Immune

The First Time

On my thirteenth birthday, I was given a bike. At the time, it had seemed like a great present. The compound wasn't so crowded back then. I could go out into the outer hills, ride around on the broken sidewalks and enjoy the feeling of the wind in my hair. Not every kid had such a luxury; bikes were expensive.

After a few days of riding that bike, I discovered that I would see outside the compound if I rode to the center of the compound, which was this huge hill that we all called Center Hill, rumored to be some ancient Indian burial ground by some of the kids. I would go up there everyday, pretend I could see the world beginning to come back to life, lights in the next city at night, smog from the factories during the day.

Until one day, I saw someone, a man walking towards the compound.

He wasn't limping, wasn't crawling. He was just walking, head down, covered in dirt and mumbling to himself.

I still remember that he wore a uniform, grey and white pinstripes, which hung off his gaunt body like excess skin. His name was printed on the left breast pocket, in peeling black letters.
Duncan.

Without thinking twice, I took off on my priceless bike, to the outer gate, which was still open because the five o'clock bell hadn't rang yet. I slipped out the door while the guards were switching places, leaving my bike in the mud as I ran to where the man had been.
From a distance, he looked like a ghost, unlike any victim of the virus I had ever seen. His eyes, bloodshot, were alive and desperate.

Whatever possessed me to help him still doesn't make sense. I don't understand why I helped him to the compound gate, why I found a ladder and called up for someone to let us back in. Wordless, the man had pulled at my arm, trying to get away, grunting, beginning to cry.

At the time, the idea that he was afraid hadn't occurred to me. I was helping him, right?

I watched the guard lower the ladder, see the two of us and raise his gun. Without even blinking, no second thoughts or anything. One bullet through the stranger's head, another aimed at me. The color of blood still gives me nightmares, skin and bone scattered across Spring grass, a juxtaposition that still sends chills up my spine.

I didn't move, didn't duck as the guard pulled his trigger on me.

Somehow, I survived that bullet to the leg. They took my bike away, gave me extra compound chores, and built a fence around Center Hill.

Dad informed me later that Duncan had been in the earliest stages of infection, barely hours in, and that's why he was out in broad daylight. He hadn't touched me at all, no bites or anything, but the president called for extensive testing before I could be released.

When the results of the tests came out, 'immune' was printed in bright red letters across the front of my manila file.

Word spreads fast inside the wall. Especially when that word is immunity. Nothing was quite the same after that, for me or my dad.