SYLO (THE SYLO CHRONICLES) (11 page)

He strode toward the door but suddenly stopped before going outside. He stood staring at the door as if not sure he should go out.

It wasn’t hard to guess why.

Quinn said, “You don’t quarantine an entire island unless there’s some threat of this thing spreading.”

“Seriously,” I agreed. “The rest of the world is protected, but what about us?”

“I don’t think we have to worry,” Dad said. “You heard what the president said. Very few people are genetically susceptible.”

“So how do we know if we’re genetically susceptible or not?” Quinn asked.

Dad gave Mom a dark look, took a deep breath, and said, “If we are, then it’s probably too late already.”

“Not comforting,” Quinn said gravely.

“But it’s a long shot, right?” I said hopefully. “I mean, odds are against us getting this thing.”

“That’s what it sounds like,” Mom said.

Quinn shook his head. “It won’t matter. People are going to panic. This doesn’t add up. We’ve gotta—”

The TV flickered back to life. What appeared was an image of the front entrance to the Arbortown town hall. On the steps were two SYLO soldiers, standing at attention. In front of them, closer to the camera, was another soldier in fatigues who wasn’t wearing a beret. He had steel-gray hair that was cut short, military style, and
he stared right into the camera with such intensity that it was hard to look away. It was as if he was looking right at me. I wondered if everybody else thought the same thing.

“Good afternoon, Pemberwick Island,” the man said with tight precision. “My name is Captain Benjamin Granger. I am the commanding officer of the SYLO division of the United States Navy. I trust that you have all seen President Neff’s address, so you understand the circumstances that brought about this intrusion.”

“Intrusion?” Quinn said. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”

“Yeah,” I added. “A minimally invasive invasion.”

“It is my mission,” Granger continued, “to ensure the safety and well-being of each and every person on Pemberwick Island. I am also charged with securing the island so that during the quarantine period, no individual will leave and no individual will arrive. There will be no exceptions, other than my SYLO team and the scientists from the CDC who will soon arrive to begin the process of identifying and eradicating the threat.”

Granger didn’t waste words. He was a serious, no-nonsense soldier.

“As the president stated, we ask that you go about your business as usual. There should be little or no disruption to your lives.”

“Who is he kidding?” I complained. “I’m feeling pretty disrupted right about now.”

Granger continued, “I ask that you give your full cooperation to the team from the CDC, as well as to the men and women of SYLO who selflessly volunteered for this mission. They are here to help you.”

“Help us what?” Quinn asked. “Not leave?”

“I cannot stress enough,” Granger said, “that this quarantine is absolute. Do not attempt to leave the island. The SYLO team has been instructed to ensure that there is full compliance. That is our mission and we will not fail.”

Quinn shot me a grave look and said, “Is it me, or was that a threat?”

“I will offer periodic updates on the state of the quarantine,” Granger announced. “Our goal is to complete this mission as quickly and painlessly as possible. In large part, that will be up to you. Good luck. Granger out.”

The screen went black and we were once again left staring at static.

“Wow,” I said sarcastically. “What a warm guy.”

“Seriously,” Quinn added. “Why didn’t he just say: ‘Try to leave the island and I’ll fire more tear gas up your—’”

“Quinlan!” Mom admonished.

“Sorry,” Quinn mumbled.

“Look,” Dad said. “We don’t have a whole lot of choices here. Let’s just keep our heads down and ride this out.”

“But how are we supposed to be normal?” I asked. “There’s a virus out there that’s—”

“Potential virus,” Dad corrected.

“Okay, there’s a
potential
virus out there that’s
potentially
killing people,” I shot back. “Forget leaving the island. Nobody’s going to leave their
house
.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Quinn said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“The soldiers,” he replied. “They’re not wearing gas masks or
hazmat suits. They knew what they were getting into and none of them took any precautions.”

“There you go,” Dad exclaimed. “That proves the threat is pretty slight. The best thing we can do is what the president said. Be patient and act normal.”

“There’s another thing,” Quinn added.

“What’s that?” Mom asked.

