Consider (2 page)

“They’re not as smart as they think,” a woman whispers to Dominick and me.

I can’t laugh with them. A question burns inside my head, but my mouth battles with my mind for freedom and words. I take a deep breath and let loose.

“Why should we believe you?” I yell out over the crowd.

The hologram responds, “You have no other options.”

Chapter 2

Day 1: August—4,393 hours to decide

OFFICIALS WARN TO STAY AWAY FROM VERTEXES FOR FEAR OF RADIATION EXPOSURE

We crowd onto
the buses. Dominick sits near the window, giving me the aisle seat. It’s an automatic accommodation between us—like most of the decisions in our relationship. He knows that aisle seats make me feel more in control. Easier escape route. Rita calls us an old married couple because we are too easy together. She thinks peaceful is boring and that fighting would spice things up. She doesn’t understand. She comes from a religious family, not a military one like mine.

As soon as I sit, the whirling thoughts resume in my head.
Alien
invasion—
War of the Worlds
. Government conspiracy to hide the apocalypse from us.
At least with meds in my system, I shouldn’t lose it. Dominick has never seen me in full blown anxiety mode.

No one can take their eyes off the vertex and the hologram outside the bus windows. Like rubbernecking a car accident. As the bus leaves, I strain to capture one last glimpse. I remember Rita’s request and pull out my phone to take a picture. To show her. To show myself. Physical evidence that I’m not losing my mind
.

My phone has three missed calls on the screen: Dad, Mom, and Benji. Only Mom left a message. The call from Benji surprises me the most. We don’t usually talk. At least, not like that. Not since we were little.

“Benji called,” I say to Dominick.

Dominick checks his glasses for damage. “Call him back. Maybe he knows something.”

My older brother, Benjamin Lucas Jr., joined the military two years ago after he graduated from high school. Dad convinced him to follow in his footsteps since he served in the army during the Gulf War and appreciated every minute of it. Said it taught him how to be a man, how to serve his country, how to protect a nation. I think it taught him how to be strong, distant, and paranoid. Now that I think about it, Dad was probably all those things beforehand. Maybe the military heightens the personality traits that already exist in people. Benji joined the army, completed basic training, and has been on active duty, stationed in various overseas locations ever since. Last I knew, he was in Germany. He only calls my parents once a month, if that.

While I return Benji’s call, Dominick calls his mother. He lets out a silent sigh and slides his phone back into his pocket. She never answers him—even when he stays late at my house, even when technology from another planet announces the possible apocalypse. Since his father died last year, she spends long days working and longer nights mourning.

Benji’s phone rings once before going to voicemail. I almost leave him a message, but I’m not sure what to say. I’m not sure about anything right now.

Holograms have just descended and announced the end of the world. It has to be a scam.

Dominick’s leg shakes up and down, making me more nervous. I place my hand on his knee to stop him.

“Sorry,” he says. “The gunfire freaked me out.”

Growing up with a military dad and brother, gunfire doesn’t bother me. Dad used to bring me to the shooting range with him, believing every person should utilize their right to bear arms. Even me, his bookish daughter. He wants me to enroll in the military after graduation and use the G. I. Bill for college, but I want to go straight to college and major in prelaw. I can’t wait to get away from the testosterone in my house and be around strong women for a change.

I pat Dominick’s knee. Dad and Dominick have nothing in common except me. Maybe that’s why I like him. Dominick thinks my father thinks that he’s not man enough. What he doesn’t understand is that my dad has antiquated ideas of what being a man is.

From a distance, the vertex glows on the dark horizon. It carries with it so many unanswered questions. I pick at a piece of Blue My Mind nail polish, peeling a whole section off my nail. Mom always nags me that nails matter—first impressions and everything, sign of good grooming. I wonder if she’ll think they matter after this.

Dominick touches my elbow. “Alex, you’re bleeding. Are you okay?”

I examine the back of my arm. A quarter-sized wound mixed with specks of dirt marks where I hit the ground. A stream of maroon blood trickles to my wrist. My first battle scar with the aliens.

“It’s fine,” I say. “It doesn’t hurt.” I search through my purse for a tissue.

His eyes tell me he’s not convinced. He’s probably thinking that it’s his fault since he pushed me to the ground. He’s always worrying about me, trying to protect me. Sometimes I like it. Sometimes it makes me feel small.

