“You think Mama and Daddy are in danger?”
Grammy almost laughed and pointed a crooked finger at the screen. “Naw, they’re plenty safe. Look at those protesters takin’ their medicine. God! The propapundits don’t call it assault or torture or attempted murder. They call what happens to them getting ‘roughed up.’ Does that look like anyone’s pulling their punches or even trying to arrest anybody?”
And so it was with the man in my truck who had dared to complain. Did the CSS serve themselves alone or was that day’s beating a demonstration meant for the rest of us? Probably both.
It made me sad to think it was even possible that a man could be assaulted so savagely to educate me, to silence me. My melancholy soon turned to anger when I caught a look from the old woman who had spoken against him. She’d volunteered to act as a witness but the CSS had no need of witnesses or trials.
The propapundits would never report the beating death of one seditionist. News like that only reached us in Campbellford thirdhand from refugees who personally witnessed such savagery.
The Select benefited from a divided nation but their methods were too brutal. They were so weak, they couldn’t even let one powerless homeless man’s words stand. Perhaps the Select’s inhumanity held the seed of their demise.
Bumping through Atlanta’s potholed streets, I brooded. What could one person do in the face of so many problems? Since the assassination of their president, protests against the Select were deemed unlawful. Peaceful demonstrations always ended in blood. Mass arrests were made. People disappeared and faceless rebel groups were blamed for the dead. Raised voices were quickly silenced.
When they pushed that man into the arms of the CSS, I had looked away. Though others had ushered him to the guards, my silence counted me among the collaborators. Complicity, the seed of my shame, blossomed into rage.
I looked again to the old woman who had been so eager to condemn the man. Her self-satisfied grin made me want to avenge a stranger. I had my parent’s knives. I wanted to cut that smug look off her face.
But I had other places to be.
Chapter Eleven
After bumping through Atlanta’s streets for another few minutes, I jumped down from the truck to stand in the shadow of the Circle’s wall. To my right was a checkpoint beneath an opening in the wall: Gate 27.
A single CSS officer stood in her guard shack, not sparing me a glance. Several large signs warned that security was high. Have identification ready: Roll up your sleeve and Intruders will be shot figured prominently.
To my left, the street opposite Gate 27 was closed to traffic. Several signs warned of roadwork and construction but no one was in sight. It seemed a stark juxtaposition: the Circle was complete but Atlanta’s infrastructure was in shambles.
Picasso climbed off the back of the truck, stepping down carefully. He seemed pained. I hadn’t noticed his limp while we stood in line. I asked him if he was hurt.
“Sitting for too long makes me achy.”
I thought of Grammy, how she grunted when she got up or sat down and was similarly stiff until she got moving. However, I guessed Picasso couldn’t be more than 22 or 23 years old.
“I was here for the riots,” he explained. “Got caught in the crush and got in some scraps. Never got it fixed right. Rolled my ankle bad last year and never got over it. Met a guy on the street once who used to be a doctor in Guatemala. He told me that with new cells replacing old cells, we’re new people every seven years. I guess if I just wait, it’ll be fine.”
He leaned on his spiked stick as he grabbed several garbage bags from the truck. It soon pulled away and, before he could hand me a bag, my vest buzzed.
Picasso grinned. “Feel that? It means you’re on the clock and not moving. Don’t let it buzz too long or you’ll be out here in the heat for hours more than you need to be. Sometimes they send out a CSS guy just to yell at you for practice.”
“Sounds pleasant.”
He pointed to litter that had collected at the base of the wall. “They like it pristine around the gates. Looks like lots of litter from the hordes blew in last night.”
“Hordes? You mean the great migration of people fleeing the tropics?”
Picasso shrugged. “Hordes, migration, parade … whatever you want to call it.”
“People. I prefer to call them people.”
“You got a bleeding heart?”
“I’ve seen some things. Haven’t you?”
Not waiting for an answer, I turned my back on Picasso and began collecting garbage. The detritus consisted of food ration wrappers, dead leaves, pieces of paper, scatterings of red ribbons and a few empty water bottles. Angry, I stabbed everything and slipped them into the garbage bag.
As I stepped closer to the wall, the CSS officer came out of her shack and took a picture of me. She peered at her phone for a moment, shielding the sun with her hand so she could read the scan. I wondered if I was in trouble for getting too close. The wall was a sheer face. New Atlanta’s security was in no danger from me. The guard disappeared into her shack. Relieved, I realized then that I’d been holding my breath.
Behind me, Picasso cursed. I turned to see two CSS vehicles park at the top of the closed street. One was a big box truck. The driver, a small man carrying a large rifle, opened the rear door. Men and women wearing jumpsuits of several colors piled out.
“Work gang,” Picasso called. “Stay away from them. They can compromise you just by asking for something. If you don’t spit on them right away, the CSS may want to talk to you.”
I nodded and went about my business. However, I was too curious not to throw a few glances their way. The prisoners pulled picks and shovels from the rear of the second vehicle, an AUTONAV truck. They’d obviously been tasked with performing roadwork on the closed street. That wasn’t what pulled my attention. Some wore orange jumpsuits. Others wore red and yellow.
