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05 - 29 - 2089

C A D E

We're on the run. Again.

I'm beginning to wonder if Gis and I will ever find peace, or if we're destined to be vagabonds for the rest of our lives. I'm mostly mad, but there is a significant part of me that also feels deep regret. It's my fault we're in this mess again. If I'd only noticed the tracker sooner then it wouldn't have gone on this long. Instead of running we might have been able to make a better plan. 

I realize I'm frowning, for once thankful that a surgical mask covers half of my face. The hood of my black sweatshirt is pulled up, casting shadows over my eyes. I glance over at Gis, squinting against the harsh lights of the convenience store. She fidgets with her own mask, clearly uncomfortable. 

My mind recalls the way Gis reacted when we first entered the small town, after walking for almost an hour. Before entering the store, she saw the sign posted across every door.

Personal Protective Equipment Required. Please see Associate if you need a mask. Note: costs vary by location. Do NOT enter if you have been exposed or are sick. Enter at your own risk.

The sign was posted on bright, neon yellow paper, impossible to miss. For a moment, she appeared paralyzed by it, her mouth slightly parted and eyes locked on the words. 

"Gis-"

She blinked and I hesitated, unsure of what to say. I couldn't begin to imagine what was running through her mind. For the most part, we'd been sheltered from the worst of the chaos erupting around the country. But now she would be thrust, full force, into it. Minnesota, although safer than other provinces, was still a hot spot for sickness.

I swallowed, knowing we had to hurry up and get what we needed before getting as far away from The Black Star as possible. TBS would likely hunt us down, not to mention that the FDA was still looking for Gis.

I reached out, wrapping her small hand around mine. I pulled her towards me, forcing her gaze away from the sign. "Together. We'll get through this."

She managed a small nod, and I took that as a success.

We had to purchase masks at the register, and were given a dirty look by the cashier. Everyone avoided us, which suited me just fine. But I could tell Gis was still anxious.

I reach out and grasp her hand, determined to protect her from everything and everyone. She has no idea just how bad this epidemic has become. I guide her down an aisle filled with processed foods and towards the back of the store where basic necessities are sold. My eyes scan the rows of emergency supplies, noting the decreased stock. Almost everything is sold out or nearly there.

I grab the only remaining first aid kit, along with a flashlight and matches. We add a couple water bottles and nutrition bars to the pile, then set it on the counter to pay. 

The woman behind the counter is short, her brown hair pulled back into a hair net that covers her ears. She wears a double-layered mask and goggles as well. I notice latex gloves on her hands as she quickly scans the items and reads off the total.

Wordlessly, I hand her cash, feeling a twinge of guilt as I recall where I got it from. Mrs. Tate always leaves her purse on the kitchen counter, so it wasn't difficult to go through it before we left. Gis had protested, but quieted after I explained that we had no money. We wouldn't last long without resources of any kind.

 Gis and I take the bags with our purchases, quick to leave. I sneak a glance at the security camera on the way out, hopeful that the masks were enough to hide our identities. If not, at least we don't plan to stick around here for long. 

The street is quiet, the distant sound of crickets filling the darkness. A single street lamp flickers, sending a shower of sparks onto the road. Trash litters the parking lot. A single, rusted vehicle sits in a parking spot. Both windows are shattered, and the steering wheel is missing.

"What do we do now?" Gis asks, shivering a bit in the cool evening air. She wears a dark blue top and jeans, but the shirt is short-sleeved. Her arms cross, the bag of water and bars swinging like a pendulum from her hand. 

I drop the two bags I'm carrying, glancing around the empty parking lot. Satisfied that we are alone, I peel off the sweatshirt and hand it to her. "Here." I take the bag from her and she grasps the sweatshirt, peering up at me. 

She lowers her mask. "Are you sure? But then you'll be cold."

I shake my head. "I'm comfortable. Promise. I don't wear it because of the temperature," I say, trying to reassure her. 

She tilts her head, contemplating my words. Then a gentle nod, followed by a thank you. I help her pull it over her head, admiring how adorable she looks in it. It falls to her thighs, the sleeves almost a foot too long. She fiddles with them until her fingers pop out. 

"Much better," she whispers, offering me a sweet smile. She hugs herself and presses her face into the fabric, breathing deeply. "It smells like you."

Is it hot out? It feels hot all of a sudden. Heat rushes to my face, and I take a deep breath, trying to calm the nervous beat of my heart. 

"We should get going," I say after a moment. I retrieve the bags from the ground and head towards the street, Gis following. A single, flickering sign lights up the pavement across the street. One of the letters is out. It reads Mote instead of Motel. It's dirty, just like the convenience store, but at least that means we're unlikely to attract much attention. 

A cool breeze brushes against my bare arms. I resist the urge to cross them. Gis pushes the door open and pulls up her mask. I follow her inside and immediately halt.

