by Andrew Gates
“The father?” she asked.
Jorge nodded.
“Yes, the father.”
“I understand,” she replied. She waited for him to reply but he remained quiet, simply looking back at her. “Do you want me to do that right now?”
“Yes,” he said, apparently unaware of her confusion. “He’s waiting for you in your classroom.”
Iris nodded and stood up, assuming this brief conversation was over. She looked at Jorge for confirmation and when he did nothing she took that as a sign that she was indeed relieved.
“Okay. I will go talk to him now,” she said. She walked over to the door and pulled on the handle. As it swung open, Jorge stood up.
“Be cautious, Iris. He does not strike me as a smart man, but that does not mean you should underestimate him. Maybe it’s just an act,” he warned.
“Got it.” And with that, she walked out into the hall.
Iris was never fond of the color grey, but in these halls she was forced to accept it. Education’s color was grey, just as residential was white, government was black, businesses were green and so on. She gazed at the grey walls before her, thinking about the color. White made her feel peaceful and free. Black made her feel isolated and protected. Both had their merits, but grey had nothing. Grey was a sloppy combination of the two, making her feel both exposed and controlled.
As much as Iris liked the light, she always leaned more towards the dark. She liked feeling protected, isolated and away from it all. Learning about the surface above was fascinating to her, but she could never imagine actually living somewhere like that. The outside world was too vulnerable, too light. Deep down Iris was glad this was just her field of study, not her life. She wondered if she was the only one who felt this way about light and dark.
Sometimes she wondered if the other teachers shared her opinion on other things too, not just on the color scheme, but in general. Were the other teachers expecting something more when they came here? Were they enjoying their jobs? The faculty always seemed to put on a happy face whenever Iris was around. She wondered if they really meant it or if they simply did that for her. Since being here, she had not become particularly close with anyone outside of the other history teachers. Frequent department meetings meant she saw a lot of Jorge Gonzalez, Hope Davis and the other two history teachers, Mark Walten and Hillary Boudreaux.
Mark was a thick dark-haired man in his mid-30s whose shirt always seemed too tight for him. His armpits were always stained with sweat and half the time Iris was worried he would suffocate on his own tie. He was a jolly man, or at least he acted like it. His laugh was enough to get your attention and his smile rarely left his face.
Hillary, on the other hand, took more care of herself. She was not unhealthy by any means, but slightly thicker than average. Iris did not know whether to consider her hair dark blonde or light brown, but either way, she suspected it was dyed. She always went out of her way to look nice, matching her colors well. She never wore the fanciest of dresses like Hope, but combined her clothes in smart ways. Iris wished she had this skill. Unfortunately, though not as outspoken as Hope, Iris could tell she too had her own objections to the curriculum.
Her only real friend in the department seemed to be Jorge, who had backed her every step of the way. Along with Tim, Jacella, Dan and Greyson, these seemed to be the only friends she had since the week of school began. But even they were practically strangers to her. It was hard for her to meet other people during lunch breaks. She had only eaten in the cafeteria once. She ate alone in her classroom all other times. Iris disliked the cafeteria today as much as she remembered disliking it as a student. The teachers’ tables were stuffed with more than 10 at a time, meaning there were always multiple conversations happening at once. Iris could hardly keep up when several voices spoke together, each about entirely different topics.
As if the students and teachers weren’t enough trouble, now I have to deal with parents too, thought Iris as she walked down the grey halls of Harrison. As she reached her room and grabbed the door handle, the realization sunk in that Iris was doing this alone. Why didn’t Jorge come with me for this?
The man was seated in the front row. He was large and looked awkward in a small chair/desk sized for middle school students. The parent wore a big white t-shirt and baggy black pants. His facial hair was patchy with clumps of dark hair around his chin and cheeks. He had dark eyes and dark skin, just like his son. As his eyes met Iris, he stood up from his seat and approached her.
“Mrs. Vitneskja,” he said reaching out his thick hand.
She shook it, not bothering to correct the Mrs.
“Mr. Obsanjo,” she replied. She realized how nervous she was. “Please, take a seat.”
Iris moved towards her desk and sat down in her white chair as Obsanjo returned to the desk he chose in the front row. “I want you to know that any problems you have with the curriculum should be taken up with Mr. Gonzalez. I am not in charge the planning of any curriculum. I simply teach what they tell me,” she explained getting right to it without wasting any time.
“I understand that, yes. But I don’t think that’s right,” he said, also not wasting any time.
Iris leaned forward.
“You don’t think it’s right for me to teach what my boss tells me?” she asked.
Obsanjo leaned forward as well, matching her.
“I don’t think it’s right to teach this shit to our kids,” he replied blatantly. The conversation had not even gone on for 30 seconds and already they were in heated debate. Jorge was right, this man does not seem particularly intelligent, Iris thought.
“I’m sorry you feel that way. What did Mr. Gonzalez say to you when you met with him?” she asked, not really knowing how to respond. She leaned back to her original position again, hoping that would remove some of the hostility.
