Part. 1 Triage
I stand outside the main entrance of the Roseburg VA Medical Center, leaning against the chipped brick wall with a cigarette dangling from my lips. The acrid taste doesn’t bother me anymore—it’s the only thing that seems to steady my nerves these days. A siren wails faintly in the distant city. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to imagine I’m anywhere else but here. The smell of disinfectant and smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the coppery tang of blood that never quite fades. I swipe the back of my hand across my forehead, wiping away the sweat that clings to my skin.
The early August heat in Oregon is oppressive, the sun baking the pavement as the dry season takes its toll. It hasn’t rained in weeks, and the dust hangs in the air like a permanent haze. I glance toward the perimeter gates, where soldiers in full combat gear stand guard, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion and vigilance. Razor wire gleams under the midday sun, an unwelcoming barrier that encircles the medical center’s main buildings.
It’s been a few years since I’ve worn my gear, and the weight of it is more than I remember. My vest pulls tighter around my chest, the duty belt digging into my hips with a pressure that feels foreign now. I used to wear this stuff every day, the familiar heft of the armor and the weight of responsibility. But now, after all these years, it feels like I’m strapping on someone else’s life. I served in the Marine Corps for a long time, and after my last deployment, I thought I’d earned a break. I’d seen too much, done too much to keep my head in the game. When I got back, I needed time—time to reset, to breathe without the constant hum of combat in the background.
I stayed in the reserves, of course. It seemed like the right thing to do, to stay connected, keep up the skills, just in case. But truth be told, I never thought I’d actually be called back into action. I thought I was done, that I’d gotten my release from the cycle of violence, the never-ending demand to be alert, to be on.
Groups of people mill around the observation area just outside the gates, their faces drawn and weary. Some clutch children to their chests, while others carry bundles of belongings, the remnants of lives abandoned in haste. They’re waiting for the chance to be screened, desperate for the medical clearance needed to step inside. A few cough incessantly, drawing wary glances from those nearby.
FEMA tents sprawl both inside and outside the hospital’s perimeter. The interior tents, sectioned off to the right of the main entrance, are packed with rows of cots, makeshift workstations, and the constant hum of activity. Even from my vantage point, I can see the chaos unfolding: nurses and doctors darting between patients, their movements hurried and precise, while soldiers haul supplies and keep the peace.
The infection—The VAS Virus—has spread rapidly across the United States over the last two weeks. The CDC reported that the infection makes the host extremely violent, with other extreme reports documenting cannibalism. Despite the government’s best efforts to contain it, it’s managed to seep into nearly every corner of the country. Martial law has been declared, turning every state, hospital, government building, borders and other essential areas into military checkpoints and installations. The truth was that nobody really knew what was going on.
I take another drag, letting the smoke curl in my lungs before exhaling slowly. It does little to settle the tight knot of unease in my chest. The thought of Portland crosses my mind, but I shove it aside. Everything I’ve heard from the cities has been bad—riots, overwhelmed hospitals, entire districts cordoned off and abandoned. Out here in Roseburg, the chaos is quieter, but no less deadly.
Movement catches my eye as two figures in yellow hazmat suits exit the hospital’s main doors. They’re carrying a stretcher, the figure on it concealed beneath a white body bag. I watch as they wheel the body toward a designated area outside the perimeter, where rows upon rows of identical bags lie in grim precision. The workers move with mechanical efficiency, their movements practiced, almost routine. I shiver despite the heat. The sight is unnerving, even now. Dozens of bodies, an accurate testament to the toll the infection has taken. The numbers are counted, logged, and disposed of like inventory.
I’ve only been stationed here for the last 3 days but the situation was already deteriorating rapidly. Rioting and looting had become commonplace as people became more desperate. Roseburg was able to prepare ahead of time and so far maintain large parts of the city from infection by establishing safe and exclusion zones. I had heard of the measures teams in major cities were taking to control quarantine zones. Every horror story I’ve heard has been secondhand: grotesque descriptions of what the infection does to a person’s body, the erratic violence of the infected, and the speed at which it spreads. The CDC stationed a team here at the same time as us, commandeering an entire wing of the hospital to treat and study infected patients. They sealed off the area, allowing access only to the highest-ranking officials on site. Whatever they’re doing in there, it doesn’t seem to be working. The body bags keep piling up, a stark reminder that containment isn’t the same as a cure.
We’re the only soldiers in the entire city, and there aren’t many of us stationed here at the hospital. Roseburg is small in comparison to Portland or Eugene, maybe 25 thousand people in total. They told us we were here to maintain order and provide protection for the civilians and the infrastructure of the hospital. In reality, it was obvious we were only sent here to guard the CDC team, plain and simple. Their safety is the mission, not ours—not the doctors, nurses, or anyone else. We barely have enough Marines to secure the area, let alone control it.