Another big sign to remind patrons of required safety protocols, along with the warning that a health screening is required for each customer. It's pinned against the wall, holding up the peeling wallpaper littered with water stains. A dusty chair rests beneath it, the cushion ripped. 

Gis looks to me, her eyes questioning. "A screening?" 

"I think they just ask some questions to know if you're sick. It's okay, we have nothing to worry about." Even as I say it, I wonder if it's a promise I can keep. I try to be reassuring, but Gis has once again been thrust into an anxiety-inducing situation. I hate it. I hate that I can't make this right for her.

You will. Just not right away. Change takes time. 

We approach the plexiglass separating us from the man behind the counter.  He's reclining in his seat, surgical mask pulled up over his eyes and arms crossed. Snoring emanates from him, only interrupted by the occasional snort.

"Excuse me? Sir?" I call, hating how my breath feels hot against my face and my voice is muffled. 

He snorts and starts, almost tipping out of his chair. The mask is yanked back to its proper place, revealing squinty eyes and unruly hair. "Eh? What are you kids doing out this late? Don't you know about the curfew?" His voice is gravely, scratchy from sleep.

I glance at Gis, noting her panicked expression. "Um... our vehicle broke down." I hesitate, scrambling to gather the rest of our excuse. "We were on our way home when it happened. Because of the curfew, we can't get any help until tomorrow. Do you have any vacancy?"

The man peers at us, clearly suspicious. I pull out half of our remaining cash and start counting through it. As I expected, his eyes flit to the bills, then he huffs.

"I supposed I have space. But I don't want any trouble. Got it? It's hard enough as it is to stay afloat in these times. I don't need a couple of troublemakers trashing my motel."

That would be impossible, considering it's already trashed. 

"Right. Of course. We'll be no trouble," I assure him, handing over the money. To my right, Gis nods fervently, doing her best to put the man at ease. 

After counting the money and pocketing it, the man pulls out a worn paper from a folder and slides it towards us, along with a pen. "Sign your names here."

I grab the pen and write down the first name I can think of. James Randall. An old school buddy of mine. One of the only friends I ever had growing up.

"Here, Teresa," I say, handing the pen to Gis. "Sign your name." I am careful to emphasize the name, hoping she understands what I mean.

She stares at me for a moment before scribbling Teresa Randall onto the next line. 

Finally, the man points to a poster behind him. "Answer these questions."

I squint to read the words in the dim, yellowed lighting. Dread curls in my gut like sour milk. 

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1 - Have you been in contact with any individual known to be sick in the past two months?

2 - Have you been tested for any of the following diseases in the last month:

Ilium Disease 1-01 to 1-09

Abdominal Paraplegia

Hydrocephalus Rubra (Scarlet Hydrocephalus)

Otitis Agita (OA in both forms)

3 - Have you had any of the following symptoms in the last month:

Dull, aching pain in hips or joints

Redness or swelling around joints (specifically hips)

Cold sweats

Ear pain or drainage

Difficulty breathing or shortness of breath

Chest pain

Headaches

Excessive sweating

A new or recurring cough

Unusual bleeding

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The list continues on, but I force myself to skip over the rest before I tell the man no to all of the questions. Then I turn to Gis, afraid of what she's thinking right now. The sign lists the top known diseases responsible for this epidemic, those without a cure. All of them have a high mortality rate. 

Gis is still as a stone, dark eyes locked on the poster. The man behind the counter watches us with mild interest, his eyebrows raised. I force myself to tune him out as I take Gis' shoulders and turn her to face me. 

"You're okay," I say under my breath. "Just answer the questions." My tone is firm, but gentle. I release her and she turns to the man, then tells him that she answers no to all of the questions. 

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The room is tiny, and only a step above the rest of the motel in terms of cleanliness. The wallpaper is peeling and there are several strange stains on the carpet and walls. The air conditioner rattles with a pathetic whine that tells me it is useless. But there is a bed and bathroom, as well as a lock on the door. 

Gis sits down, hands in her lap. She bows her head. I can tell she's trying to process everything that's happened in the past four hours. Her world is turned upside down. Again.

I sit next to her, running a hand through my hair. "I'm sorry, Gis. I know this is horrible, and I can't imagine what this is like for you. I wish I could make things better. I wish-" 

A soft hand rests on the inside of my elbow, fingers delicately tracing across the skin. Her touch is feather-light, sending goosebumps up my arm and silencing my words. "How did you get these scars? I don't think you ever told me." Her voice is barely a whisper.

I pull my arm away, avoiding the desire to take my hoodie back. My eyes travel down to the scars littering both of my inner arms, marking the numerous needles that entered my flesh years ago. Briefly, I find myself back in that sterile room with my mother, watching as she performed test after test on me. Conflicted by the desire to be loved, but hating my weakness.  

"We should get some sleep," I say, shaking my head to clear the image and feelings from my mind. "We can't stay here long."

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