"Hello world," the woman said a half second after pressing record on her phone's camera, "Charlotte here again, with perhaps the craziest message you'll EVER get from me." She paused to take a breath, not at all nervous but rather excited to be capturing such an event. "So right now, I and a bunch of other people, like, literally probably around five HUNDRED or so, have been rounded up by the National Guard inside King Street Station here in Seattle, and there's probably like fifty soldiers here but they honestly seem as confused as everyone else here. All they're doing is blocking the exits to keep people from getting out." She paused again, and smirked. "There've been rumblings in the darkest recesses of the internet about some sort of weird illness that's making people crazy in different places around the world. I've heard of it happening in Nigeria, then Russia, then Italy…just looking at their reactions, there's a chance it's made it here. Whatever is going on, you can count on me to get to the bottom of it like I always do. This is Charlotte Brody, of CBInternet, signing off." With that, she stopped her recording.

At just twenty-five years old, Charlotte had cemented herself as a serious name in amateur investigative journalism. Although she did not have any sort of degree (having dropped out of college after only a year), she nevertheless devoted her time to digging around for major things being covered up against the public interest. While she didn't care about finding a married politician's affair, she refused to stand by when she came across a covered-up murder by a local athlete; she delivered her findings to the authorities, who opened an investigation and eventually sent the murderer to prison for life. Against the advice of the police and attorneys, Charlotte proudly took credit on her blog, gaining her enough supporters for her to start a vlog on the world's foremost video-sharing site. She knew that it was time to start filming once she and everyone walking down the street in her vicinity were rounded up like cattle and ushered into Seattle's largest and busiest train station.

She had hidden in a small alcove in a seldom-used hallway to film her video; she quickly applied red lipstick to compliment her caramel skin, and decided to just leave her black beanie on as she didn't feel like she was having the best hair day. Once she had finished, she went back among the other people herded into the station, hoping to get some witness statements to spice up her blog.

…

"I need to search you sir," the Guardsman said firmly but politely.

Thirty-six-year-old Army veteran Gordon Randall was annoyed at the demand. "What are you looking for this time?"

"Sir," the Guardsman said, growing impatient, "I need to check for any cuts or other open wounds."

"Open wounds? What, you think I'm living in a blender or some shit?"

"Sir, I'm just doing my job." He noticed the tattoo on Gordon's arm, indicating his military service. "Same as you did." Gordon sighed, and let the Guardsman search him. "I'm just looking out for you. If you start feeling funny, it's imperative you get to the triage area."

"Yeah, whatever." Gordon then started to leave the search area, when he was stopped by another civilian, who was African-American like himself, as well as tall and lanky.

"You were Army?" the man asked Gordon.

"Yeah," Gordon replied. "Five years, did two tours. You a vet?"

"No," the man replied, "I was just thinking you might know what's going on."

"Well sorry man, I don't know any more than you do, although I'm gonna have words with whoever tries to search me again." The man laughed, then Gordon changed the subject, "What's your name, man?"

"Josh Smithson, you?"

"Gordon Randall." As the men shook hands and started to walk away, a commotion arose in the next line over from the one Gordon had been in.

"You're gettin' a little handsy there, ya flag-spermin' CUNT!" A woman in her early twenties, who stood at just five-foot-three and had black hair in a bob, shouted in her thick Scottish accent at a Guardsman who felt her thigh as he lifted her skirt slightly. He was genuinely just trying to do his job and search her for any cuts, but the young woman wasn't having it.

"Ma'am, please calm down," he asked, attempting to reassure her of his duty.

"I'll calm down when ya stop liftin' my skirt ya pervert!"

"Ma'am, I just need to search you—" The woman kept yelling at him, and Gordon and Josh merely looked at each other and silently walked away from the scene.