“I don’t care what Neff said, there haven’t been a whole lot of deaths. I would have known. Mom and Dad would have said something. Heck, we
all
would have known. You can’t fart on Pemberwick without people knowing about it.”

“So then what’s the point of the quarantine?” I asked.

Quinn shrugged and said, “I don’t know, but I’ll bet you a nickel there’s more to this story than we’re being told.”

We all shared looks, then Quinn took a quick breath and went for the door. This time he opened it. He leaned out and took a deep, exaggerated breath.

I couldn’t help but wince, as if the action might increase his chances of dropping dead on the spot.

“I don’t smell any killer virus,” he announced. “Later!”

He bounded out of the door, jumped off the porch, and jogged off.

“What do you think, Tucker?” Mom asked cautiously, as if she were afraid of what my reaction might be.

“I don’t know. I guess we just have to ride this out.”

It seemed as though my answer allowed Mom to relax.

“It’s the only thing we can do,” Dad said, agreeing.

He sounded relieved. I wasn’t sure why my reaction made them feel any better, but whatever.

Mom gave me a big hug. “We’ll get through this,” she said, though it sounded as though she was trying to convince herself.

“I’m going to lie down for a while,” I said. “I’m still pretty sore from the game.”

“Take a nap,” Mom said. “We’ll have an early dinner.”

I nodded and went for the stairs. My legs suddenly felt heavy. I needed some downtime. I started climbing the stairs and glanced back at my parents.

They hadn’t moved except that Dad was giving Mom a hug as if to reassure her that everything would be okay. I realized that they were putting up a good front so I wouldn’t be scared, but they were plenty worried. I was about to continue on when I saw that Mom was crying. She was definitely a whole lot more upset than she was letting on. I started moving again, not wanting to intrude on the private moment. Their reactions made perfect sense, until I heard Mom softly say something that was intended for Dad’s ears only.

“This is it,” she said.

“Sure seems that way,” Dad replied soberly.

I wanted to ask what he meant, but I had already heard more than I wanted to. Besides, they were my parents. They were always looking out for me. If there was something I should know, they would tell me.

So I kept my mouth shut and ran up the stairs.

A
rbortown had become a ghost town.

At Dad’s insistence, he and I went out the next morning to Schatz’s Bakery to get bagels and try to pretend like all was normal, but one look at Main Street proved that it was anything but. The day before, the town had been packed with people enjoying the Lobster Pot Festival. Now, only a few brave souls hurried along the sidewalk while keeping close to the storefronts, as if they might offer some protection against…what? Some people even wore surgical masks. Abandoned festival booths lined the street. Paper napkins blew past overflowing garbage cans. The festive bunting and smiling-lobster banners swung lazily in the offshore breeze as cruel reminders of a happier time. Yesterday.

“Everybody must be hiding under their beds,” I observed.

“That can’t last,” Dad said. “Life has to go on.”

Every so often we’d see a pair of SYLO soldiers strolling together. They weren’t walking with obvious purpose, but it definitely felt as if they were on some sort of patrol. Still, they each made a point of smiling and offering a friendly “Good morning.”

“They aren’t wearing any protection,” Dad pointed out. “That’s gotta mean we aren’t in any real danger.”

“Or maybe they’ve already been given some kind of vaccination,” I offered.

That made Dad pause, but he shook it off. “No. If that were the case, why not just come out and give it to everybody? I’m thinking there’s no real threat.”

“Really?” I said skeptically. “That looks pretty threatening to me.”

I pointed out to the water where a Navy warship stood guard over the harbor like a silent, shadowy specter—with big guns.

“Whatever’s going on,” Dad said, “I’m sure we’ll be told everything real soon.”

Something (besides everything) had been bugging me all night. I needed to talk about it with somebody. Dad was the logical choice.

“Do you think there’s a connection?” I asked. “I mean between the quarantine and what Quinn and I saw the other night? You know, the explosion?”

Dad stopped walking, as if my words had struck a nerve. He gave me such a grave look that I expected him to blurt out, “You’re right! I hadn’t thought of that!”

