The reality of the situation was that there was no way to save everyone. We were looking at the worst case scenario. Three Mile Island on steroids. Though the national guard had been deployed and there were still local authorities holding on in key points, we either had to retreat or risk losing everything. Our commanders on the ground were swamped with refugees within the first week. Hundreds, if not thousands clogging vital roads in and out of pockets of resistance. To top that off, we were getting reports that not only were the refugees getting sick, but our own troops were catching what they had. There were no protocols for exoplague at the time. The numbers that I was getting estimated at least fifteen thousand dead already, between our active personnel and civilians, and that was still lowballing it.
Everything North of Las Vegas was, in effect, lost for all we knew. We didn't have enough equipment on hand for aerial recon, and even if we did, most garrisons were down to enlisting local militias when they suffered casualties. Overseas dependencies were still en route for reinforcements. At the rate things were going, most of the Southwest was going to be affected by the time we got reinforcements from Syria and the Pacific. Reinforcements from abroad were just as slow to mobilize; the best we could find were Canadian JTF that hadn't been deployed yet. On the front, they only lasted a week. The Zone, as we started calling it, was chewing up men and materiel faster than we could supply it.
Three days after the last holdouts in Las Vegas ceased contact, we found out that a "tactical" nuclear strike had been approved.
You've probably seen nuclear test footage at some point in your life. Maybe you've actually seen the photos from Hiroshima and Nagasaki. These are bonafide doomsday weapons. The sword of daedalus. Weapons with the kind of power that made the worst bombing raids of the second World War look like fireworks. The weapons we had then were twice as powerful as the ones we had in the 1940s.
The strike hit dead center, right in the middle of the phenomena.
It didn't even make a dent.Containment: Three Years with the Zone by Sergeant Major Harland Adam (ret)
It was unnaturally cold for a June morning in Nevada. Outside the window of his tram, Richard could see the blasted remnants of what had once been the Vegas outskirts. Where there had previously been small neighborhoods and shopping centers, now there were ruins. Blast pits from mortars peppered the landscapes like the fields of Verdun. The wind swept across the ruins, bringing with it a pale howl and the stench of burning remains. His head planted against the window, he could see the hundreds of ant-like forms working diligently out there, hurling bodies into empty shell craters filled with fire. Soon, the concrete of the security fence obscured his view of the world beyond, and a woman's voice chimed in over a loudspeaker above.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We will be arriving in District Five momentarily."
Richard's attention drew to the front of the monorail, where a woman in army fatigues began rattling off rules and regulations. Tired faces sat all cramped around Richard; men, women, children. Some were even dressed quite well, given the circumstances. A man in a fitted business suit shifted uneasily further up the front, clearly aware of the envious eyes in his back. Dick sat alone, clutching a duffle bag close to his chest. The woman at the front went on.
"District Five is the innermost reclaimed area of the containment zone, currently located in former Boulder City. While much of Las Vegas itself has been cleared of anomalous activity, new citizens should be aware that it is a felony offense to attempt to enter the city without a permit. Some of you may be surprised, but District Five now has access to electricity, running water, and air conditioning. Ration credits will be distributed on arrival. If you look to your right, you'll be able to see the District itself."
He did so, and couldn't help but be impressed. At least a mile of apartment complexes, interspersed with small military checkpoints. Before the Zone, Boulder City had been dominated by cheap hotels. Now those same hotels were either demolished or refurbished into new housing complexes. As the tram hurtled alongside the old highway 95, he caught glimpses of marketplaces and makeshift playgrounds. Yet for every happy family he could see, there was always the military, seemingly omnipresent. Humvees patrolled the streets of the district, many painted with the logo of the Department of Anomalous Affairs.
The monorail slowed to a crawl, finally ending at a small station near the entrance of the District. Slowly, but steadily, the cars began to empty out into the processing facility, Richard following along closely.
