Jay Allan - Marines

My sisters were young and strong, and they both survived the disease itself. Unfortunately, though Beth recovered fully, the virus had virtually destroyed Jill’s liver. Her only hope of survival was a transplant or regeneration. While organ regeneration had been perfected in the previous century and offered a virtually 100% success rate, it was extraordinarily expensive, and my family’s health care ration was nowhere close to allowing the procedure. In fact my sister’s medical priority rating was extremely low, so even a transplant was out of the question. In the government’s analysis my sister’s life simply wasn’t worth the resources required to save it, particularly since my parents would still have two other children.

My parents didn’t give up though. Black market organs and cut rate transplants were readily available outside the Protected Zone. Though illegal and dangerous, it was the only way to save Jill’s life, and my father and mother didn’t even think twice.

A black market transplant was still expensive, and my parents sold everything we owned and borrowed every credit they could. My mother even tried to go back to work. She had been an assistant chef at the Plaza Hotel before she married my father, but with more than 50% of the population unemployed the government allowed very few two income families. When my parents were married my mother lost her work permit.

My mother and father did what any parents would do – they scraped together the money. My father requested additional work assignments, usually almost impossible to get, but thanks to a huge contract for the guidance system in the new Gettysburg class battleship, he was able to get an extra four paid hours a day. With her experience at the Plaza, my mother was able to get some unauthorized and illegal jobs catering for various functions. Somehow, and I was never quite sure how they managed it, they put together enough money to fund the transplant, which in true black market fashion had to be paid in full upfront.

The operation was performed secretly, in a storage room instead of in a hospital, but in spite of the less than ideal conditions the transplant was successful. Extensive drug therapy was required to force acceptance of the poorly matched organ, and the high dosages caused permanent damage to her immune system. But she was alive, and with proper medication, which would also come from the black market, she could live something approaching a normal life.

Just when it seemed that everything would work out our world fell apart. I never knew exactly what happened, but the authorities found out about the illegal operation, my mother's freelancing…everything.

We were in the closing years of the Second Frontier War and the government was looking everywhere for revenue. So my parents were offered the chance to pay a large fine and escape further punishment. Having just spent every mil they had on the surgery, it was impossible for them to come up with the demanded funds.

I vaguely remember the inquisitor visiting us. My father told me to stay in the room I shared with my sisters and not to come out until he came back for me. It didn't matter that the entire situation was the result of parents desperately trying to save the life of their child. They had broken the laws, and that was all the inquisitor cared about.

After he had left my father came in and told me to go to bed. I wasn’t even nine, but I could tell he was scared. It was the first time I'd ever seen my father afraid of anything. I knew something terrible was happening, but I didn’t say anything – I just said goodnight to my father and got into bed. He whispered, “Goodnight,” and turned off the light on the way out. Laying there in the dark I could hear my mother crying in the next room. All night I could hear my parents talking, the sounds of them walking around the apartment, and most of all, my mother's sobs.

The next day six armed government marshals summarily seized all of my parents’ property including their occupancy rights to the apartment. My father was terminated from his employment (his job was excellent and could easily be sold to another qualified candidate), and our residency permit was revoked.

We were forced to leave the Midtown Protected Zone, and I will never forget the image of the five of us huddled together as the 77th Street gate slowly slid open. I remember taking a last look behind me before my father wrapped his arm around my shoulder and led me out over the cracked pavement north of the gate.

Northern Manhattan had once been densely populated, but now it was mostly abandoned. The two kilometers immediately north of the wall had been completely razed during the Disruptions to prevent rioters and gangs from sneaking up on the Protected Zone. It was an eerie landscape of ancient, crumbling roadways and scattered pillars of broken masonry - the remnants of demolished buildings that had once housed thousands. There were deep trenches in several places where the ground had collapsed on abandoned underground rail lines. Partially filled with putrid brown water, they looked like nightmarish canals making their way northward.

Slicing through the terrain to the northwest was a clear plastic tube raised 30 meters above the ground on massive steel pillars. The magtrain connected the MPZ to Fort Tyron Transit Center in the northwest corner of Manhattan Island. Fort Tyron was the terminus for bullet trains from other major cities as well as a major freight handling center, and the magtrain brought passengers and supplies into the city 24 hours a day.

But we were heading northeast. My father's friends had helped him get a contact for a job in a basic materials factory in the South Bronx, located in a neighborhood informally known as The Devil's Playground.

There was no mass transit operating north of the Zone other than the magtrain, so we had to walk three or four miles to the bridge over the Harlem River and then into the Bronx. There were a few clusters of occupied buildings along the way, like small villages on the outskirts of the MPZ, but mostly there was just debris from buildings that had been demolished or simply collapsed. The bridge itself was old but sturdy-looking, and the Manhattan side was protected by a gate and a small guard tower occupied by a squad of police rather more heavily armed than those who patrolled inside the Zone. My father showed the guards our papers, and after a cursory inspection we were ushered across.

The Bronx side was unprotected, and while the immediate area around the bridge was cleared, about a hundred meters from the river we started to walk past ancient, but occupied, apartment buildings scattered among burnt-out shells and rubble-strewn vacant lots.

It was early afternoon, and there were some people moving about their business, though it was very sparse and nothing like the crowded bustle of the MPZ. Along one broad avenue there were a number of businesses, mostly stores carrying various supplies, but also a small medical clinic with a long line snaking out the door and 30 meters down the street.

Everything was old and dirty, and the streets were pockmarked with deep ruts and holes. There was a faint reek in the air, no doubt from old leaking sewer lines among other things.

We moved into a fourth floor apartment in a decrepit 300 year old building five blocks from the ruins of Yankee Stadium. There was a small lobby with a single light fixture hanging from a wire and the wreckage of an elevator that looked as if it hadn't functioned in a century. There was a single staircase, old and rickety, but still standing as far as the third floor. From the third floor landing there was a wooden ladder used to access the fourth and fifth levels. My parents tried to be strong for us, but my mother started sobbing when she saw our new home. My father was silent. He helped my mother up the ladder and then carried my sisters up one at a time. I climbed up myself before he came back for me, but he reached over and helped me up onto the landing.