PODs (3 page)

Whatever I thought I’d see, it was definitely not what I saw—which was nothing. Absolutely nothing was broadcast. The selection was done behind closed doors. No cameras or reporters were allowed inside. The newscaster seemed just as surprised as we were and scrambled to fill time. He recapped the events leading up to the raffle, told us in mind-numbing detail everything we already knew. What he didn’t tell us was the one thing we needed to know, but feared knowing at the same time—who was going to live and who was going to die.

Twenty minutes after seven the newscaster announced that the selection process had ended and the phone calls had begun. My heart was in my stomach as I waited to hear our phone ring. I was hopeful we’d be picked. My mom was a cardiac nurse and my dad a college professor; surely they’d be needed for rebuilding the country.

But the raffle is random. My parents’ professions won’t earn spaces in a POD
.

An hour went by and our phones sat silent. My hope was waning. I paced the living room floor, staring at the black house phone—one minute begging it to ring, the next cursing it. I checked that my cell phone wasn’t on silent—four times. My heart was beating so hard it hurt. My shirt stuck to my sweaty back, and wisps of hair stuck to my face.

The phone is gonna ring, it has to. We still have a chance. It’ll take a long time to phone fifty thousand people
.

I thought of a hundred possible reasons our phones hadn’t rung, trying to reassure myself.

Two hours. My hope was gone. I knew the chances of our phone ringing had been slim to begin with, but as time ticked by so did our shots at places in the PODs. Despite the warm room, goosebumps covered my skin and my teeth chattered. The back of my throat burned as my stomach bile rose.

I grabbed my backpack off the floor behind the couch and pulled out one of my books, even though doing homework wasn’t necessary. Either I was going to the PODs or I was going to die. Whichever it was, chemistry homework should have been the farthest thing from my mind, but I needed something, anything to distract me. I flopped back onto the couch and pulled a neon yellow highlighter across a passage in my notes, the tip squeaking against the page. My frayed nerves snapped.

“Can we please turn him off?” I yelled, slamming my book closed. “He’s been blathering on all night long. He just says the same thing over and over and over. Please, shut it off.”

My mom looked at me. I thought she was going to yell at me for being disrespectful by shouting. Instead she smiled sadly and nodded. “I’d rather read than listen to him, anyway.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“And I’ve got papers to grade,” my dad said. I guess he hadn’t thought about the absurdity of grading papers any more than I had about doing homework.

Two hours, thirty-seven minutes.

My phone rang.

M
y mother bolted off the couch. My dad, who was coming back from the kitchen, stood with his hand poised over the flip top on a Coke can. I looked up from my chemistry homework, my pen dangling from my fingers. The three of us just stared at my cell phone. It rang twice. On the third ring I grabbed it.

“Hello?” My voice shook. My rational side told me not to get my hopes up. It was probably Bridget. But the side of me that still had hope said maybe, just maybe, it was them. We had a spot.

“Evangelina Mae Evans?”

“Y—yes. I’m Evangelina.” I saw my mom grab Dad’s arm. My dad dropped his Coke can. It hit the floor with a thud, fizz spraying out of the partially opened top. He absently patted my mom’s hand. They both stared at me while the pale-brown foam sprayed across the living room.

“Your social security number was selected.”

I was surprised at how calm I was. Maybe the brusque manner of the man on the phone helped me keep my cool. Maybe it was shock.

“Do you have a pen and paper?”

“yes.”

“Write this down. You’ll report to Glendale High School in Glendale, Texas on Wednesday, the twenty-seventh, at eight AM sharp. You’ll leave for your quarantine period at that time. Bring your birth certificate, your social security card, and your belongings. Each occupant is allowed two suitcases—no more. Do you have any questions?”

“Yes,” I said. “My family? They—”

“The social security number selected was yours. If anyone else in your family was chosen they will receive a phone call.”

“Just me?”

“Yes. Any other questions?”

“No.” My voice cracked and a lump formed in my throat.

“Goodbye.” I heard the receiver click and the line go dead. I stood motionless, the phone still at my ear.

It wasn’t until I heard my mother’s quiet sobs that I put the phone down and looked at her and my father.

“You were picked?” my dad whispered.

“Yeah, but—”

“But nothing, Eva. You were picked!”