As I take a puff, a man emerges from the hospital’s double doors. He’s older—in his mid 60’s I’d guess—his gray hair and beard peppered with silver. His face is weathered but has the kind of presence that is welcoming. A grim sadness clings to him, though, his eyes are weary with a lifetime of burdens. He pauses at the entrance, pulling out a cigarette, his other hand fumbling in his jacket pocket for a lighter. I watch as he pulls it out, gives it a quick flick, and sighs in frustration when the lighter doesn’t catch. The empty click of the flint makes him mutter under his breath. He gives the thing a shake and tries again, but the result is the same.
He stands there for a moment, shoulders slumped, staring at the lighter like he’s trying to will it to work. Finally, he turns, his eyes scanning the area, and his gaze falls on me.
Without saying a word, I reach into the center pocket of my vest and pull out my metal flip lighter. I raise it in one hand, holding it up to him, offering it without a second thought.
A small, sad smile plays at the corner of his lips, and I see something flicker in his eyes—gratitude, maybe. He exhales a breath of relief, his shoulders relaxing just a little. He walks over, slow but steady, and leans in as I light his cigarette for him. The flame catches, and he draws in a deep inhale, savoring the first hit.
He exhales a long stream of smoke, then finally looks at me.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, his voice gruff but warm, the weight of his years in every syllable. “Names Jonah,” he mutters. I looked up at him taking his appearance for a moment.
“Blair,” I nod, feeling the cool air of the early afternoon rush between us. The cigarette dangles from his lips as he exhales again, letting the smoke swirl around us.
“You served?” I ask, gesturing toward a tattoo that I notice on his forearm.
His eyes flicker, and there’s a brief pause before he responds, his tone flat but steady. “Vietnam. Was a long time ago.” He takes another drag, glancing down at his boots for a moment. “This though. Couldn’t imagine what you guys have been through.”
I nod, not sure what to say. The world had become a far cry from what any of us expected.
He twists the thin gold band on his finger, the metal worn smooth with years of wear. He pauses again, then shifts his weight slightly, as if the heaviness of it all was about to spill over. “I’m here because of my wife,” he continues, his voice softer now. “She’s been fighting cancer for years. The doctors said she wasn’t gonna make it, but I think... I think I finally came to the realization that it’s happening.”
A thick, mournful silence hangs between us as he looks toward the hospital doors, then back down at the ground, exhaling smoke with a deep sigh. “I’m sorry” I offer and I mean it.
He shakes his head, cutting me off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t be”
“She’s been in pain for so long, I—” He swallows, the words catching in his throat for a moment. “I’m just glad she won’t have to see what’s happening out there. What this world’s come to.”
I can feel the sadness in his words, the weight of a lifetime of love and loss, and I don’t press him for more. He takes one last drag of his cigarette, the embers glowing faintly before he flicks it to the ground and crushes it beneath his boot.
“Thanks again,” he mutters, offering me a faint, tired smile. He straightens up, then turns back toward the entrance of the hospital, his footsteps slow and deliberate, like each one carries a decade with it.
I watch him go, and for a moment, the ache in his voice lingers in my chest like an old wound reopening. It’s strange—how you can share a moment with a stranger and feel like you’ve carried their burden all along.
I stand there for a few more moments, letting the silence settle in. As I’m just about to resume my patrol I hear the calloused voice of an angry man that cuts through the air, near the perimeter entrance. His words are sharp and incoherent at first, but it doesn’t take long for them to rise into a full-blown tirade. I drop my cigarette, crushing it under my boot, and quickly head toward the commotion.
Near screening booth 3, I spot him—a middle-aged man with flushed, angry features, practically dragging a young boy by the arm. His face is contorted, veins bulging against his temple as he berates a young nurse. She stands her ground, but her face is pale, her eyes wide with the kind of fear you try to suppress when someone is on the edge.
The man makes a move to shove past her, pulling the boy along like a rag doll. The nurse steps in front of him, raising her hands in an attempt to block his path.
“Sir, you can’t go in without clearance!” she says, her voice trembling but firm.
“Get out of the way!” the man roars. He grabs her by the arms, shaking her.
She struggles against him, her voice breaking as she pleads, “Let go of me!”
Then, with a violent push, he sends her sprawling to the ground. The crowd behind them gasps, a ripple of unease moving through the line. Other soldiers began to make their way over but I meet the man before they can. “Back the hell up!” I screamed, pointing at him, my anger boiling over.
The man stood next to the nurse who was cowering on the ground. He extended his arms as if surprised at my statement. The man freezes for a moment, glancing at me as I approach, his hands still outstretched as if caught in the act. The nurse is on the ground, cradling her arms, her breaths coming in quick gasps.
