They come in suits of plastic, Martian men, roaming the streets with their machines, collecting samples while the troops put up fencing. News has already gotten out; we're ground zero for something bad, something alien, perhaps, or more likely engineered. I look out the window, blinds drawn, for you don't want to draw their attention. People have been disappearing, the ones who asked too many questions, who seemed a little too interested in the coughing and sneezing of their neighbors. We told ourselves it was the flu, that we'd get better in time, that modern medicine would have the cure for what ails us, that we could continue on with our lives of gentle consumer servitude. The children distract themselves with their electronic gadgets, but our internet connection is out, the modem's light blinking like a beacon warning us to stay away and keep quiet. We're all peering between drawn blinds, watching the forces marshal in our small slice of American suburbia. After hours, I start putting liquor in my coffee to counteract the caffeine. I don't want to be too awake in case something happens. I want to feel the heavy weight of battling drugs.
Day ten of our confinement
Billy has the cough. His nose runs like a faucet, mucus leaking from his nostrils in green streams of slime. We don't let him out into the back yard in case someone sees him. He is confined within a smaller prison, the prison of his bed room. My wife has him lapping up fluids, a wet towel pressed against his forehead to cool his fever. After tending to the boy, she washes her hands for several minutes until they are cracked and raw. I read in an encyclopedia that every sneeze releases millions of virus particulates. The hand washing gesture is as futile as Macbeth's.
Day fifteen
We hear a knock on the door. I get up slowly, as though I'm being called to the scaffold. A glance through the peephole reveals men in plastic, respirators and hoods covering their faces, concealing any hint of human recognition. I can't see their faces so I can't read their faces; nevertheless, their purpose seems grim, unfeeling, determined. I crack the door open and ask if I can help them. A muffled voice rings out, and papers are presented, government licenses, CDC badges. They want to come in the house. I tell them that that's impossible, that we haven't the room, that the place is a wreck and that my wife has a phobia of strangers. They stand for a while uncomfortably, silence filling the spaces that we refuse to fill with useless words. The muffled voice speaks again, saying that habeas corpus has been suspended and warrants have been issued for every house in the cordoned zone. I give him my best smile and nod while he speaks, as though I understand and comply. As I unlock the door and let them in, I take my pocket knife and run it against their plastic suits, my eyes on their hidden orbs, smiling, distracting. Everyone enters punctured; everyone will soon be as we are, prisoners of illness. I make sure to hack and cough as much as possible as they take samples from our furniture. I make sure they catch my disease.
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