The
bus ride to the quarantine facility took more than ten hours. I was shoved against
the window by my seatmate who slept almost the entire trip. He was a big guy,
taking up most of the seat, and when he slept his body lolled to the side,
wedging me against the metal side of the bus.
As we traveled, the air turned hot and dry,
different than the humid, sticky climate of my coastal Texas hometown. The old
school bus didn’t have air conditioning and the small windows didn’t let much
air in. My seatmate’s body heat didn’t help. I was hot, thirsty, and had to pee
in the worst way.
Wondering
how much longer I’d be drooled on by the guy next to me, I strained my face
against the window, looking for anything on the flat landscape.
That’s
when I saw them.
I
don’t know why I was surprised. I should’ve expected it after what had happened
at the high school, but I hadn’t. It was worse than at the school—rioters
everywhere. They waved anti-raffle signs and signs cursing the “Chosen.”
The
land around the quarantine area was flat, dry, and dusty. The people lining the
road sat under makeshift tents to keep out of the sun. Some stood on top of
their RVs waving their handmade signs; one burned an American flag.
I
watched women holding their small children toward the bus, begging with
tear-stained faces for us to take them. I wanted to reach out and snatch them
out of their mothers’ hands as we drove past. Several of the other people on
the bus reached up and pushed their windows shut.
The
National Guard at the quarantine site didn’t allow people to get close enough
to touch the bus. They were shot with rubber bullets or Tasered if they tried
to cross the police line. Every time I heard the shot of the riot guns I
jumped. My muscles ached from tensing them—waiting for the inevitable sound.
“Why
are you crying?” A boy sitting in front of me looked at me like I’d grown
another head. “They’d probably kill you and steal your place in the PODs if
given the chance.”
I
shook my head, remembering what my dad had told me. “They’re just scared,” I
said. After all, they were, essentially, the walking dead.
The
rioters screamed and cursed us. They threw rocks and eggs as we drove by. An
egg hit the window next to me, the slimy insides plopping against my head,
matting my hair.
“Gross,”
the boy sitting next to me said.
I
just looked at him and rolled my eyes.
Yeah, the egg is
gross. And the drool coming out of your mouth and dripping on my leg while you
slept, leaning on me, was glorious.
The
bus stopped in a fenced area like the one at the high school. The crowd
screamed and banged the fence posts with their crude, homemade picket signs.
Some climbed on the fence, pulling at it like chimpanzees at the zoo.
“Stay
seated until your name is called,” a soldier yelled. “When you are called, grab
your belongings and wait to be escorted into the building.”
Oh please, call
this guy’s name. He needs to move before I shove him off the seat. I’m tired of
being pinned against the side of the bus. I need some room.
Thankfully,
my name was called soon after we stopped. I stood, stretched the kinks out of
my muscles, and plowed through the massive body blocking me. Clambering over
the other luggage that filled the aisle, I grabbed my two suitcases and stood
in front of the bus.
The
one-story brick building was large but had no windows, only a single green
door. I couldn’t see the other sides, but I had a feeling there’d be no windows
there, either—no glass for rioters to break through.
The
soldier walked up from behind me, tapping my suitcase with his clipboard.
“Follow me.”
I
shuffled into the brick building, guided by the same guardsman who’d ripped me
away from my parents hours earlier…
“I love you,” my
mom said through her tears, her voice thick and trembling.
“I want to stay
with you,” I pleaded.
“Come here,
kiddo.” My dad, his face distorted with grief, folded me in a tight hug. He
kissed the top of my head and told me he loved me and how proud he was of me.
“I know, when this is over, you are going to do great things, Eva. you’re a
fighter. I love you so much.”
A rough hand
grabbed my arm, pulling me away from my dad. “Get on the bus,” the male voice
ordered, yelling to be heard over the crying of parents and children saying
their final goodbyes.
“I’m not done
saying goodbye…” He didn’t let go, pulling me with him. My heels digging into
the dirt, I tried to pull away. I needed one more hug, to hear them tell me
they loved me and to tell them I loved them, too.
“MOM!” I
screamed. “DAD!” Tears stained my face. The man thrust me toward the steps of
the old, yellow school bus. I screamed one more time for my parents, telling
them I loved them, reaching my arms out to them.
I could see my
mom’s body rock with the force of her cries. Tears ran down my father’s face.
“We love you, Evangelina,” I heard them call just before the bus door closed.
It was the last
thing I’d hear my parents say. It was the last image I’d have of them. I
pressed my hand to the window of the bus, my head bowed as I sobbed. I didn’t
try to hide my tears. Everyone on the bus was crying for their families. We
knew what awaited them.
Death.
I
shook my head, trying to erase the horrible memory. I wanted to remember the
good things about them, not saying goodbye.
Goodbyes
are hard, but this one had been different. This wasn’t a goodbye, I’ll see you
in a month. It was a permanent goodbye. I’d never see my parents again. The
overwhelming sadness took over, like a black hole sucking me in. Fat, salty
tears ran down my face, and I could feel my nose running. I wiped my arm across
it. My eyes were swollen, my throat sore, and my chest tight.
I
was alone. My parents were gone. No brothers or sisters. Just me—an orphan of
the virus.
I'm a wife, mother, author, reader, although not always in that order. I write young adult urban fantasies, science/fiction and paranormal romances and have recently started dabbling in young adult contemporary romance. Reading was one of my earliest passions, writing soon followed. I began writing seriously during college where I graduated Summa Cum Laude with a degree in accounting. Why I chose a career that frowns on creativity remains a mystery.
I’m addicted to Reese’s peanut butter cups and eat way too many while I write, have an abnormal obsession with hoodies and can’t write without one, and I hate to cook, but love to watch cooking shows on television. An unabashed romantic, I love a swoon-worthy ending that will give me butterflies for days.
I wrote my debut young adult novel, PODs, in 2011. PODs, a science/fiction, post-apocalyptic romance, will be released June 4, 2013 through the amazing Spencer Hill Press. My second young adult title, Milayna, a paranormal romance, will release through Spencer Hill Press beginning in March 2014. Milayna is a standalone, with series potential. It’s meant to be a trilogy. The Infected, a PODs novel, will release November 2014. It is the second, and last, book in the PODs series.
I was born and raised in Flint, Michigan. I now reside in a small community outside Houston, Texas with my incredibly supportive, not to mention gorgeous, husband, three amazing school-aged children, a 125-pound lap dog, and a snooty cat.
Keep up-to-date with my current, future projects, appearances, and fun giveaways at www.michelle-pickett.com.
I always love to hear from readers, bloggers and other authors!
Find me here:
Giveaway
First place: Signed copy
of PODs, tote bag, and swag (US only see note for international)
Second place: Signed copy of PODs and swag (US only see note for international)
*International winners will receive a print copy of PODs only if www.Bookdepository.com
delivers to their country. Otherwise they will receive an e-book. Swag will not
be included.
