Late at night when it was too hot to sleep, I’d sit in Grammy’s rocker and watch for meteors. My grandmother could still name all the constellations but, even without light pollution, she couldn’t see the stars very well, anymore. The diabetes got to her eyes.
Grammy’s memory was getting worse and so was her outlook. “Some nights I lay in bed in the heat and I think one of them big rocks will come down from outer space and put us out of our misery, put us down like a dog. But it ain’t all over. You got some livin’ to do yet. Don’t you worry. There’s still time for you.”
She told me the same thing many times. Even though the news was new to her each time, I sensed less and less conviction.
After she was down for the night, I’d sit out on the porch and wonder how much time there was left and how I should spend it. Time used to be malleable. It could stretch and compress and play tricks. Now it seemed a short and tired thing. Just like our money, it was limited, easy to spend and almost as dried up as the swamp.
It’s true you don’t miss what you never had but I did remember the noise from the frogs and crickets. It was a wild thrum, call and response, a choir whose church was nature. I liked the quiet but too much silence can get to a person. You think you like something and then you get too much of it.
That was how I felt when I got the encrypted message from my sister. My bracelet lit my face, the only electronic glow for miles. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I read and reread her plea. I hadn’t heard from her in a long time and she’d set the note to be delivered months after it was written. She made it clear I was needed, that I was the only one she could trust for the task she’d set. My instructions were short and precise. I had to leave Grammy behind to answer my own call of duty.
I memorized the message and erased it. Then I walked down the road in the dark and knocked on my closest neighbor’s door. Lisa Gott was at her kitchen table reading by an oil lamp. I told her what I needed, what Grammy needed to know and what she didn’t need to know.
Lisa’s husband Buddy was away, stationed in Vancouver, Washington. She understood and didn’t hesitate to agree to help.
I needed her to say yes but, to be polite, I asked, “You’re sure? The refrigerator isn’t even hooked up anymore but Grammy keeps putting things in it. If she runs out of clothes in her bedroom, sometimes that’s where you’ll find them.”
“Kismet, after what you did for this town, for Buddy and me?”
“I took no pleasure in that — ”
“It was necessary. You came through for all of us. You’ll never hear no from me.”
The next morning, I assured Grammy all would be well in my absence. “Lisa will check in on you. The money from Daddy and Mama will keep coming. You always said the wars will never end so you can depend on the money. If you’re short, Lisa can help out with rations from the food bank.”
“You gonna leave a blind old woman to her own self just like that, huh? Just like Sissy and your father. Like your mother, you’ve got that wanderlust. That’s the trouble.”
“Grammy, I love you, but you keep telling me I need a job. You tell me that every day. It’s time I looked where the jobs are. That means going farther down the road.”
“Well, bless us and bless you,” Grammy said sourly. “You know the difference between a hot clammy night you can’t sleep and a sweaty sultry summer night, Kismet?” Grammy asked. “Your mood and your company. You want to survive in this world, you need an umbrella for your troubles. Go into Atlanta and see if y’all can find the right people to keep you safe.”
As I walked down the dusty road headed south past abandoned farms and empty buildings, ragged yellow ribbons were tied around many of the trees. It seemed everyone from the area had at least one family member in the military.
I pushed that thought away and focused on breathing and walking, just like Mama taught me. I told myself I was on an adventure. Bad times can make heroes. I wanted to believe that. I wanted to make it true.
Chapter Two
The road south to Atlanta was mostly quiet and abandoned. I heard birds in the distance but I missed the rattling alarm of squirrels. In the last year or so, most of them had been hunted close to extinction. One squirrel didn’t feed many but several in a stew could last a couple of days if rationed properly.
I walked for a couple of hours before I hit the first checkpoint. Three guardsmen in camouflage waited at a T-junction in a beat-up white SUV. Parked in front of a shuttered convenience store, their camo served no function other than to intimidate. I had two knives on me I didn’t want to lose and I thought I might lose them if they searched me. I considered turning into the woods but they’d already spotted me. If I made them chase me, I could get arrested or worse. I decided to play it cool.
A pair of sleepy guardsmen sat side-by-side on the truck’s tailgate. Grizzled and worn, I noticed they were both amputees, one with one leg and the other with none. Their prosthetic legs clacked together a little as they passed a thermos back and forth.
I’d seen plenty of veterans with metal legs by then. However, the fact that the two were together seemed an odd detail. I wondered, Is this real? Am I hallucinating from hunger and dehydration already?
The third guard was a woman in an exoskeleton. She had all her limbs but the gear allowed her to stand for long periods without expending energy. She hefted her rifle and gave me a hard look.
I took that as my cue to come to a stop. “Good morning to you.”
She didn’t reply immediately and I guessed she was waiting for the scanner in her goggles to complete its facial-recognition run.
Impatient to get going before the heat of the day forced me to find shade, I offered, “Hello?”
“Kismet Beatriz?”
“Yes?”
“State your business.”
“Headed to Atlanta for work.”
The guard made a face. “What work?”
“I don’t know yet. I gotta go find it.”
“There’s no work in Atlanta.”
“Maybe so. There’s even less work around here.”
