Page 32 of The Midnight Hour
“Who’s reminded of the Michelin Man?” Daniel whispers, and Mattie smothers a nervous giggle. I throw him a look of gratitude, that he can make this easier for all of us, but he’s not looking at me, and despite his joke his face looks grim.
We are shepherded through a waiting room of what was probably once some kind of health center, into a room that has been cleared of all furniture; before I’ve fully taken in the barren surroundings, Kyle, Sam, and Daniel are taken into another one. The person in the hazmat suit is a woman, I realize, and she nods at us, her voice muffled by her helmet and face shield.
“You all need to strip. All clothes should be left on the floor.Try to touch them as little as possible, if you can.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, without any sympathy, and we all gape at her, save for the woman with the baby, who, by either miracle or tragedy, is still oblivious.
“Do you think we might be contaminated?” I ask, my voice wavering with nervousness. “We’ve been in the backwoods of Ontario since?—”
“Strip,” the woman says again, and it’s clear she’s not going to engage with any of us more than that.
We all start taking off our clothes as carefully as possible; considering we ran out of razors five months ago, I’m feeling a little less groomed than I would have preferred for an impromptu striptease, but I’m more concerned about some minuscule molecules of radioactive whatever that might be coming off my grubby shirt and shorts—something that hadn’t crossed my mind for months, since those first blasts, until William Stratton mentioned it, and now this. Is it a real possibility, or are they just following precautionary procedures? Either way, we’re all getting naked.
Ruby, I see with a pulse of motherly shock as she self-consciously slips off her own t-shirt, is looking far more womanly than she did before everything happened, back in the day when I might have helped her rinse her hair in the shower. Mattie, on the other hand, looks as thin I am, long-limbed and bony, shielding herself with her hands as a blush rises to her cheeks and a naked Phoebe clings to her leg. The woman with the baby hasn’t moved.
“Ma’am,” the woman in the hazmat says to her. “You need to start taking off your clothes. And your baby’s clothes—” She takes a step forward, and then does a double-take before recoiling when she sees that the baby is dead. She turns to me, in accusation.
“Why is she holding a dead baby?”
“We only picked her up about fifty milesbefore the base,” I reply, lowering my voice as if to keep the woman from hearing, although of course she still can, even if she doesn’t seem to be taking anything in. “We don’t know anything about her, but I’m guessing she’d had some trauma.” Obviously.
“But…” The woman looks caught between horror and a reluctant sympathy, then she squares her shoulders and takes a meaningful step toward the woman. “Ma’am, you need to let go of that baby. Now.” Firmly but gently, she starts to pry the baby from the woman’s arms; the woman lets out an ear-splitting shriek in response and takes a stumbling step back, clutching her baby to her. Mattie and Ruby both look transfixed with horror by the macabre scene, while Phoebe stares on, seemingly unfazed. I wince because I think the baby has been dead for at least a day or two, and, no matter what, this isn’t going to end well for anyone, the poor dead baby included.
Meanwhile the woman continues letting out a constant, keening shriek, like the human version of a fire alarm. For a second, the woman in the hazmat suit looks like she doesn’t know what to do; then she puts one hand on the woman’s shoulder and starts steering her out of the cell. We watch, gaping, as the woman is frog-marched out of the room, still wailing and clutching her baby. The door clangs shut behind her, sealing us in this empty cell of a room—alone, naked, and shivering.
“Where do you think they’re taking her?” Mattie asks after a few seconds have passed.
“Hopefully somewhere safe, where they can help her.” Although of course I have no idea if that’s true or not, but I hope it is. I want this place—the NBSRC or whatever it’s called—towork. I want to feel safe, and everyone else to as well, and for none of it to be my responsibility.
“Do you think she’s going to be okay?” Mattie sounds doubtful, and frankly so am I. That woman did not seem remotelyokay, and the woman in the hazmat suit wasn’t exactly intent on making her so.
