D. MacHale - SYLO

The picture faded to black and was soon replaced by static.

The four of us stood staring at the TV. I couldn’t even begin to process the information we had just been given, and I’d bet there were a whole lot of people staring at a whole lot of televisions feeling the exact same way.

“Well,” Dad finally said with ironic cheer. “Other than that, how was the festival?”

Mom gave him a shove. “Not funny.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Quinn said. “How many people died? There was Marty, but Mr. Nelson just died a little while ago. The order to quarantine the island must have been given long before that.”

“Maybe your parents know,” I offered.

Quinn grabbed his cell phone and punched in a number. “Still no service,” he announced. “Everybody must be doing the exact same thing and crashed the system.”

I added, “And we’re supposed to act all normal, as if nothing is going on?”

“That’s what the president said,” Mom offered weakly. “What else can we do?”

“I gotta find my parents,” Quinn announced.

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.