I made my way along the base of the wall. It acted as a giant collector as the wind blew in bits of debris so my first garbage bag was soon full. When Picasso caught up with me, I asked him what the colors meant.
“Yellow is for cowards who used to support the Select but betrayed them,” he whispered. “Pink jumpsuits are socialists, unionists or so-called journalists. The orange jumpsuits broke one or more of the old laws. Striped jumpsuits are for atheists stupid enough to declare themselves.”
I’d seen yellow and pink jumpsuits only once. After the assassination, changes happened swiftly. Before the vice president was even sworn in as president, dozens of members of Congress were rounded up, each accused of participating in a vast conspiracy. Anyone who’d once suggested impeachment was a target. Federal investigations into the plot were truncated. The ruling party declared over and over, “Justice delayed is justice denied.” They said vengeance on those who hated them had to be swift, before the rebels struck again.
The assassin was a sniper. The shooter was never found. Many in the opposition party disappeared in the night. After a week and a half, the propapundits finally reported that the politicians were missing. They seemed unconcerned. In fact, everyone on the news stated with certainty that Washington would work better without the obstructionists. The talking point became a drumbeat that entered every conversation: When they come for you in a coup, you come for them in the night.
After another few days, our new president admitted there had been mass arrests. If there were trials, they were held in secret. By the time the government went forward with the public hangings, torture had yielded all the confessions needed to proceed. The enemies of the state all wore jumpsuits at the executions, either yellow or striped.
As we watched the feed, Grammy told me not to look away at the moment the prisoners dropped. “Watch and learn,” she said. “We thought it couldn’t happen here but people are the same everywhere. It’s happened before. We were foolish to think we were immune to the virus.”
“The virus?”
“Potent combination.” My grandmother
pointed at the screening of the executions. “Fear and hate plus greed equal that.”
Amid growing fears the new president would also be killed, the Select Few declared that democracy had to be suspended. The nation needed guidance “from power without one face.”
The logic went that one man or woman could be assassinated but few Americans could even name the Select Few. Congress was dissolved. All government departments were corporatized (if they weren’t already). The Select Few became our leaders so the government would be insulated from assassination threats, safe to rule as they saw fit.
The president ceded control and resigned. His speech was eloquent, soothing and, as Grammy put it, “complete horseshit.”
The propapundits said the president would be kept on in an advisory role at a secure location. He was never seen or heard from again.
Responsibility for nuclear launch codes was given to a committee of generals, admirals and an unknown number of civilians chosen by the Select Few. Most people breathed a sigh of relief at that change. A unanimous vote was required before a nuclear strike could occur. We were assured that the public consensus agreed: A committee would be less likely to do — or achieve — much of anything, let alone use the nukes.
Which only goes to show a lot of people are idiots.
It wasn’t an entirely smooth transition of power, of course. Many complained and protested. Opposition soon faded when the second round of mass arrests began. The speed of the collapse of the old system made little sense, but we soon became inured to the fact that old rules simply did not apply anymore. Phrases like top secret, national security and safe transfer of power for the good of the country were the only justifications needed to silence what critics remained.
Propapundits soothed us with pleas for calm and patience in what they called a time of correction. They claimed the death toll was exaggerated. Objections were argued and explained away as hysterical or treasonous.
People shrugged and began to sound like the Select’s media representatives. Our own neighbors began to say things like, “The situation is fluid,” and “The old ways failed to meet the challenges of the real world.”
As we became used to the new normal, we forgot about the president. The world moved on. Some said our acceptance was cowardice. I think our capitulation was mostly due to fatigue. We were just trying to get by, day-to-day.
What anger remained was unfocused. It was true, the Select Few had no face. Our new leaders spoke to us through press releases. The propapundits parroted what they were told. The people were “resisting progress.” A new American experiment had begun that would guarantee more freedoms, but only someday.
I was lost in those ugly memories when Picasso touched me on the shoulder. “Kismet? You okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah, why?”
“No matter what happens, stay away from the gate.”
“What’s going on?”
He pointed at his broken nose and grinned. “I got a nose for trouble. I think there might be some. An opportunity will present itself. Full moon’s coming.”
Before he turned away, I caught the worried look on Picasso’s face. Though his leg gave him pain, he hurried back, limping awkwardly.
A very faint hum reached me. I looked back as a sleek low-slung red car arrived at Gate 27 from within the Circle. A young woman I could barely see through the darkened glass sat behind the steering wheel. She brushed her long blonde hair so aggressively it was obvious the car was in autonomous mode. The CSS officer stepped out of her shack, peered in the back of the car and waved at someone cheerily before hitting a button to raise the bar to allow passage.
As the car pulled into the street, several people yelled as one. I didn’t catch the words but the tone was angry.
Two prisoners from the roadwork project tackled the centurion who held the rifle.
Four more charged the red car. One of them threw a spade like a spear and it bounced off the windshield, cracking and crinkling the safety glass.
The car screeched to a stop as two prisoners threw themselves before it.