I press a tissue against my elbow to stop the bleeding. After a minute of silence, I ask him, “Do you think it’s telling the truth?”

He deliberates longer than I expect. He runs both hands around the back of his neck and holds them there like a hammock for his thoughts.

“I think it’s too soon to decide. It said we have six months. It’s the beginning of August, so that would bring us to the end of January. That would mean,” he mentally calculates, “one hundred eighty-four days counting today.”

In another hour or so, one hundred eighty-three days.

“It could be lying,” he continues. “If there was really a comet capable of destroying the planet, we’d already know about it.”

“You think the government would tell us this soon?” I chip at another piece of polish.

“I don’t know. Maybe not. Depends if they thought they could do something about it. They wouldn’t want us to panic early.”

Panic: from Pan in Greek mythology, a satyr—half-goat, half-man—who was known to create irrational, sudden fear in people for fun. Something that happens to me when I feel trapped.

“What do you think happens now?” I ask.

Dominick looks at me, into me, like he’d really like to give me a clear answer because he knows that I overanalyze everything. He replies, “We wait.”

When the bus
pulls up to Beth Israel Deaconess Hospital instead of the train station where Dominick parked his car, passengers bombard the driver with questions.

“Just following orders,” he announces. “They want to check everyone for radiation exposure.”

“I don’t like this,” Dominick whispers to me. He hasn’t been back in a hospital since his father died. At the time we were only friends, but his father’s death bonded us together more than we ever expected. We spent every free moment texting and calling each other, and a few months ago he suddenly kissed me in my backyard. It’s not a good idea starting a relationship in the spring of junior year, but no one ever said love was convenient.

Outside the bus windows, the hospital parking lot brims with activity. Officials covered in white HAZMAT suits with hooded masks usher passengers off the buses ahead of us.

HAZMAT team. Oh shit, we’ve been poisoned by aliens.
I touch my head to check my temperature.

“I’m calling my dad,” I say to Dominick, almost as an apology. I take a deep breath and wait for the ring. Dad answers immediately.

“Alexandra, where are you?” he yells through the phone. I go back to picking at my nails.

“I’m fine. Just freaked out.” I let my breath leak out like deflating a balloon.

“We’ve been calling you. Did you hear the news? Or are you too busy screwing around with Nick to care about what’s happening in the world?”

I take another breath. “Dad, I’m at Beth Israel Deaconess Hospital in Milton. It’s crazy here. They want to run tests on us since we came close to one of those . . . things.”

“What the hell were you doing near one of them?”

“It was near the tracks. The train had to stop.”

He goes silent for a few seconds. “You have your medication with you?”

“Yes,” I mumble, turning away from Dominick. “But I’m still freaking out. They’re wearing HAZMAT gear.”

“I’m coming to get you.” He hangs up before I can argue. His words sounded strong. Clear. The events haven’t triggered him. Yet.

The HAZMAT team reaches our bus. I wonder if there are scientists or doctors underneath those suits. Or both.
Or neither.
They round us up, including the bus driver. I don’t think he saw that coming by the look in his eyes, like an innocent man being arrested for treason.

As we enter the hospital, one worker shouts, “Women to the right, men to the left. Children under twelve years old remain with a parent.”

I give Dominick a quick, hard kiss on the lips. For the first time in years, I can’t tell what he’s thinking—if he’s more concerned with leaving me or being alone himself. Those are two very different things, and the distinction makes all the difference in the world to me. One means he’s afraid that I can’t handle the situation. The other means he’s afraid.
And that my fear is justified.

As I am sorted according to my gender, my mind recalls horrific events in history when this happened.
The Holocaust. The Titanic. When do you know that an event is the beginning of what will become a tragic end? Is it only at the end?

The herd of women and some children quietly move down a tented hallway lined with plastic and brown butcher paper. A person in a HAZMAT suit approaches me with a clipboard. The only facial features visible through the front of the hood are a pair of cold blue eyes.

“Name?” a female voice asks. She clicks a pen with a gloved thumb.

Stay strong.
I clear my throat. “Alexandra Lucas.”

“Age?”

“Seventeen. Almost eighteen,” I add.

“Address? Phone number?”

