Quarantine
A woman wakes up to gunfire.
It's not unusual. It wouldn't be the first time, nor the last. She ignores it as she stumbles through her room, the windows boarded shut, and tests the water coming from the tap. She knows any toxin that would have gotten through the new water filters would be invisible to the naked eye, but it's with some sense of relief that it seems as fine as it's been for years. She cleans herself in a dark room, the light having long burned out and without the credits to replace it.
There's louder gunfire as she finishes, walking out into the apartment hall, watching the other residents walk out, uncertain glances between each other. They stay silent, taking the stairs down to the exit, where two robotic guards level their weapons at them. She dismisses that as all too normal, and looks outside to the gang fight petering out with the intervention of the quarantine army. Something like two dozen bodies are scattered across the street, their emblems being ripped off and thrown into an incinerator, but visible enough to her that she could remember them from the gunfight days ago, and another before then. By now there had to be a hundred dead between the two gangs, and yet still more fought, and would fight, and die, for an incomprehensible goal.
As the guards cautiously stepped aside, leaving the group to file out into the paths given to them, the woman tried not to think about what had hovered over her life for decades. There was an infectious madness, slithering its way through the city, cut back by brutal killings of madmen and lunatics, but never seeming to end. The city itself was scarred by the worst of it, when the cults had screamed their oaths over great speaker towers as artillery thundered and crashed against the earth, an army marching through her streets and buildings tumbling down. That was being repaired, but the madness still stuck its branches out, ruin appearing where it went. Broken windows, the remnants of hastily erased markings scrawled across building walls, the detritus of an uncaring population, and bullet-scarred stone filled the street.
She looked away from the sight, out to the edges of the city, where she could see the tall, imposing barricades covering the road out. There she could see more soldiers, some sitting, most at alert, the glint of their rifles pointed towards her group as they were guided down the marked path. The soldiers on the wall, though she wouldn't know, had their losses, though very few to the cults. Most were to stress, the struggle of killing their own people driven to madness for reasons they didn't fully understand. To most, this would haunt them for the rest of their lives. To the woman, it didn't matter much. She picked at her thick sleeves out of habit.
She was directed into an expansive fabricated warehouse by more robotic guards, stepping into the crowded disaster relief shelter, whispers dominating the room. She took her ID chip to the rations desk, its attendant behind a thick glass barrier, and looked away from her weak reflection as she took the bag of canned rations he slipped through the slat underneath. She'd heard they'd tried something more traditional at first, hot food and water brought out on demand, but there had been… strife. There always was. Always someone too willing to do something terrible.
Yelling pierced through the whispers of the room, hundreds of eyes snapping to a heated argument. One of them was almost vivid red with rage, teeth grinding and eyes wild, and before anyone could do more than back away there was a glint of grey and three ear-piercing gunshots. The red faced man dropped to the ground, the other party standing with the smoking gun in their hands, face as numbly horrified as those around him.
People parted against the mass of robotic guards marching into the scene of the crime. Following carefully behind them was human guards, demanding the shooter surrender. When he tried to speak, they insisted he be silent, and when he finally dropped the weapon, they roughly arrested him, about to drag him away. Another voice spoke up, finger pointed at someone else in the crowd, skin dirtied and hair matted by lack of care. They accused them of wearing a sigil buried underneath their clothes, of plots and weapons stocked within their room. The guards seemed to hesitate, but soon enough the robot's weapons were raised again, the figure shoved to the ground, searched, cuffed, and soon to be taken away.
Were they a cultist? Was the dead man a cultist? It was hard to say. Certainly, the woman knew of the warning signs of an early cultist, how one was a shortened temper and almost rabid aggression, but what wore people down was knowing that it could simply be the response of someone driven to the edge by a city seemingly falling apart. Would it be irrational to accept that one's newfound hedonism was simply a victim seeking relief from the strife around them? Shouldn't you accept the man dirty and matted had simply fallen behind on self-care underneath the stress of it all? Could you afford to?
It wasn't the woman's problem. She looked away, following the crowd as it started to move again throughout the room, pausing by requisitions for one single lightbulb, the request marked carefully on her record. She took her new clothes, new blankets, and left.
She paused by the post office, hesitating for a moment, but it was quiet enough for her to feel safe entering. She walked up to the desk, showing her ID, muttering her request. The pitying look the agent gave her made her stomach sink. The request for communication with her family has been denied, her letter returned without explanation. They hesitated for a moment, almost uncertain as to whether to speak further at all, but eventually continued. At least, they said, her family had been notified she was alive.
It was cold comfort. Almost all contact in or out of the city was cut off, some even within the city. She didn't hear what was happening in the outside world, and nobody else seemed to know. She didn't know what happened to the people the guards took. She couldn't know the meaning behind what they screamed as they were taken away. So she shambled out of the office, back towards her home, bag feeling heavier than ever on her shoulders. Every so often, she could swear she caught a glimpse of a blade in the hands of one of the passersby, a glint of madness in the eyes of someone sitting by the sidewalk. But she was safe, or as safe as anyone could be within the quarantine, taking the patrolled streets, but careful not to get too close to the twitchy gaze of guards marching down the roads.
Finally, she returned home, locking her apartment door, barring it as best she could. She laid her food out on the table, the clothes to the side, and took the lightbulb out, carefully carrying it to the bathroom. The light it made stung her eyes, and cast the room into sharp relief. The shattered porcelain of the sink, the scars across her arms, and the sigils drawn in blood covering the mirror, hiding the burning stare of her eyes.
"I'm not mad." She muttered, and brought a shard to her arm. "I'm not mad. I'm not mad. I'm not mad. I'm not mad."
There are many terrible things about a cultist. The damage they cause. Their slavish devotion to a hateful faith. But perhaps the worst is the mind as it struggles under the weight of that madness. That infectious madness.
But perhaps she's safe. Perhaps this madness is all too mundane. Just the result of a mind driven to extremes by the paranoia and uncertainty of a world gone mad.
Could you afford to believe that?
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A lot of thanks to
@random_npc for helping me write this! I hope this isn't too edgy, and I promise I'm not trying to be all 'boo hoo chaos is unstoppable we should just give up', but I did want to explore a bit of life in the quarantine zones, and what it'd be like, how scary chaos would be, for everyone involved. If it doesn't fit Neablis' idea of how the quarantine zones work, I'm more than happy to accept that.