The officer from the shack pulled a sidearm and began yelling for the rebels to get on the ground. The AUTONAV truck that had delivered the picks and shovels started up and made a quick tight turn. It was no longer autonomous. Picasso sat behind the wheel and drove the truck at high speed.
I gasped in horror as he aimed the vehicle at the CSS officer. The woman tried to step out of the way but the left front fender caught her in the shoulder.
I heard the crunch. My stomach turned and twisted. She sprawled on the pavement and was still. Her weapon spun away, skittered toward me. It came to rest not twenty feet away.
“Yee-haw!” Picasso screamed through his open window. “Let’s take ’em to church! DHD!”
A white-haired man in a pink jumpsuit punctured one of the car’s tires with one swing of his pickax. More prisoners descended on the vehicle and yelled for the woman to get out of her car. They rocked it back and forth violently.
My first instinct was to run. I didn’t want to get into the middle of attempted murder, kidnapping and chaos. Rebellion was supposed to save lives and make things better. I wanted no part of this.
It wasn’t the shouts of the angry prisoners that stirred my need to step in. A child was strapped in the back seat of that car, screaming in terror. Her fear was a call to action I could not refuse. The opportunity my sister and Chantelle had hinted at presented itself.
I scooped up the officer’s pistol from the pavement as I rushed forward.
Chapter Twelve
As I ran, I heard the first gunshot. The centurion with the rifle was short but he was thick through the chest and shoulders. Getting closer, I could see how strong he was. His arms bulged so much, his biceps may as well have been softballs. When two prisoners came for him, they tried to wrestle the weapon from his grasp.
The guard managed to twist the muzzle and turn the gun on a large man in an orange jumpsuit.
His attacker managed to say, “No,” just before the guard pulled the trigger. The man went down.
The other attacker held on and, covered in hot blood, pleaded with other prisoners to save him. Three more — two men and a woman — rushed in. The officer was knocked to the ground, his weapon wrenched from his grasp. They could have taken him prisoner but instead tossed the rifle aside and began to stomp him.
The officers had failed to defend themselves or the people in the car. However, the melee served my purposes. The man with the pickax was about to drive it through the windshield when I put the handgun’s muzzle to his bare neck.
The metal must have been cool against his hot skin. I could smell his stink and sweat as he stiffened and froze. Everyone slowed to a stop as if a great machine’s gears were suddenly broken and winding down. The woman behind the wheel stopped screaming. Even the child quieted.
My target did not drop the pick. “You know how a gun works?” the prisoner asked.
“Why? Am I holding it backward?”
“There’s a lot of us and only one of you,” he rumbled.
He reminded me of Dobbs. He’d been too sure of himself, too. So sure he was dealing with a little girl who hadn’t seen awful things. But I had seen awful things. I was ready for trouble.
“That pick in your hand is a tool,” I told the prisoner. “You had to make it a weapon. What I’ve got? It’s only good for one thing: turning you into a leaky bag of blood. I can take all y’all down before you can hurt me.”
“You’re a civilian. This isn’t your business — ”
“Child abuse is everybody’s business. There’s a kid in that car. Nobody here is a civilian but her.”
One of the other prisoners yelled, “We don’t have time for this. Stick to the plan!”
In the distance, sirens. Normally I would fear the wail of CSS vehicles rushing my way. However, the noise strengthened my resolve. “You said it. You don’t have time for this. Run!”
A horn blared and I glanced t
o my right. Picasso sat behind the wheel of the truck. He blared the horn again and gestured frantically for the escapees to get in the back.
The horn and the sirens seemed to unstick the wheels of time and people started moving with purpose again. The prisoners who had attacked their captor dashed for the truck. That seemed to make the decision for those surrounding the little red car, as well. The white-haired man dropped his pick and ran for the truck. Prisoners were still jumping into the truck as Picasso began to pull away.
Not all the prisoners fled. Others stood behind the roadwork signs and watched them go. They glared at me but said nothing. One woman in a striped jumpsuit hurried to the fallen CSS officer and sat at his head, holding him still as she used her bare hand to compress a bleeding head wound.
Picasso disappeared around a corner in the stolen truck as CSS units arrived in patrol cars. The remaining prisoners sank to their knees and put their hands on top of their heads. Though their posture suggested they were resigned to their fate, they all continued to stare at me angrily.
My scalp was hot and my knees were weak. I couldn’t seem to get enough air. It was as if the hot sun had burned some of the oxygen away and left me like a fish out of water, gasping and doomed.
“Put down the gun!”
The pistol was still in my hand but my arm was loose at my side. It wasn’t pointing at anyone. That detail didn’t matter. I wore a vest that identified me as a homeless person doing community service. Though I couldn’t say precisely what my sin might be besides that of poverty, I was already guilty in the eyes of the Select and their agents.
Three guards trained their handguns on me. A fourth with a shotgun circled somewhere behind me. They all shouted at once. I dropped the pistol but their incomprehensible shouting did not cease.
I strained to understand their orders. One wanted me on my knees. Another screamed that I should flatten on the ground. Someone else told me to turn around. I closed my eyes and raised both arms, palms out to show them my hands were empty. “Don’t shoot!” I said.
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