver suit and firearm that glistens in the light of dawn.
Raising a megaphone, the soldier yells, “Everyone, please remain calm. We’re going to commence assigning everyone to quarantine facilities we’ve prepared for you. We only have four facilities prepared at this time, so these four will primarily be allocated based on age and family relations. Let’s begin!”
The soldier opens a sheet of paper.
He squints, studying each of the elegant cursive letters penned to the paper.
“Group 1, children twelve and under, come to the front-most gate alongside any siblings or parents that are with you.”
“Group 2, teenagers between thirteen and seventeen make your way to the southwest corner of the fence, alongside any of your siblings that may be here with you.”
“Group 3, young people between eighteen and twenty-four make your way to the southeast corner of the fence.”
“Group 4, any ‘awakened’ people, regardless if you qualify for groups 1-3 or not, make your way to the back-most gate, alongside your partner, children, and siblings if they are here with you.”
“...Everyone else will remain here until the additional facilities have been fully prepared.”
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A day comes and goes.