One of the guards on the back of the truck cackled. I wasn’t sure if he was laughing at me or at her. I suspected the thermos contained something stronger than soup.
“Lotta people coming the other way,” the woman told me. “A column of illegals passed by here last night.”
“Oh? I didn’t see anyone.”
“They always say they’re looking for work, too.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. I haven’t seen anyone this morning except for a fox, some birds and a couple of feral cats.”
“You hear about the protests?”
The way she asked, the question almost sounded like she was sharing gossip. I knew better. My father had always been clear about the Citizen Security and Safety Force. “They may wear roughly the same uniform but they are not your friends. Never let your guard down with one of them. They’re doing different duty than your mother and me.”
“I don’t know anything about any protests.”
“The Apple-a-Chicks are marching on Washington,” she said.
I knew the name. They called their organization the Organization of Appalachian Women for Income Equality. The propapundits first called them the OAWIES or OWIES, for a shorter and more dismissive taunt. That name didn’t catch on. Apple-a-Chicks polled better with the Select Few so the media switched to the new moniker to mock the movement.
“There are rumors,” the guard said. “You heard anything about protest activities down here?”
The idea that there were enough Apple-a-Chicks to stir up trouble in my state seemed as remote as Muslim extremists targeting my little town with a dirty bomb. “In Georgia? Pretty far from the action, aren’t we?” I made the mistake of smiling as I answered.
One of the guards sitting on the SUV’s tail grumbled, “Trouble’s everywhere, girl.”
“Protest groups have been linked to our president’s assassination,” the other added, no
t looking up.
Though his death was not new, members of the CSS seemed particularly aggrieved by his passing. They never said the president. They always said our president. Meaning: not yours.
The Appalachian women protesters had been implicated in the assassination, but anyone who’d ever criticized him was suspect.
“I’ve never seen any protesters around here,” I said.
“Maybe it wasn’t them specifically,” the guard in the exoskeleton corrected me. “Maybe it’s them and maybe it isn’t but don’t talk like it matters. A protest group is fertile soil for traitors and terrorists. Disloyal is disloyal, whatever quarter it comes from.”
Unlike my grandmother, she must have believed every word uttered by the propapundits.
“Where you comin’ from, Kismet?” one of the men on the truck asked.
“Campbellford.”
“What’s there?”
“Not much. It’s home. I live with my grandmother.”
“You got a job prospect down in Atlanta?”
“Nothing solid, just going to look and see what I can find.”
The third guard looked at me with heavily lidded eyes. “Nice pack. Where’d you get it?”
The backpack belonged to my father and I told him so.
The female guard, tall and towering over me in her exo-gear, ordered me to take it off. She tossed it to the pair on the tailgate and they rummaged through my belongings.
“Must not be too busy around here,” I said. “Haven’t seen a car on the road, either.”
“If you’re implying we don’t have enough to do — ”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” She placed herself between me and the SUV so I couldn’t see the men rifle through my bag.
“Where’d your father serve?” the woman asked.
“Lots of places. My parents were out west on a peacekeeping mission. That pack went to the Middle Beast with my father on his first two tours. When you guys dig to the bottom you’ll probably find some sand from Afghanistan or Iran. My mother served there, too.”
“Your parents are both warrior class?”
“My sister, too, yeah. Air Force.”
“Why aren’t you?”
I felt like I’d already given up too much of myself to them so I just shrugged.
“Uh-huh. That’s the problem with you people.” She stalked back to the SUV in a few long strides. The weight of her exoskeleton left deep impressions in the macadam. She retrieved my pack and tossed it at my feet.
My underwear was poking out of the top. Embarrassed, I stuffed it back inside. When I picked it up, it felt light. When I looked to the men at the back of the SUV, they grinned and held up several ration packs. “Thanks for the grub, Kismet!”
“You aren’t guardsmen. You’re thieves.”
The woman stepped forward suddenly and used the broadside of her rifle to push me back. “Watch your mouth, girl. You only get to complain when you’ve sacrificed something.”
“I just gave up my rations and some dignity, I guess.”
“Maybe you better turn around and head home to your grandmother,” one of the men told me. “If you’re no use to us, maybe you can do something for her. Or join up! You join up, you become a citizen and you get to vote, so why not? It’s what patriots do.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“It’s free! Take it for what it’s worth!” He cackled at me and the other two joined in.
I pulled my pack back on my shoulders and retreated toward home. It’s a funny thing about getting pushed around. Before I came upon that checkpoint, I really hadn’t given the Apple-a-Chicks much thought. Their protests were far away and seemed irrelevant to me. After being bullied by armed guards, I wanted to know more about the protests. Given the chance, I wanted to join one. Whatever their politics, if the protesters pissed them off, the Apple-a-Chicks were worth my support.
I hadn’t joined the warrior class to earn full citizenship. Propapundits were like musicians who only knew two notes: Trust those who lead our great nation, honor the centurions who protect it.
But I’d seen what our leaders and the CSS had done. Coming from a military family, I knew how shallow their reverence for the military really was. Neither my parents nor my sister felt they lived in a world of choice. Except for members of the Select Few, I don’t think there were ever many choices.
