Blackout

My cousin, Andromeda, had been the first. Or at least, the first I’d known about. By then, hundreds, maybe thousands, of children had already gone. Parents kept the truth from us for two reasons: they didn’t want to frighten us, but more than that, they didn’t really understand what was happening themselves. It took a long time for anyone to piece it all together.

When Andromeda died, the school was put under strict orders not to speak of the illness. Back then, they were still calling it Prewett’s Disease, after Gideon Prewett, who’d been the first to die. I heard later he had a twin, Fabian, who’d followed him a few months after. They gave it a proper name eventually: Idiopathic Adolescent Acute Neurodegeneration, IAAN for short. By then, it had spread across the country.

My parents weren’t keen on me realizing I could drop dead at any moment. My brother was just outside the age range affected by IAAN, so they weren’t as worried about keeping him in the dark. But Sirius wasn’t like them. At night, when our parents had gone to bed, he’d sneak into my room and tell me everything.

"They said there’s no signs," he’d whisper, huddled under the covers with me. "You don’t even know it’s happening till it already is," he said, eyes wide. "And then… poof! It’s too late!" He told me like it was some ghost story, not something that was tearing through the country with no cure, no vaccine, no way to stop it.

"It’s not funny, Sirius. What if I die?" I asked, eyes wet, clutching the blanket between my fingers.

Even at eleven, Sirius knew when to drop a joke. He pulled me into him, tucking my head under his chin, fingers combing through my hair. "You’re not going to die," he said, matter-of-factly.

"But Andy—" I started.

"You are not Andy," Sirius said fiercely. "You’re Regulus Black. My little brother. And my little brother is not dying."

And while I knew, even then, how naive that was, it still comforted me. A little.

The thing was, Sirius wasn’t there when it happened.

He’d been at a doctor’s appointment, ironically enough. Normally, Andy sat with Sirius at lunch. But with him gone for the day, she’d come to sit at my table instead. She’d been savoring the chocolate cake they’d served, dragging her spoon through every bite like it was the rarest thing in the world. Normally, we got fruit jelly or stale biscuits. But that day it had been chocolate cake.

She was mid-sentence, gesticulating with her chocolate-smeared spoon, talking about how she’d start a campaign to get us chocolate cake at least once a week.

"Trust me, Reggie," Andy said, "you just—"

The spoon slipped from her fingers. Her brow furrowed into a grimace, lips parting as if she wanted to say something else.

"Andy—?" My spoon fell from my grip onto my tray.

Her eyes rolled back before she fell limp right out of her chair.

Two aides rushed forward as the rest of us froze, staring. Andy’s body convulsed against the floor, limbs jerking in sharp, unnatural spasms before falling limp once again.

"Andy?" My voice wavered.

One of the aides rolled her onto her back, pressing two fingers to her neck, then leaning down to listen for a heartbeat. After a moment, she began going through the motions of CPR.

"Andy?" My breath hitched, panic clawing up my throat. My hands clenched into fists, nails digging into my palms.

Another aide shushed me, but I barely heard her over the frantic counting, the press of hands against Andy’s unmoving chest. Then the shake of a head.

"No!" I screamed. "What happened? Andy? Wake up! Andy! Andy!"

But she wasn’t waking up.

I was inconsolable. They sent me home. Not everyone. You’d think they would have, but they didn’t. They told the rest of the students it was an allergic reaction. Just an unfortunate accident. And for a little while, they kept up the lie.

Until more kids started dropping.

A month later, twenty-three more children were dead, and I was sent home with a sealed envelope.

The teachers didn’t want us to know what was inside. My parents would have punished me if I disobeyed the stamp labeled for parents eyes only and hoped they’d share the contents. Our parents didn’t want us to know either. Once again Sirius was on my side.

That night, he crawled into my bed and whispered in the dark.

"It’s a list of things to look for," he murmured.

I stared at him, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, my stomach twisted.

"What’s on the list?" I demanded.

Sirius hesitated.

"It doesn’t matter," he said finally, "you don’t do any of them."

"But what if I do?"

"You won’t."

"But what if I do?"

"Regulus." His voice was firm. "I’ll tell you if you do."

A couple weeks later I over heard a broadcast parents were listening too. And I understood why Sirius hadn’t wanted to tell me.

The president was reading the list.

Watch for withdrawal from activities once enjoyed. Difficulty focusing. Hallucinations. Any signs of illness.

And then, worse.

Look out for violent outbursts. Unusual behaviors and Abilities. No matter if they seem impossible.

The list kept changing. The warnings became more frequent. More urgent.

They weren’t scared of kids dying anymore.

They were scared of the ones who lived.