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Dear Brother,

I’m told that you were probably never informed that I was anything other than “the black sheep carrier.” Chances are that you also failed to receive any of the letters I wrote from Isolation School. That leaves me a lot of explaining to do:

I’ve been lost to you since last December, when our security was cut to ribbons by the Health Ministry’s last desperate thrust through our barricades. Seven armored vehicles hit us and cut us off from the rest of the campus. The other students on our quad managed to pull out: we were obliged to stay and fight.  Books aren’t much good against soldiers: Our water, food and medical supplies gave out and the Red Cross Infantry were mowing students down without breaking a sweat —so we gave up. The girls from my floor got a car full of Health goons and some cheers of appreciation from our crowd for it, I’m told, but I’ll be damned if it was worth it. I was one of the few who weren’t wounded. For that much thank God.

Well, the Ministry rounded up the lot of us, without food, water or sleep to the train yard on the edge of campus, an old Regional Rail train, I think, where we were strip-searched and locked up, sixty Carriers to each car, in an unventilated, unheated row. There were no accommodations—the floors were covered with torn carpet & shredded seat cushions. There wasn’t room for all of us to lie down. Half slept while the other half stood. We spent several days, including Christmas, on that train. On Christmas eve the Ministry strafed and decimated our unmarked train. They killed about one-hundred-and-fifty of us. We got a little water Christmas Day and moved slowly across South America to an internment camp. We were released from the train cars on New Year’s Day. The nurses herded us through scalding delousing showers. Many men died from shock in the showers after ten days of starvation, thirst and exposure. But I didn’t.

Under the treaty, symptomatic infected are not obliged to work when taken prisoner. I am, as you know, a non-symptomatic carrier. One-hundred-and-fifty such minor beings were shipped to a holding camp on January 10th. I was their leader by virtue of the little strength I possessed. It was our misfortune to have sadistic and fanatical guards. We were refused blankets and clothing: We were given long hours at extremely hard labor. Our food ration was two slices of black bread and one pint of milk each day. After desperately trying to improve our situation for two months and having been met with bland smiles I told them just what I was going to do to them when help finally came. They beat me up a little. I was fired as group leader. 

On about February 14th more Health Ministry goons came over, followed by tanks. Their combined labors slaughtered 250,000 infected & carriers in twenty-four hours and destroyed towns. But not me.

After that we were put to work carrying corpses from camp; women, children, old men; dead from concussion, fire or suffocation. Villagers cursed us and threw rocks as we carried bodies to huge funeral pyres in the clearing.

When rebel carriers took control of the territory, we were evacuated on foot to the western border. There we remained until the skirmish ended. Our guards deserted us. On that happy day the Red Cross were intent on mopping up any surviving carriers in our camp. Their planes strafed and bombed the camp, killing fourteen. But not me.

Eight of us stole a jeep. We traveled and looted our way through the countryside for eight days, living like kings. The carriers here are crazy about Americans. They picked us up in New Honduras. We rode from there to the border in Ford trucks. We’ve since flown to neutral territory.

I’m writing from a Private Club in Central America. I’m being wonderfully well fed and entertained. The state-bound ships are jammed, naturally, so I’ll have to be patient. I hope I’m back home in a month. Once home I’ll be given twenty-one days in the Hamptons, about $600, and—get this—safe housing!

I’ve too damned much to say, the rest will have to wait. But I’m desperate nonetheless for your reply.

Love,

your sister 

1 year ago  /  11 notes