“Gonzalez called me a skeptic. We talked for a long time, Mrs. Vitneskja, like over an hour. He thought I was dumb, I can tell. He said this is the truth you are teaching,” he replied. He also leaned back as he said this, which made Iris feel a bit better.
“He tells me you want to sue,” she said.
“That’s right. Not you, the school. But tell me, you think I’m a skeptic too right? You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” he asked.
Iris paused. She did not know quite how to respond to that. On one hand, she knew she had to play this safe. Any provocation and this issue could explode. But on the other hand, she wanted to answer honestly.
“I don’t think you’re crazy, but I believe the things I teach,” she responded, thinking this was a good way to be both safe and honest.
“So you think we came from the surface then?” he asked, clarifying.
“Yes, of course,” she said without hesitation.
Obsanjo scratched one of the hairy patches on his chin.
“Then why the fuck don’t we live up there now?” he asked.
“The atmosphere has been poisoned. Old bombs detonated and made it unlivable,” she answered.
“Sorry, but that’s fucking stupid,” he replied. “Nobody has ever seen the surface. Ask anyone. Nobody has seen it. As far as we know, it’s just more water up there. So how do you say you believe in this if you haven’t seen it? It’s a fucking story you read on the Meganet, that’s all!”
“Not just one story. Thousands of books! Where do you think we came from? Where do you think our cultures came from? Why do you think humans breathe oxygen?” she debated.
“We woke up and we were in the station,” he answered. “It’s been here. It’s been here since the beginning. There’s no… no big story to it. In fact, your story is insane. Why would people destroy their own home? How did people know to build this city here? And how the hell do you think we got here? You’re telling me we stuffed that many people onto a sub and traveled the entire depth of the ocean? If we could do that then, why can’t we do that now?”
Iris sighed. She had heard all these arguments before,
some from his son. She was about to open her mouth again and debate the point further, but it occurred to her that this was not the right course of action to take. Debating the subject was not the point of this meeting and it would only infuriate him further.
“Look, Mr. Obsanjo, Mr. Gonzalez told me to talk to you about this issue. What do you want from me?” she asked. “What is it you want me to do?”
“I want you to stop teaching this shit,” he answered. “It’s fucking simple.”
“Well I’m afraid I don’t have that power. It’s not my role to choose the curriculum,” she reminded him.
“I can get you fired,” he said with a level of certainty in his voice. “I can do it.”
“Mr. Gonzalez has informed me that you plan to sue, yes. But I am not at fault for-” and as she said this, she was interrupted by a knock on the door. Obsanjo’s head turned suddenly towards it and a grin appeared on his face.
“Come on in!” he said, as if he had authority here. This was Iris’s room, not his. What does he think he’s doing?
A large blonde-haired woman entered, looking as disheveled as Mr. Obsanjo. She wore a long green mumu and carried a massive black purse the size of a large shopping bag. Iris had never seen this woman before but Obsanjo waved to her as she entered.
“Hello, my name is Cindy Rosenthal,” she said as she walked in. Iris knew she heard that name before but could not remember where.
“Can I help you?” she asked, still confused.
“I’ll just take a seat,” she said, finding a seat next to Obsanjo. Suddenly Iris remembered the name. Rosenthal was a student in her class. Brian Rosenthal. This must be his mother, she realized. They looked similar enough.
“What are you doing here?” she asked bluntly. Iris’s lack of social skills was not helping in this meeting.
“I asked her to come,” Obsanjo replied. “We’ve been talking about this to each other for a while.”
“Yes, ever since Clinton dared to speak up,” the new woman added. “I understand you’re new.”
“Yes, I am,” Iris replied.
“I don’t know how they did it at your old school, Mrs. Vitneskja, but this is not the way you should teach these kids,” the man added. His tone sounded even more confident now that his backup had arrived. This only made Iris more nervous.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is my first teaching job.”
The Rosenthal woman threw her hands into the air.
“Shit, this just gets better and better,” she said.
Iris wished a burst of confidence would flow through again. She needed a boost now more than ever. But it never came. Iris only felt herself get more and more nervous.
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do. I was explaining to Mr. Obsanjo before you came in that the choice of curriculum is out of my hands,” she explained, not knowing what else to say.
“Don’t you feel at all guilty for what you’re doing?” the woman asked. “Don’t you feel sorry for these kids? Telling them stories about the surface where ancient people have existed for thousands of years?”
“I don’t-” Iris was quickly interrupted by the woman again before she could even get three words out.
“Yesterday my son told me stories about giant four-legged creatures covered in hair that people would sit on to get from place to place. They would eat soft green spikes that come up from the floor when water fell from above. Did you really teach this to the kids?” she asked.
“Horses,” Iris replied. “They were essential in shaping the history of many ancient cultures.”
“Trog-fucking-shit,” the large man spat.
“You realize that sounds crazy, right?” Cindy Rosenthal added.
“It’s not,” Iris replied, leaning forward again. “A horse is like a cow. Where do you think our meat comes from down here in the station?”
“The agricultural sector,” Obsanjo replied without hesitation.
Iris sighed.
“But where do you think the people in the agricultural sector get it from?” she asked.
Obsanjo leaned forward again to match her.