“Get back in line! Now!” I shout, my tone leaving no room for argument.
His anger flares again, his chest heaving. “My son’s arm is broken!” he shouts, pointing at the boy, whose face is twisted in pain. It’s easy to hear the desperation in his voice and the madness in his eyes. “We’ve been waiting for hours while this goddamn hospital prioritizes those infected freaks! It’s bullshit! My kid needs a doctor!”
I step closer, my hand instinctively resting on the grip of my holstered weapon. My voice is steady, but my anger is barely contained. “I don’t give a fuck!” I screamed back into his face with as much venom as I could. The man was visually stunned taking a step backwards.
“You don’t think that every other person in this line is waiting for treatment just like you? The reason the clearance is so strict is to prevent infection spreading inside the hospital. Where do you think your son is going to go if this place becomes a morgue?”
The man stares at me, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. The madness in his eyes falters, replaced by uncertainty. “That’s what I thought. Don’t you ever put your fucking hands on my staff again.” I gesture sharply toward the nurse, who is being helped to her feet by another soldier.
“Let me be clear.” I said, taking a step closer to him. “The only reason I’m not arresting you is because of your son.”
He steps back, raising his hands defensively. His face is a mix of shame and residual anger, but he doesn’t argue. “I—uh, yeah,” he stammers, finally looking down at his son. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t mean to assault her?” I cut in sharply. I pause but he only stares down in shame. “Get back in line before I change my mind.”
The man nods quickly, his head jerking like a puppet on strings. He mumbles something unintelligible, pulling his son back into the line.
I let out a slow breath, my hand slipping from my holster as the tension eases, though the adrenaline still lingers. My eyes flick to the nurse, who gives me a small, shaky nod. She’s young—barely more than a kid, really—and it’s painfully obvious how overworked she is. Her shoulders slump with exhaustion, her hands trembling as she cradles her left arm, the one she must have landed on when she fell. Her lips pressed together in a tight line, and I can see the effort it’s taking for her to hold back tears.
Bradford is next to her, assessing her injuries. He’s a young guy—too young, similar to the nurse. I’d give him maybe twenty-two at best, though he carries himself like he’s older. He’s always been an obedient one, quick to follow orders, eager to prove himself. I knew a little of his history, he’s from a long line of military folks, all of them proud, the kind who expect a lot from him. It’s not hard to see the weight of that pride sitting heavy on his shoulders.
I raise my hand, signaling for him to come over. He stands at attention as he approaches.
I take a deep breath, letting the frustration settle in my chest. “Who the hell is supposed to be stationed here as a guard?” I ask, my tone a little sharper than intended. I don’t mean it to sound accusatory, but I can feel the irritation bubbling up.
Bradford hesitates for a second, then shakes his head, looking uncertain. “I’m not sure, ma’am. But I’ll investigate and let you know,” he says, glancing down at his boots, then back up at me.
I narrow my eyes, not entirely satisfied with the response, but I don’t push it further. “Things like this shouldn’t be happening, Bradford. We can’t afford to have civilians slipping past the perimeter.” I let the words hang in the air between us. It’s not just the security I’m worried about—it’s the larger issue of control. Everything’s falling apart, especially with so few of us and I can feel it creeping into every corner of this place.
“I understand, ma’am,” he says, his voice still polite but laced with a nervous edge.
I give him a hard look, and he straightens up, realizing the severity of my words. “Good. I want you to station two more soldiers here and keep an eye on that asshole. No one should be getting through this gate without clearance. And our staff shouldn’t be getting assaulted.”
He nods quickly. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll make sure it’s done.”
As he walked off I turned my attention to the nurse. “Are you okay?” I ask, my voice softer now, though I’m not sure how much comfort it offers. She’s young—probably not more than twenty. Her blonde hair’s pulled back into a neat, tight bun, and her brilliant blue eyes seem out of place in the chaos, too bright, too innocent for this world of pain and sickness. She’s clearly a very pretty girl, the kind of beauty that catches your eye even in the midst of all this destruction. She continues to tremble.
“Yes,” she says quickly, her voice barely above a whisper. She nods, staring at the ground as though looking at me might shatter her composure entirely. Her fingers grip her arm tighter, and I know she’s lying—probably more to herself than to me.
I watched her for a moment. “Come on,” I say, gesturing for her to follow me.
She looks up, her expression one of quiet confusion. For a second, it’s as though she’s unsure if she heard me right or if she’s even allowed to move.
“Come with me,” I repeat, firmer this time.
She hesitates but eventually falls into step beside me, her movements tentative. I adjust my pace to match hers as we head toward the hospital entrance, the weight of the earlier altercation still hanging in the air.