“I hope so, Mattie.” I take a steadying breath, determined to believe in this place. “I’m sure they’re taking care of her. And hopefully we won’t be left here too long.”
As if on cue, the woman in the hazmat suit returns, her expression bland but severe. “Your clothes will be disposed of,” she informs us crisply, or as crisply as you can sound when your voice is muffled by a face shield and helmet. “You’ll need to shower, wash with the soap provided, and then use the far door to go to the changing room, where you will dress in the issued clothing.” She gestures to a door on the far wall. “Go through there, down the hallway, and to the showers.”
We all hesitate; I suppose no one really wants to walk into an unknown room naked, but what else can we do? Putting my arms around my daughters, with Mattie holding Phoebe’s hand, I shepherd us all through the door and down the hallway, to whatever awaits us there.
Fortunately, it is, as we all really should have known it would be, just a shower, much like we’d see at our local gym, albeit a little more utilitarian. Any stalls have been ripped out, so it’s just spigots in the wall, but they let out a surprisingly forceful spray when we push a button beneath. We all stand under a separate shower nozzle, Phoebe with Mattie, as we rinse the radioactivity off us—if there was ever any there to begin with; but the truth is, it feelswonderful. I haven’t had a shower in over seven months. To be sluiced with warm water is a little bit of heaven, and, if they end up ushering us into the next room for our execution, my last thought will beworth it.
I meet Mattie’s gaze underneath the spray and I’m pretty sure she’s thinking the same thing. My hope rushes to the fore, ready to be unleashed. This is going to be good for us, I tell myself. This is what we need.
We wash ourselves with the soap provided in dispensers fixed to the wall, scrub our hair and armpits and nether regions, and I can’t remember ever feeling so clean. When we are finished, we walk down the hallway through to an empty room on the other side, where there are cheap, white towels and navy-blue boiler suits waiting for us on a couple of folding chairs.
“What’s going on, exactly?” Mattie whispers as she combs her fingers through her damp hair. She’s tightened the drawstring waist of her boiler suit, so it actually looks fashionable; weren’t these things in style a little while ago? Ruby’s been issued a woman’s size, which engulfs her, the cuffs hanging far past down her hands. She rolls up the pantlegs as Mattie twists her damp hair into a knot. Phoebe has been given a man’s white t-shirt to wear, which falls to her ankles.
“That man said after we’d been—decontaminated, I guess,” I tell them both, “we’d have some kind of interview.” I’m trying to sound confident rather than nervous. I’m really not at all sure I want to beinterviewed, but if that’s what it takes to stay here…
Mattie shakes her head slowly. “What is this, District13?” She raises her eyebrows, all sass. “When did my life become a YA novel, and where is my tortured love triangle?”
I let out a snort of laughter. “Ben Stratton and Kyle?” I suggest, my eyebrows raised right back at her, and she rolls her eyes.
‘Mom,puh-lease,” she protests, her tone scathing, but I see the flush on her cheeks, and I know it’s not just from the hot shower. I don’t mind; my daughter deserves a little excitement in her life—normal, teenaged excitement, and not the kind that gets you either shot or obliterated. Being in a place like this, when we don’t have to fight for our survival, will be good for her.
Another door opens, and the same woman, minus the hazmat suit, is standing there, dressed in normal clothes, whichmake our boiler suits now seem a little ridiculous, but hopefully we’ll get to wear our own clothes soon. Her auburn hair is pulled back into a bun and there’s a spray of freckles across her nose. I judge her to be in her mid-thirties, but her expression is as severe as a sixty-year-old schoolmarm.
“Come this way,” she instructs briskly, and I put my arm around Ruby as we walk through yet another door, into what looks like yet another empty room.
Mattie pauses in the doorway, Phoebe clinging to her, to turn to look at the woman. “What happened to that woman with the baby?” she asks, and her tone is borderline rude, definitely aggressive.
The woman frowns. “We are giving her the help she needs.”