Harsh electric lighting burned his eyes as he was pushed along with the crowd. The sounds of densely packed humanity filled the halls of the facility as the people were ushered along to be checked, numbered and sent off. Richard was just barely tall enough to see over the crowd, and watched with fascination at the mechanical efficiency of the workers. Stalls sat ahead, staffed by men and women in scrubs and masks, further backed by yet more soldiers. One by one, each new admission was taken aside, the curtain drawn for a few moments, then they were sent on their way. Dick had barely taken his eyes off the stalls when he heard a woman shrieking.
"He's not sick! He's not sick! Just-just let me-"
An older woman, late forties maybe, was trying to wrench a child away from the staff. The child couldn't be more than ten. Both looked like they'd just come straight from a soup kitchen, clad in tattered, layered clothes. The nurse had the kid by the arm.
"Ma'am," he said. "It's just a standard physical exam. We need to check for-"
He barely had time to finish before the woman dropped her grip on the kid and clocked him across the jaw. The nurse tumbled backwards into one of the guards, knocking them both over. In seconds, more guards had arrived. The unmistakable iconography of the DAA logo was patched on their shoulders. They were on the woman within a heartbeat, cuffing her and dragging her back through the processing stalls. Another guard, a rather shaken looking scrawny young man, quietly led the child along behind.
The whole scene had lasted barely a minute, and like clockwork the processing continued. Richard pressed his thumbs against his scalp, letting out a quiet groan. Pangs of pain worked their way across his head, as though a million tiny hammers were battering the inside of his skull. He hated crowds on a good day, but this was something else. He dove a hand into his back pocket, grabbing a small bottle of tylenol. Almost choking from trying to dry-swallow the pills, he hardly noticed when a guard lightly shoved him into one of the processing stalls.
It all went in a flash, seemingly. An older woman in scrubs ran off a battery of questions while a security guard dug through his bag.
"Have you been out of the country within the last year?"
"Are you currently a registered felon?"
"Previous resident or new admission?"
"Can you name the current president of the United States of America?"
His mind was in a haze now, and he answered as best he could. Next came the physical; his eyes held open for multicolored lights while another nurse checked his skin for abnormalities. Cold plastic gloves on his back, his neck, his face, his arms. Lights in his face, prodding all across his body. It was a wonder he even had time to notice the guard confiscating his flask and pills.
"Hey, wait a minute-" he muttered. The guard, face covered with a gas mask, stared at him harshly. Dick could see his hand drifting close to a baton at his side.
"Fine, fine," he said. "You probably need it more than I do."
With that, the guard shoved his duffle bag back into his hands and shoved him out of the stall. Richard sighed, lugged the bag over his shoulder, and marched on with the rest of the new admissions. He couldn't help but wonder if anyone else was starting to regret signing up for this.
"State your name for the record please."
"Lana Berit Vidkun"
"Let's begin."
The room was gray, featureless. A single mirror sat on one side, and the other sat a reinforced steel door, like that of a submarine. In the center was a chair, and in that chair sat a woman. Not terribly tall, not terribly short, black hair tied off behind her head. Her hands were similarly tied back, locked into handcuffs that were interlinked with the chair. The chair itself was bolted to the floor. She was calm, breaths pumping her chest in steady rhythm as the voice of the speaker returned.
"What was your mother's name?"
"Anne"
"How many children were in your family?"
"Four."
"How long have you been married?"
"Two years."
"How many sexual partners have you had?"
"Two."
"How many states are there in the United States of America?"
"51"
"State your activation phrase."
"Certain Darkness."
There was a pause. She tensed up, just a bit. A loud klaxon filled the room as the door behind her opened. A part of masked guards, rifles in hand, quietly unlatched her from the chair and stepped out. She felt at her wrists, pale red marks from the repeated debriefings. The voice chimed in again.
"You're clean. Head to the conference room. New orders from the brass."
Lana meandered out the door with the two guards in tow. The hallway beyond was chilly, so much so that she could see her breath in front of her face. Arms clenched around her body, her eyes wandered down either end of the room. Down each hall were more submarine-style doors, stretching off into the distance. She moved quickly, taking a right. Another right, another left, down the seemingly labyrinthian sub-level. One more left and she found the elevator, catching it just before the doors shut. She tapped the button for the third floor.
