“We’re going down,” Dr. Lawrence said with a smile.
As they headed down the steps, Ben said, “Where are you taking me?”
“Processing,” she said. “We need to get information about you, where you came from, what you were doing before the outbreak, that kind of thing.”
“Oh,” he said. That made sense.
“Tell me,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Ben. Ben Bowerman.”
“Nice to meet you, Ben.” She offered him her hand.
As he grabbed it, he realized she was wearing a latex glove. He looked down at it, then at her, confused.
“Just a precaution,” she told him.
“Do I look like I have the flu?”
“It’s not the flu that concerns us.” She paused. “Of course the flu would concern us, but we’ve all been vaccinated, so if you had it, we wouldn’t get it. There are, unfortunately, other things out there.”
At the bottom of the stairs, they entered another concrete hallway, only this corridor was considerably smaller.
“Are you feeling at all ill?” Dr. Lawrence asked him.
“No. I feel fine.”
She smiled. “Excellent. You’re one of the lucky ones, then.”
“Well, I—” Before he could share his theory that he’d become immune to the Sage Flu, Dr. Rivera stopped at another door.
“Here we are,” the man said as he pulled it open.
The area beyond had obviously once been used for business. There were several cubicles in the main area, with doors to other offices lining the back wall. Most of the cubicles were occupied, and Ben could see someone in at least two of the offices.
The doctors led him to a windowless room at the far left side. It had been set up like an examination room, complete with scale, exam table, jar of tongue depressors, and several pieces of medical equipment Ben couldn’t identify.
“On the table, please,” Dr. Lawrence said.
“I told you, I’m feeling fine,” Ben said.
“I’m sure you are,” Dr. Rivera said. “But I’m equally sure you can understand our need to check.”
While Ben did understand it, he felt uncomfortable about it.
The sooner you get through this, the sooner you can find Martina, he told himself.
He sat down on the table.
They checked his pulse, his blood pressure, his temperature, his throat, his ear, and his nose. Dr. Lawrence probed the glands along his neck and in his armpits, while Dr. Rivera looked into his eyes. They even had him strip down so they could scan what seemed like every inch of his skin.
And the whole time they asked him questions.
Where are you from?
San Mateo.
Why didn’t you go to the survival station in the Bay Area?
I was looking for my girlfriend.
Where is she from?
The desert. North of here.
So you didn’t come straight here?
No. I went to her home first. When she wasn’t there, I assumed she came here.
How old are you?
Turned twenty-one last month.
How many sick have you been around?
My parents. My sisters.
How many sisters?
Two.
Is any of them still alive?
No.
What was your job prior to the pandemic?
I didn’t have a job. I was going to school.
Where?
Santa Cruz.
What were you studying?
Anthropology.
How did you find out about the survival station?
The message on TV. From the secretary general.
When was the last time you saw the message?
I don’t know. A week ago?
You haven’t watched TV since then?
No. Should I have?
Why do you think you’re still alive?
I think I’m immune.
Ben immediately regretted saying it.
Both doctors stopped what they were doing and looked at him.
“Why would you think that?” Dr. Rivera asked.
As the interrogation progressed, Ben’s uneasiness had increased considerably. Now, with both doctors staring at him, he felt almost scared.
Something wasn’t right.
“I, um, just assumed I was,” he said. “I mean, I took care of my family when they were sick. I fed them and cleaned them up. Sometimes they coughed on me. But…but I’m still here.”
All of that was true, but it wasn’t the reason he knew he was immune. That, he decided, he’d wait to tell them after he felt more comfortable with his surroundings.
While Dr. Lawrence smiled and said, “Of course, that’s only natural,” Dr. Rivera continued to look at Ben as if he were expecting more.
After a few seconds, Ben said what he thought someone in his position would say, “Makes sense, though, right? Why else wouldn’t I be sick?”
Dr. Rivera finally looked away. “There could be many reasons,” the man said. “It could be that you have a tolerance for the disease. But I would caution you on believing that you are immune.”
“But that doesn’t really matter anymore, right?” Ben said.
“What do you mean?” Rivera asked.
“The vaccination. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Once I have that, I will be immune.”
There was an almost imperceptible hesitation before Dr. Lawrence said, “Right. Exactly.”
Her pause had been long enough to send Ben’s concerns rocketing skyward.
“So, do I get that now?” he asked.
“The procedure is a waiting period of two days before you are given the inoculation,” she said.
“Waiting period?”
“Everyone has to go through this,” she said, her tone reassuring. “We need to make sure you aren’t sick.”
“I told you, I’m not.”
“Just because you aren’t showing the signs,” Dr. Rivera said, “doesn’t mean it’s not gestating in your system.”
“But it looks like you’re right,” Dr. Lawrence said, continuing to play the good guy. “The waiting period merely gives us time for some observation and to run some tests on your blood. After that, when we know everything is fine, as I’m sure we will, you’ll receive the vaccine.”
“So what am I supposed to do until then?”
“We have an area set up here where you will wait. You’ll have a bed, warm food, entertainment if you’d like. Two days will be over before you realize it.”
The examination went on for another ten minutes, but the questioning seemed to be done. After they finished, Ben was turned over to the two guards who had accompanied the doctors earlier. They escorted him through the interior of the stadium, then down a corridor glowing with sunlight from the far end.
As they exited the corridor, Ben saw they had come out into one of the dugouts inside the stadium. The dugout was two tiered. The tier the tunnel opened onto was the lower one and covered by the dugout roof. The second tier was more a series of steps and a few flat areas right up against the railing that lined the ball field.
Beyond the field, he could see grandstands full of empty seats rising high into the sky, but it was the field itself that held his attention. Where before there had been base paths and chalk lines and grass and a pitcher’s mound, there now were fences and posts and razor wire, all strung together to form enclosures. He couldn’t tell how many, but definitely more than one.
“What is this?” he asked the guards as they guided him up the stairs to the field.
“Holding areas,” one of them said. “Keeps you isolated and safe from exposure. Only a precaution.”
The words would have been more comforting if they hadn’t sounded so rote.
When he was standing at field level, he could see two enclosures. The nearest ran from about midway between what had been home plate and third base — where it was narrowest — out a good hundred feet into left field, where it widened to about another hundred feet. A giant triangle. The second enclosure was similar, the only difference being it ran up the first-base side.