They look like aliens, like creatures from another world, and their presence on our ranch, in our dusty, sun-baked world, is so surreal, so utterly wrong, that for a second, my brain just refuses to process it.
“What the fuck…” Tex breathes beside me, his voice a mixture of awe and terror.
The hazmat team moves with a strange kind of grace, setting up orange cones and unfolding what looks like a portable decontamination shower. One of them approaches, a woman, her face a distorted reflection in the plastic.
Deputy Jamie Martinez steps forward, his eyes wide and a little wild behind his mask. He points a trembling finger at Billy.
“Is that… is that a symptom?” he asks, his voice high and reedy.
He’s pointing to the bruise on Billy’s shoulder, the one he got from his fall, a dark purple mark peeking out from the strap of his tank top.
“A symptom?” Billy asks, his voice laced with confusion and a rising anger. “It’s a bruise, you idiot. I fell off my horse.”
“Jamie,” Ben says, his voice sharp with warning. “That’s enough. Let the authorities speak. You’re scaring people.”
The woman in the hazmat suit stops a few feet from us. Behind her, a man in an identical suit approaches, carrying a metal case.
They look imposing, professional, and utterly terrifying.
“My name is Dr. Aris Thorne,” the man says, his voice distorted by a speaker in his suit. He’s elderly, his voice thin and reedy, but it carries an undeniable authority. “This is my colleague, Dr. Lena Petrova. We’re with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.”
The CDC. The words land like a death sentence.
“What’s going on?” I ask, my own voice sounding distant to my ears. “Where’s Dr. Morales?”
“Dr. Morales and his entire team have been quarantined in the Austin offices,” Dr. Petrova explains, her voice calm and clinical. “They were the first point of contact with the samples. We’re here to take over.”
Dr. Thorne steps forward. “Gentlemen, I’m not going to sugarcoat this. You, your brothers, your young hand here, and Dr. Archer and her friend have all been exposed to a parasite. A highly unusual, aggressive parasite that we know very little about. It appears to be mutating, and we have no data on its long-term effects or its full transmission capabilities.”
Tex looks from the doctors to Sedona, his face a mask of disbelief. “Exposed? What does that mean?”
“It means,” Dr. Thorne says, his voice grave, “that for the foreseeable future, all of you need to be quarantined together. Here. On this ranch.”
The world tilts on its axis. Quarantined. Here. Together.
Ben Riley steps forward, his hands held up in a placating gesture. “Now, listen. This ranch is the biggest property for miles. It’s the best place to set up a command post. The CDC and the state vet services will establish a base of operations at the edge of your land, completely isolated.
“All we need from you is to provide room and board for Dr. Archer and her friend while we figure out what the hell is happening. Half the town is in panic mode. We’re having to call in reinforcements just to manage the phone calls. But until this is contained, your family, Jasper, and Dr. Archer and Ms. Finch will all be under investigation and observation.”
I look at my brothers. At Tex’s pale, shocked face. At Billy’s stony, furious silence.
I look at Sedona, who is standing there, her arms wrapped around herself, looking so small and fragile. I look at the hazmat suits, at the cones, at the decontamination shower.
This is my worst nightmare. A complete and total loss of control.
Holy shit.
Dr. Thorne’s voice is a monotonous drone, a clinical buzz that does little to soothe the frantic humming under my skin.
He’s explaining the decontamination procedure, his words a string of technical jargon—antimicrobial agents, UV exposure, sample collection protocols—that should be my primary focus.
I’m the numbers guy, the one who needs to understand the process, the variables. But my eyes keep drifting to Sedona.
She’s standing a few feet away, Clara’s arm wrapped securely around her waist, a gesture of fierce, protective love. The sun is beating down on all of us, but she seems to be feeling it more than anyone.
A sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead, clinging to the stray curls that have escaped her braid. Her face is pale, almost gray, and there’s a slight tremor in her hands that she’s trying to hide by clenching them into fists.
She’s not just listening; she’s enduring. Every word from the CDC doctors seems to land on her like a physical blow.