He didn’t.

“What makes you think that?” he asked cautiously.

“I don’t know. You’re the one who thought it might have been a military exercise. It seems like a pretty big coincidence that a dramatic military event happens right before we get dramatically invaded by the military.”

“We weren’t invaded,” Dad corrected.

“Whatever.”

Dad looked out to the water and the warship that was anchored at the mouth of the harbor.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I guess anything’s possible. But like I said, I think we’ll find out sooner rather than later.”

I had to agree. There was no way an entire island of people could be cut off from the rest of the world and kept in the dark for very long.

We continued on to Schatz’s Bakery only to discover it was closed. No big surprise. None of the other businesses on Main Street had opened either.

“It can’t last,” Dad said with conviction. “It’s Sunday. By tomorrow things will start getting back to normal.”

We spent the rest of the day at home. Cable was back. So was phone service. We stayed glued to the TV, watching for any news on the quarantine and talking to friends and family who lived on the mainland. The phone never stopped ringing. We had become national and probably international news. Friends from Connecticut called, wanting to know what was going on, but we didn’t have any more information than they did. I kept expecting—or hoping—that President Neff would break into regularly scheduled programming to announce that all was clear. I wouldn’t have minded if he did it during the Pats–Jets game since the Jets were kicking the Pats’ butts up and down the field. But there was no such announcement.

In the afternoon Dad and I took another walk down to the harbor, where we found an entirely different scene from what was there
in the morning. There was an amazing amount of activity going on. Transports were arriving and dumping off tons of equipment. As each ship emptied out, it would then shove off and quickly be replaced by another. More troops were arriving too. Helicopters flew overhead, dangling wooden pallets holding large, heavy crates. The president said that SYLO would be setting up somewhere on the island. I had to believe that these choppers were making round trips to deliver equipment to their temporary base, wherever that was.

In just a few short hours, Arbortown had gone from a ghost town to a hub of military activity. The SYLO soldiers controlled the streets (and the water and the air) while the islanders kept to the sidewalks, watching in stunned wonder as their quiet little island was overrun.

“That’s a lot of gear,” I said. “Looks like they’re planning on staying a while.”

Another troop transport arrived, but instead of soldiers, these boats carried a load of people in civilian clothes pulling rolling suitcases. It was a mix of men and women who could easily have been mistaken for tourists.

“CDC,” Dad said. “The cavalry has arrived.”

“They’re not wearing protection either,” I said.

“See?” Dad declared brightly. “If anybody should know if there’s a danger, it’s them.”

Waiting for them was Captain Granger. The guy was tall and thin, towering over most of the other SYLO soldiers who were part of the reception committee. He definitely carried himself like a soldier, with straight posture that made it look as though he had a pole stuck up his back. Or somewhere else.

Granger didn’t welcome the newcomers or shake hands or salute or anything. He just stood there, quietly observing. A few of the arriving scientists gave him a nod as they passed him but Granger didn’t return the acknowledgement. He stood with his arms folded, staring at them with his steely eyes as if sizing them up.

A stream of black Humvees (when had they arrived on the island?) pulled up to the wharf. The scientists moved quickly up the ramp, handed their bags over to a few waiting SYLO soldiers, and jumped into the vehicles. The soldiers loaded the bags into the backs of the big cars and seconds later they roared off.

Granger never said a word. He stood observing the process until the last Humvee had driven off, after which a military Jeep screamed up to him. He got in the passenger seat, and the Jeep took off after the line of Humvees. The whole process took only a few minutes.

It was a disturbing scene. I’m not sure if that was because it had to happen at all, or because of the intensity of the moment. You could feel it in the body language of the arrivals, and definitely with Captain Granger.

In a word, it was tense.

“Those guys mean business,” was my comment.

“Yeah, well, they didn’t come for the chowder,” Dad replied.

On the way home we walked past the Blackbird Inn. It was Dad’s biggest client and he wanted to get a heads up on any work that needed to be done. We were about to turn off the street onto the pathway that led to the house, but I stopped him.