Before we get far, another nurse intercepts us, her presence nervous but determined. “Excuse me, Sergeant,” she says, her voice careful, as if worried I might lash out. “We can’t spare her. Even with seven other screening stations, people aren’t getting in fast enough. They’re frustrated, and it’s only getting worse. If she leaves, it’s going to slow things down even more. There’ll be more people like that man.”
I stop, meeting her gaze. She’s not wrong. The line outside is already restless, the kind of energy that could boil over at any moment. But I’m not about to send this nurse back to the wolves after what just happened.
“She’s done,” I say flatly.
The other nurse stiffens, taken aback by my bluntness. Realizing how my tone came across, I exhale slowly and soften my approach. “Look, just close her station temporarily. I’ll send someone to replace her, okay? We’re not putting her back out there like this.”
The nurse hesitates but eventually nods, her expression resigned. “Alright. I’ll make it work.”
“Thank you,” I reply, and she steps aside, disappearing back toward the chaos.
I turn back to the young nurse and continue walking, her pace faltering slightly before she matches mine again. She doesn’t say a word, her eyes still focused on the ground, but the tension in her posture starts to ease the closer we get to the hospital doors.
“You’re not going back out there,” I say, breaking the silence.
She glances at me, startled. “But… I’m fine,” she protests weakly.
I stop, turning to face her. “You’re not fine,” I say firmly, though not unkindly. “And that’s okay. You don’t need to be.” I gesture toward the hospital. “You’ve done more than enough for today. Let someone else take over.”
She swallows hard, blinking rapidly as if to keep the tears at bay, but she nods. “Thank you,” she says, her voice barely audible.
We step through the hospital’s double doors, leaving the chaos of the perimeter behind. For a moment, the cool air inside and the relative quiet feel like stepping into another world. I glance at her again, noting the way her shoulders start to relax just a little.
“Let’s get your arm looked at,” I say, my tone gentler now.
She doesn’t argue this time, simply following as I lead her down the hallway. I glance over at her. “What’s your name?” I ask, breaking the silence.
She hesitates, as if caught off guard, then answers, “Kasey.”
“Kasey,” I repeat, nodding. “I’m Blair.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I can see her posture relax just slightly at the exchange, like hearing her own name spoken somehow grounds her.
“You look young to be a nurse,” I say.
Her lips twitch into something that’s half a smile, half a grimace. “That’s because I’m not really a nurse,” she admits, her voice quieter than before.
I frown, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I was part way through my nursing degree when everything shut down,” she explains. “The government put out a call for volunteers, anyone with healthcare training, even students like me.” She glances down at her hands, flexing her fingers as if to shake off a memory. “I’m not technically qualified, but… I can help. I still know a lot. An older nurse has been mentoring me.”
I nod slowly, taking in her words. “That’s a lot to handle,” I say after a beat.
She shrugs, though it’s more a reflex than a real response. “I couldn’t get home so there wasn’t much of a choice,” she says quietly.
We pass through the hospital’s double doors, the cool air inside a stark contrast to the oppressive heat and chaos outside. The halls are bustling but somehow quieter than the perimeter.
“Where’s this mentor of yours?” I ask.
“She should be around here somewhere,” Kasey replies, scanning the bustling room.
“Right here!” A voice calls out, bright and warm despite the tension in the air. An older nurse who had gray streaks starting to seep into her natural brown hair that was pulled back into a bun. She weaved through the crowd toward us. She has a kind face, the kind that looks like it could light up a room even on the worst of days.
“Mina,” Kasey says, relief washing over her as the nurse reaches us.
Mina’s sharp eyes immediately zero in on Kasey’s trembling form, and her smile fades. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says, reaching out to steady her. “What happened?”
“There was an incident at the perimeter,” I explain, stepping in before Kasey has to relive it. “She was pushed to the ground during an altercation.”
Mina’s face hardens briefly, worry etched into her features. “It’s not the first,” she mutters, half to herself, before shaking her head. “These attacks are getting worse. People are scared, desperate. But that’s no excuse.”
Her eyes soften as she looks at Kasey again. “Come on, let’s get you looked at,” she says gently, placing a supportive hand on the younger woman’s shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Kasey protests weakly.
“You’re not,” Mina counters with a smile, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re tough, but even tough ones need a break now and then.”
Mina looks up at me, her expression appreciative. “Thank you for bringing her in.”
“Just doing my job,” I reply, though I give Kasey one last glance. “Take care of yourself, alright?”
Kasey meets my eyes for the first time, her gratitude evident even if she doesn’t say it outright. “I will,” she says softly.
Mina guides her toward a back room, her voice already shifting to that soothing, professional tone nurses seem to master. I linger for a moment, watching them disappear through a door, before turning back toward the chaos outside.