Grammy was certain our fates were set and we were all doomed. “Trains run on rails,” she would say. “They go from here to there and that’s it. Trains don’t wander off course. People like to think they’re different from trains. Mostly, they aren’t. Doesn’t matter. Everything’s off the rails, isn’t it?”
I was determined to find a new way forward that didn’t end in derailment and disaster. As soon as I was around a corner and out of sight, I doubled back through the woods. I gave the checkpoint a wide berth so they wouldn’t scan me on thermo.
Atlanta was a long walk but I still had a filter straw to decontaminate water. I could drink from a creek if and when I found one. The rations were a hard loss but I was used to hunger.
I told myself this was only the beginning of my grand adventure. Grammy would have told me my train was already derailing.
Chapter Three
I didn’t have a tent but I had a tarp. The creek beds were dry but it rained hard that night. I used the tarp to funnel rainwater into my mouth. It was a rough night’s sleep and it was still raining when I set off the next morning. Though the day started off wet and miserable, by noon, the sun and the heat forced me to shelter under a dead ash tree. I spread the tarp out again to dry it.
A few people wandered by, heading in the direction I’d come. A haggard white woman pushing an empty stroller asked if she could buy some water. I shrugged and told her I had nothing for her. She cursed me and kept going, marching on. I tried to tell her I hadn’t seen any water sources except for the rain. The woman turned and spat and I watched her go. She got smaller and smaller until she was a dot and then she was nothing.
An hour later, I spotted a convoy of military trucks rumbling in the same direction. I slipped behind the tree and waited for them to disappear. Would they stop for the woman? What might the CSS demand in return for a bottle of water? I didn’t know and didn’t want to think about it.
I fell asleep under the dead ash tree and woke with a start, eager to get back on the road to Atlanta while it was light. I gathered my things and, after another hour or so, came upon a larger road. My stomach growled and I felt a little lightheaded. AUTONAV trucks blew past me at full speed. When I came upon a short break in traffic I clambered over a barrier and sprinted to the other side of the highway. Using my bracelet, I tried to get the attention of two AUTONAV buses. They were for citizens only, I guess, because the bus scanner did not register my presence and sped on.
I began to walk, my thumb out. Shortly, a man and a woman in a fancy red sports car stopped to offer me a ride.
The man had a huge head and was jowly, a sure sign of prosperity. “Fat as a tick,” Grammy would say. “If he were an inch taller, he’d be perfectly round.”
The woman wore thick makeup. The bright red lipstick she had dragged around her mouth to make her lips look bigger reminded me of pictures of clowns. The couple’s low-slung car looked like it was built for speed in a way its owners were not. I climbed in the back and we roared off. The fuel was organic, not electric, so I was sure I was in the presence of a member of the Select Few. That meant they had to be bound for Atlanta. I thought my luck had changed.
“I’m Chuck,” the driver said. “That’s Marjorie.”
“I’m his paramour,” she giggled.
I wasn’t familiar with that word but I deduced she meant that they were a couple. I nodded agreeably. “Thanks for the ride.” The seats were so soft I might have fallen asleep if I weren’t so hungry. The air conditioning blew cool air over my skin, chilling the sweat. I shivered but I was grateful, too.
&
nbsp; “You running away from home?” Chuck asked. “I don’t normally see a lot of girls out along the highway alone. You’re lucky the CSS didn’t pick you up for hitching.”
“I’m headed to Atlanta, looking for work.”
“Oh, really?” Marjorie looked intrigued. “Young girl, all on her own, on your first big adventure?”
I didn’t like the way she looked me up and down. “Just looking for a job, ma’am.”
“Ma’am! Ooh, so polite! I like this one, Chuck. You should give her a job!”
Chuck’s eyes flicked up into the rearview mirror. He stared at me for a beat longer than seemed wise. He was driving and the car was not in autonomous mode. His was not a threatening look, not exactly. More of an appraisal, as if he was trying to calculate my exact worth to him. I didn’t care for Marjorie’s smile, either.
I felt lightheaded and a little sick in the back of their car. I closed my eyes for a moment to will the nausea away. This is real, I thought. This is happening. Keep your guard up.
Daddy was a combat instructor. I wasn’t military, but he’d taught me how to defend myself. It wasn’t fear that rose through my chest as they drove me south. It was something else I had not felt since the previous spring, the night I confronted Clayton Dobbs.
I pushed that thought away. Lisa and Buddy Gott were grateful for what I did for Campbellford, but I didn’t like to think about Dobbs.
“Y’know, you’re a little odoriferous, out there in the sun all day,” Marjorie said. “We could take you home and give you a bath. Would you like that? Would you like us to give you a bath?”
I had given no thought to defending myself against the three armed guardsmen, especially since one was in an exoskeleton and armed with a rifle. That would have been stupid. However, I was confident I could handle these two. They looked soft and I wore two knives.
One blade was in a sheath at the small of my back. The other was strapped to my left forearm. Both combat knives, black and sharp, were gifts from my parents. They were given to me when I was thirteen, on the day of my first menstruation.
Citizen Second Class- Apocalypse Next Page 2