…

The Guardsmen had blocked all the entrances; no one was getting in or out without their say-so. However, twenty-eight-year-old tattoo artist Samantha Dane, who owned a parlor near the station, convinced a Guardsman to let her step out onto one of the train platforms, all of which had been closed to the civilians, to have a cigarette for the first time in nearly twelve hours. The soldier warned her not to get too far from the door, but he let her go and stood with the door cracked, in case she yelled for help.

She lit a cigarette and felt her cravings subside almost instantly. At that moment, two men exited the same door she had, and joined her on the platform, also to smoke. One of the men was in his late thirties and had blonde hair and a mustache; the other was in his early forties, wore glasses, and had dark hair that was starting to gray. Both were dressed in business-casual attire.

"You have any idea what's going on?" The blonde man asked Samantha.

"I don't have a fucking clue," Samantha replied. "All I know is, I'm just happy that guy let me out for a smoke."

"Same here," the bespectacled man said, "I haven't had one all day."

Samantha smiled politely at them, but the blonde man sensed she wasn't exactly enthusiastic for company. "I'm sorry if we're bothering you," he said warmly.

"It's fine," she said back. "I'm Samantha."

"I'm Chris," the blonde man responded, "and this handsome SOB here is my co-worker Bill."

"Nice to meet you," Bill said with a friendly smile. Samantha smiled back, and they proceeded to make idle chit-chat as they smoked and stared into the night sky.

…

"This whole thing is bullshit man," said Ryan, a muscular construction worker with had a penchant for conspiracy theories. "They're turning this place into a quarantine zone. NONE of us are leaving."

"Well," nineteen-year-old Ethan said, "if it's a quarantine thing, why would we leave?"

"I'm telling you man," Quentin, a cook who coincidentally was twenty-nine years old like Ryan, "there's like, a real problem here. Those guys are scared and they know something's up." He was referring to the soldiers; Ryan and Ethan looked up and could see the concern on some of their faces.

The three men, complete strangers before this day, had been chatting casually before, but as the seriousness of the situation started to set in, the conversation evolved, and Ryan began sharing some of the conspiracy theories he spent most of his free time indulging in. Ethan didn't quite believe him, while Quentin felt that Ryan wasn't dealing with the seriousness of the particular situation they were in; none of his theories seemed relevant to why they and hundreds of other people were likely spending the night in a train station.

"Wanna know why I'm fucking POSITIVE this this shit is serious?" Quentin asked. Before receiving an answer, he shared his thoughts. "Look at the gates: those soldiers are frisking EVERYBODY. Situations like this, no offense Ryan, but soldiers tend to single out the minorities more than anyone else. But those soldiers? They're so concerned about something that they are checking every last person they bring in." Both Quentin and Ethan were African-American, although Quentin was much more light-skinned than Ethan.

"Look man," Ryan responded, "I ain't even gonna get into if you're right or wrong on that one. All I know is, these guys do NOT have our back, so make sure you watch yours." He paused, then turned to Ethan. "What do you think, kid?"

"Honestly," Ethan said, "I think you guys are both right. I think there's something serious going on, and that those guys will fuck us all over if things go wrong."

…

Two women sat on a bench. One woman was Caucasian, blonde, and in her early forties; the other was of Middle Eastern descent with black hair, and was in her late twenties. Both sat in shell-shocked silence, until a woman came up to them.

"Excuse me," Charlotte asked them politely, "I'm a reporter and would like to ask you a couple of questions. It seems like you may know more about what's going on than most people here."

"May know more…" the Middle Eastern woman repeated. "I know more than you could ever imagine. I know how it feels, to see your life torn from you. I know that I don't even know why I'm here right now…" She paused, and Charlotte seemed to be regretting asking, but before she could apologize, the woman continued. "My sons were bitten in front of me. They were four, and eighteen months. I watched some crazy person bite both of them at a playground. Then I had to watch a cop SHOOT that man, and then he dragged me here before I could see if my boys were even alive." She could no longer hold in either her tears or her rage. "And now…these people have the nerve…to tell me…that that guy was merely SICK…oh, but you wanna see what I KNOW."