“I don’t fucking know. I’ve never been to the agricultural sector. I don’t fucking work there. Nobody is allowed in the agricultural sector unless they work there,” he said frustratingly.
The woman put her hand on his shoulder and pulled him back, trying to calm him down. The room was silent for a moment, but then she looked towards Iris and met her eyes.
“I think what he’s trying to say, is that there’s no proof. Whatever proof you say you have is unattainable. I understand you believe what you teach because you read it on the Meganet, but just because you read something doesn’t make it true,” Rosenthal said, this time more calmly, as if trying to bring the tone of the entire conversation down.
“The information came from books. Books from the surface that were taken down here and uploaded to the Meganet,” Iris desperately clarified. But she could see that Rosenthal was not interested.
“I don’t care what you think,” she said. “I just want you to stop teaching this curriculum.”
Iris took a deep breath. She leaned back and ran her fingers through her hair. She felt warm sweat sticking to her palms and wondered if it was coming from her head or her hands.
“Well, I can’t do that,” she responded.
Suddenly there was another knock at the door. Both parents quickly turned their heads towards the source of the sound.
“Come in!” Obsanjo said again.
Two more parents entered the room, one man and one woman, both looking just as frustrated as the two sitting before Iris.
“Sorry we’re late,” the man said.
“Come on, sit down guys,” Obsanjo said to them.
More parents. Iris felt her heart begin to pound harder. This was not what she expected. Obsanjo had assembled his own little army and Iris came to battle alone. It’s not just one family anymore, she realized. The problem has grown.
Suddenly that lawsuit began to look a lot more like a legitimate threat.
SWEAT DRIPPED DOWN HIS FACE, sliding down past his nose and curling into his mouth. The salty taste touched his lips like a kiss. Tracey ignored the sweat and held the rifle tightly in hand as he crouched behind the dark wall. Black like the eternal shit we’re living in down in this ocean.
He felt the bulky machine in his hand. When he first trained with the Navy, his rifle felt heavy and difficult to wield. But that was a long time ago. Now his rifle felt light and easy to command. That was the old me.
“He’s behind the corner!” he heard a woman yell from down the hall. Tracey peered around the corner to find three whitecoats pointing their guns at him. He pulled back as fast as he could just as bullets whizzed past.
That was fucking close, he thought.
The weapon fire quickly died off as he took a deep breath. They were clearly waiting for a better shot. These fuckers are too afraid to waste ammo.
Tracey held his weapon out around the corner and blasted away without even looking at his target. He heard screams and shouts and even some return fire. After squeezing the trigger for a few long seconds, Tracey pulled his rifle back towards him and remained hidden behind the wall. All sound seemed to stop.
He carefully peered around one more time. The three whitecoats lied on the floor covered in pools of deep red. Two men were sprawled out, clearly dead. The only one left alive was a scrawny woman with short black hair, too wounded to stand. Tracey popped out from the wall, revealing himself to the wounded soldier.
“Where is my brother?” he asked. The woman was barely able to lift her head, but she did. Her dark eyes met his with a glare powerful enough to bring a normal man to tears. But Tracey was not a normal man. He was a man who had lost everything. This woman’s face brought no sympathy, only a reminder of the pain he felt in himself. “You government piece of shit, you’re just Ortega’s toy, don’t you see that?”
The woman had no answer.
“I’m going to bring you down. The whole government,” Tracey continued, “All of it.” He aimed his weapon up to her face. Tears streamed down her eyes.
“Please,” she cried. The woman was barely able to form the words. Her voice was as faint as the ticking of a watch. Tracey paused as his barrel remained fixed in position. “Please, don’t.”
“Where is my brother?” he asked again.
“Your… your brother… this… this was never about your brother,” the woman replied, slowly finding the energy to speak again. Blood gushed from her mouth with every word. Tracey remained still as she tried to pick herself up.
“What is this about then?” he asked.
The woman was now back on her feet. A sudden burst of energy must have coursed through her veins, breathing new life into death.
“Tracey,” she said, using his first name, “you… you hated the government long before you lost your brother. You know this is not about him.” Tracey took a step closer to the woman and pressed the gun straight against her body now.
“That wasn’t the fucking question,” he replied.
“No,” the woman responded. She was now completely upright and blood no longer seeped from her mouth, “but this is more important. Your brother is just the spark, Tracey, but this bomb inside of you has been building for years. You don’t trust authority.”
“I don’t trust this authority,” he snapped back.
“Fine, this authority. My point remains, the stem of your anger is not from your brother. It’s Ortega. And you want to bring us all down.”
“All of you. The whole government. Piece by piece,” Tracey responded.
The woman smiled and stared right into his eyes.
“Then do it,” she whispered in a tone ominous enough to send shivers down Tracey’s spine.
“I will.”
Tracey squeezed the trigger and sent shards of bone, muscle and blood flying in every direction as the loud boom of the rifle echoed throughout the black zone. Within an instant, the woman before him was spread out throughout the entire hallway.
Your brother is just the spark, Tracey, but this bomb inside of you has been building for years. The words replayed in his mind. If she was right, this bomb was about to explode.