"Third floor. Going up."
A stilted, robotic woman's voice chimed through a speaker on the elevator console.
She leaned back against the corner of the elevator, finally letting out a long, deep sigh. The interrogations were necessary, she knew that. She knew she wasn't a doppelgänger, or infested with exoplague. She knew she was fine, she was alive, she was human. Yet, each time she came back, each time she sat in the room, she always felt like she wasn't. Just another number on a checklist, to be marked with red or blue. A living human reduced to nothing more than ink on paper.
A living human that would be significantly less living if they failed the test.
The ding of the elevator broke her from her musings. A pair of interning researchers traded her spots as she left. The same mechanical woman chimed once more.
"Sub-level four. Going down."
She wasn't the only one coming back from the Zone, it seemed.
The upper levels were much more densely populated than the lower ones. Glass encased offices dominated most of the rooms she passed, filled with bureaucrats by the hundreds. Security guards stood like statues as she passed through the halls. She marched on, taking yet another set of stairs and on to the skybridge. The Department headquarters was immense, encompassing an area just a smidgen larger than a football field. She paused for a moment to admire the sheer scale of it all. A mix of utilitarian military design with a distinctly alien, postmodern aesthetic. Arranged in a circle, each of the six main buildings connected via a skybridge. In the center of the complex sat an artificial park; green grass and neatly trimmed bushes surrounding a marble fountain. It all contrasted so harshly with the District that lay merely a mile beyond. Miles of cheaply built apartment blocks and old refurbished buildings could be seen past the security perimeter.
Onwards, Lana went, through the headquarters. Through building four to building three, and down another two flights of stairs to the conference rooms of sector two. Down one more hallway, she found a single conference room singled out for her team. On the door, a piece of paper taped "Closure Department" sat, marked in cheap black pen. She shoved the door open and stepped inside.
The logistics team was already waiting for her. Standing on the long oak table was Brain, a scrawny blonde woman who was in the process of wiring up the ceiling projector. The girl waved at Lana as she slipped into one of the leather chairs.
"Morning. How'd the debrief go?" Brain said, slipping off the table. She was short for someone in her twenties, wearing a bright pink hoodie that was just a bit too big. In another time, it would've been weird to see someone bundled up in Nevada, but these were weird times. Seeing snow in the middle of September last year had taught most to keep cold clothes handy. Brain went on working as the other member of the logistics team, Carver, slid a sheaf of papers to Lana. She thumbed through it as Carver dropped a heavy box of equipment on the table. If one were to google a picture of a scientist, the results they'd find wouldn't be that far off from Carver. From a pair of thin-rimmed glasses down to his slacks and labcoat, every inch of the man was stereotypically scientist. He quickly began setting out the equipment on the table, neatly organized by size and function. Nowak Detectors, Food pill rations, Reality stabilizers. As the others went about preparing for the meeting, Lana finally found the list of new recruits.
"This is more people than we've had since we started. What's up?" She said, eyeing their information closely.
Ryan chimed in. "Some people that used to live out there, some that didn't. That kind of thing. It ebbs and flows. Check out the last three, though."
She did. David Kowalski and another with just the name "Nemo". Both anomalies. She raised an eyebrow.
"I thought DAA policy was no freaks allowed?"
He shrugged as he fixed the settings on a Nowak Detector.
"Some kind of affirmative action thing, I'd bet. Bet the brass wants good press to keep the freak lovers happy." He sneered. "You know, I was reading the news and apparently there's even some guy in San Fran trying to legally marry his own doppelgänger. What kind of fuckery is-"
He was cut off as the door opened. Richard poked his head in before opening it fully.
"I'm, uh, I'm in the right place? Closure Department?"
Lana nodded, motioning for him to take a seat. He dropped his bag, stretched a bit, and flopped into a chair.
"So," he said, looking around at the other empty chairs. "Am I early, or?"
"No," Lana said as she checked her phone. "You're right on time. Security should be bringing in the rest of the recruits any minute now."