“But I can’t… I can’t…” I started to cry as the reality of what was happening hit me. I’d have to leave my parents. How could I be happy I had been chosen when they hadn’t been?

I can’t leave them to die
.

“It’s okay, Eva,” my mom murmured, hugging me. She smoothed my hair while I cried against her shoulder. “We know you’d take us if you could; we know. But you have to understand, as parents we’re overjoyed that our child was chosen. We’ll be happy knowing you’ll have a chance at a full life. Don’t cry, Evangelina. This is wonderful news.”

No, no, no, this isn’t good news at all. How can I leave them knowing
…

Friday

I only had two weeks to get ready before I left for quarantine. My mom insisted on a shopping spree. “Eva, you need a new wardrobe. You’ll be down there a year, maybe more. You’ll need clothes that will last.”

“Somehow, I don’t think we’ll be having fashion shows down there, Mom. You don’t need to buy me anything.” Besides, going to the mall—or to any public place—was disturbing. Many people wore white surgical masks and latex gloves, and everyone avoided getting to close to other people. Not that there were many people to get close to—the place was nearly deserted, and several of the mall stores had their metal barriers down, their interiors dark. We still hadn’t had any reported cases around Sandy Shores, but we knew it was only a matter of time.

“You never know,” she said with a flick of her hand. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Yeah? Name one,” I said.

“I married your dad, didn’t I?”

I burst out laughing.

“How about this?” My mom held up a purple hoodie with a cute design on the front. I loved it, but the logo told me that it was way out of our price range, especially for a hoodie.

“No, Mom, that’s too much.”

“Eva, it might be cold down there. You’ll need some warm clothes.”

“But it’s too expensive—”

“I want you to have it. Humor me, okay?”

By the time I was done
humoring
my mother, she had bought out the mall. Jeans, t-shirts, sweat pants, hoodies, underclothes, shoes… was there anything left? She’d bought me over two dozen outfits, including clothing for both warm and cool weather. So, no matter what the temperature, I had something to wear. I wasn’t sure I could fit everything in the two-suitcase limit.

When we got home my dad met us at the door. “Here, Eva, take these with you.” He thrust two flashlights into my hands, with two large bags of batteries. “I hope there are enough batteries to last you the year. I got you one of these, too.” He held up a metal case with a lock. It was big enough to fit my batteries, and whatever else I wanted to protect. “Hard telling what type of people you’ll be around.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, tears clogging my throat—again.

I’m crying over flippin’ batteries. Probably the last packages of batteries my dad will ever buy me
.

Memories of Christmas mornings and birthday parties flashed through my mind. My dad was always on battery patrol, making sure anything that needed them had batteries. Now a flashlight would be the end. The realization that there’d be no new memories to share made the tears fall faster and an ache form deep in my chest.

That night the news showed the first wave of raffle winners leaving for their quarantine period. The newscaster babbled on and on about what was happening and what the raffle winners could expect when they arrived at the quarantine facility.

“I wonder if they’re scared,” I whispered.

My dad squeezed my shoulder. “I suppose they are.”

“I’m not.”

“No?” He angled his body on the couch to look at me.

“No. I’m sad. I’m just sad. Maybe I’ll be scared when I have to leave.”

I jumped when the newscast was interrupted. A man ran into the newsroom screaming, “The government did it! They caused Armageddon! It’s their fault! AIDS, Ebola, and now the virus. They made them all.”

“Security!” a man off-camera yelled. “Get him outta here.”

Dressed in tattered, dirt-smeared clothing, the man ran to the camera, his unshaven face dirty and his thinning gray hair hanging in greasy strings. Grabbing the camera with both hands, he shook it back and forth. “The raffle was fixed. It was fixed! We didn’t have a chance. Only the young ones. Only the young ones!” he screamed as security pulled him out of the room. “Save the books!” he yelled as the door closed.

“Well,” the newscaster said, shuffling his papers. “I wonder what drug he was on,” he joked. No one thought it was funny. We were too busy watching the little box over the reporter’s right shoulder. It still played live footage of people climbing into the buses that would transport them to the quarantine facility.

Where are the older people? Where are the mothers, the fathers? Everyone is my age. Did anyone any older even have a chance?
“The raffle was fixed… only the young ones,”
the lunatic had screamed. Maybe he wasn’t as crazy as he’d looked
.