Her bedside manner needs work. Maybe she is a scientist after all. Or a really bad doctor.

“Why are we here?” I ask.

The woman ignores me. “Address? Phone number?”

“I’m not going to answer your question until you answer mine.” My voice cracks. My dad taught me to know my rights. Respect leaders, but don’t be afraid to ask them tough questions. That’s how the world stays strong.

“She’s right,” another female passenger from the bus pipes in. A young boy, maybe three years old, clings to her leg. “Why are we here?”

The blue eyes behind the hooded plastic stare through me. I stare back. I am my father’s daughter. I can be a real pain in the ass when it’s necessary, even if my heartbeat dulls my hearing the whole time, even if I need a pill to help calm down later.

“This is for national security. The protection of the country.” She points the tip of the pen at the clipboard and addresses everyone in earshot. “You were all exposed to something that we don’t understand yet. For all we know, those things reek of radiation or something worse. We need to run some tests before allowing you to mingle back in with the public. Don’t want to end up with an epidemic on our hands. Do you understand?”

We nod. I tell her my address and phone number. The female passenger who spoke earlier hugs her child and then holds the back of her wrist to his forehead to check his temperature. I look down and examine the exposed skin on my arms and legs. The wound on my elbow glows redder and angrier under the hospital lights. The rest of my skin still looks the same: golden, freckled in some spots.
Could be skin cancer. Especially if I’ve been exposed to some cosmic radiation. Has to be worse than the sun’s radiation, right?
Wonder how fast you die.

“All standard protocol,” she adds. “There’s no need for alarm.”

“Yet,” I say.

The breathing mask blocks her mouth, but the corners of her blue eyes wrinkle as if she smirked. Makes me wonder if she’d be happier finding nothing wrong with us or finding something dreadful. It doesn’t reassure me.

She explains the next procedure: we must remove all clothing and shoes. Even bras and underwear.

With all these people watching? What if someone takes a picture and texts it to everyone?

“I’m under age. You need my parent or guardian’s permission before subjecting me to medical treatment, never mind asking me to remove my clothes in public. I could sue you.”

I hope I sounded like I meant it. Bravery doesn’t always strike at the right time. Sometimes it’s an afterthought. Sometimes it’s medically induced once my pill works.

“We will be calling any parents or guardians momentarily. However, due to the nature of radiation, the longer you are exposed, the more you and those around you are at risk. Decontamination cannot wait for consent. We have provided curtained areas for privacy. As for suing us, young lady, go right ahead. Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice.”

The hard way. Police holding me down.
Taser.
Needles. Straitjacket.
I beg my cheeks and ears not to turn red.

“Good choice. Let’s move.”

I watch the process ahead of me. Clothes are being bagged and tagged, personal items confiscated. My phone and purse will be taken and locked up somewhere. I feel withdrawals from my pills already, but that can’t be right. My medication usually lasts in my system for eight hours. Well, on a good day.

As much as I hate to admit it, I wish Dad were here already. He’d never let this happen to me.

For the concert with Dominick today, I wore my favorite summer dress, a brown sundress with a tiny yellow, white, and red floral pattern, paired with red bangle bracelets and strappy sandals. In a curtained area I unbuckle my sandals and remove the bracelets.
Run out of the building. Get out
while you still can
. Instead, I slip off the straps of my dress and let it fall to the floor. Unhook my bra, pull down panties. Naked, I pass my belongings outside the curtain for bagging. I want to cry over the loss of my clothes. It’s like they’ve died and been placed in a body bag.

“Will I get my clothes back?” I ask from behind the curtain. No one responds.

One at a time, we must move to the shower area. When it’s my turn, a HAZMAT worker gives instructions from outside the curtain. “You must scrub using the special disinfectant soap. Make sure to do your entire body. Even your hair.”

The lukewarm water hits my body like spittle. The soap smells like chemicals used to scrub a toilet, not a person. The wound on my elbow screams when the soap hits it.
What if the soap travels through my bloodstream? What if it’s toxic?
When I rub it into my hair, my curls mat into a sticky, knotted nest. As I rinse, a dry film covers every pore of my skin, every strand on my head. It won’t rinse off.
Get it off me! Get it off me!
I scrub and scrub and scrub without breathing until my skin turns a livid pink.