Charlotte was stunned to the same silence the women were in before, and then the other woman tearfully chimed in.

"Another crazy man bit my daughter. She was twelve. A soldier shot her after I asked for help; he told me it had to be done, and then they dragged me here. How's THAT for your story?"

Charlotte was horrified and heartbroken by the news. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to…I never would've…I'm so sorry…" Before she could find the right words to say, a tall man in his late forties with graying hair came over to her.

"Excuse me ma'am, are you hurt?"

Charlotte was surprised by his presence. "No, I'm fine, I was just—"

"Let me stop you right there," the man rudely cut her off. "I heard. You're a reporter. Although to me, you people are fucking VULTURES. Both of these women have been traumatized, and all you care about is your story?! I'm a doctor, which means I can actually HELP people, unlike you. Get out of here and don't come back unless you get hurt, which if you keep doing this shit, will be sooner rather than later."

Charlotte was taken aback by the man's rudeness. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I never would've come over here if I had known—"

"It's a TRIAGE, you stupid little girl. No one here wants to talk to anyone but me. Now get out of here."

Charlotte was unaware that these women were essentially overflow from the triage area, but before she could apologize again, another woman, in her early thirties with reddish brown hair, whom Charlotte suspected was the doctor's nurse, calmly put her arm around her. "Let's go," she said politely but firmly to Charlotte, "let's not exacerbate things any further."

"Keep her out of here, Danielle!" The doctor angrily ordered.

Once they were out of the triage area, Charlotte spoke again. "Nice guy."

"That," Danielle said, "is Dr. Ned Vaughn, one of the most brilliant surgeons in Seattle." She paused. "He also happens to be a giant fucking asshole. I'm a doctor too, yet he's relegated me to being a nurse. But, the Guardsmen only have one medic, so they needed help."

"He shouldn't treat anyone like that, let alone a fellow doctor."

Danielle sighed. "He's a surgeon, I'm a dermatologist. Because of that, he put himself in charge. Never mind that I went to medical school just like him. But whatever, my ego can take a back seat while I'm helping people. So please, don't come back unless you need medical attention, okay? And before you ask, no I'm not up for an interview right now."

"Fair enough," Charlotte said, nodding. Then she walked away, and Danielle walked back to the triage area, and went to check on another patient, a black man in his mid-twenties that she had stitched up earlier. "How are you feeling, Victor?"

"I'm fine doc," he said politely; Danielle smiled at him being the first person all day to acknowledge her as a doctor.

"No fever or anything?"

"I told you, I'm fine."

"Okay, well just to be safe I'm gonna check for one." She then put her hand on his forehead.

"Jesus, I'm twenty-six, yet you're treating me like I'm six!"

Danielle chuckled, and took her hand away. "Well if you don't like it, then I have some good news for you: you're free to go. You don't have a fever or anything, so you can go be a big boy out there with everyone else now."

Victor rolled his eyes and smiled. "See you round, doc. Don't YOU get sick now." He then stood up, and left the triage area.

…

Engine 4197 chugged onward. Devin readied himself to slow down the train as he entered the Seattle city limits.

"Does everyone know?" Devin asked Sgt. Thompson.

"No," Thompson swiftly replied. "Not even all of my fellow Guardsmen know. And you're not saying ANYTHING. The only reason you know is because you're a swift blackmailer."

"Look man, I won't say anything, but these people are NOT gonna take it well if they find out and realized you hid it from them."

"Luckily for you, that isn't your concern. Your concern is just driving this train as and when we need you to." They sat in silence for a moment, then Thompson continued. "Look, I get it, you're confused, you have questions. Hell, I still have questions too, but I just wanna make sure that these people are safe. They're my priority, and once they're safe, I can finally start asking questions because a world safe for these people is a world safe enough for me to get answers."

Devin nodded, respecting Thompson's position. "You're a good guy, Sergeant. Just don't let everything go to shit." Then, Devin began to slow the train for the arrival at King Street.