A: In any time crisis there will be rumors that defy easy debunking but you have to assume that if something sounds too good to be true it probably is. There is no vaccine. If someone tries to sell you vaccine, report them to the authorities immediately.
Q: My mother/brother/sister/lawyer was in California, in one of the relocation camps, on 4/8, the day they announced CA was overrun. How long will it be before we get some news out of the camps?
A: At the present time, we just don't know. Every effort is being made to resecure California but for now all we can do is wait and pray.
[FEMA 'Straight Facts about the Epidemic' website FAQ, posted 4/8/05]
'They were civilians. You can't just pop American civilians in the head' it's effed up. He was saying before it was just a disease. That there might be a cure.'
'Yeah, officers say a lot of things. You get used to it.'
Bannerman Clark opened his eyes and saw his uniform socks. He saw the place where he had darned a hole in the left one, saw the angular shape of his large toe beneath the thin fabric, like something carved out of soft wood. Someone had removed his shoes.
He sat up and saw them placed neatly by the side of his cot, lined up so that he could just step into them. They'd been polished and relaced.
'Some of them were kids! A lot' a lot of them were kids. They're asking too much of us. First the draw-down, then stop-loss and mid-tour extensions and no freedom leave, and, and' what happens now? Do we stay here and pull CQ duty forever? Do we live here, in a prison, when everybody else is dead?'
'You have someplace else to go?'
Soldiers outside his door, trading gossip. As they had for the last hundred thousand years, since war was invented. Clark didn't worry too much about their bitching. He'd had a staff sergeant in Vietnam, back when he looked to staff sergeants for his orders, who had smiled and showed a full set of very white teeth every time he heard a troop complain about conditions on the firebase or about the jungle patrols or how hard it had rained the night before. 'A soldier with time to bitch,' he had told Clark, 'is a happy soldier. It's when they don't talk at all you have to keep one eye on the back of your shirt.'
Sergeant Willoughby, that had been the man's name. If he had a first name he'd never shared it with the likes of Clark.
He pushed his narrow feet into the shoes and tied them tight, his breath constricted in his chest as he doubled over. That was just age. Standing up carefully to avoid a head rush he looked around for his cover. The boonie hat was gone'his peaked uniform cover was back. A message from Sergeant Horrocks. Trigger time was over'the new duty was garrison duty, which meant proper uniforms and a more rigid chain of command. The elegance of the message appealed to Clark. A good platoon sergeant must be half Mussolini and half Martha Stewart and Horrocks was a very good platoon sergeant.
'They say troops are AWOL all over the Midwest. Going back for their families. Can you believe that? I thought about it in Iraq, I think everybody did'we used to talk about it after lights-out, made plans for it even. Nobody ever did it. You would have got shot.'
'You still will, don't kid yourself. Keep your nose clean, keep your ass dry, keep your head down. You saw the bodies they pulled out of that trailer. Man, don't talk to me about that shit. Don't even look at me while you're thinking it.'
Desertion? Had it come to that? Vikram would have more information. He buttoned up his uniform top and donned his cover. Time to get back to work. He felt strangely good, at least healthy'maybe all he'd really needed was a nap. He should feel shell-shocked, he thought. He should be wracked with guilt. He had just shot one of his own soldiers, and even if she was dead she had been'
Dead.