by James Smythe
The new guard in charge of our corridor was called Cole, and he liked to think of himself as a hard-ass. That was his phrase when he introduced himself that day, before the second Broadcast, and he slammed his fists together as he said it, clenched, the knuckles cracking. He went down the corridor and spoke to Finkler and myself individually, keeping his voice hush-quiet so that the other prisoner couldn’t hear. Finkler was so loud that I heard every part of his side of the conversation; it was nothing, just words. Then he came to me, acting like Finkler had told him secrets. Finkler didn’t know any to tell. You’re one of them Fruits? he said, laughing. They enjoyed that; mocking a role, a title, a calling, a purpose. I know all about you guys, all about you. I know all about you. His voice was ruddy, reedy, stained with years of cigarette smoke. Finkler’s conversation had been gentle, amenable; he was suggesting that it was something other than it was. He came right up to the bars, speaking quietly. You and them Islamic brothers of yours killed all my people, right? Hijacking planes, planting bombs, hiding in caves. Sure, I know you people. I moved to the bars, grabbed his head in one motion, pulled his face to the metal. You don’t know anything, I said. We are nothing like those murderers; we are innocents, and true. I dropped him – he had been on the tips of his feet when I held his head – and he rushed backwards, gasping for air. He shouted something, but I cannot remember what it was, and then we heard it. Do Not Be Afraid.
Shit, shit, Cole said, what is that? It was as if he had forgotten about the first Broadcast. Was that you? He panicked, moved down to Finkler’s cell. Did you hear that, Finkler? Of course I did, oh wow, I mean, we all did, right? That’s what they say? Everybody hears it, everybody hears the voice of God, that’s what the papers say? He sounded almost sanctimonious in his pleasure. Holy shit, Cole said. It’s amazing, isn’t it? I could hear Finkler grinning.
Katy Kasher, high school student, Orlando
Have you ever heard of The Holy Land? It was this theme park down the road from the House of Mouse in Orlando, and they tried to compete, but it was no frigging contest. They had a room where you could see evolution – you started in the Garden of Eden, where humans lived with dinosaurs – and a ride that took you through the plagues from the Old Testament, like a ghost train. And they had this show twice a day, like the Main Street Parade but infinitely more gay, where some douche dressed up as Jesus, walked through the crowd and did a mock crucifixion on these huge polystyrene rocks, and you could watch the show while you did rock-climbing up the wall carved out to be the face of Jesus, like Mount Rushmore. We used to go three or four times a year, all the family, because Mom and Dad thought it would bring us all closer together. All us kids, me and my cousins, we just wanted to go to Disney instead, or Universal, because the Holy Land didn’t even have those giant turkey legs, or churros, or anything. The Broadcast came again on Grammy’s birthday, and Mom had us up at stupid o’clock – seriously, it was still totally dark outside – just to drive up there, get there super-early. We were putting everything into the car when it happened, and Mom and Dad stopped, looked up, smiling, and then she turned to me and said, Wasn’t that wonderful? And I was all, Wasn’t what wonderful? I hadn’t heard it the first time, because I was asleep, we thought; this time, I think I ruined her day.
Mei Hsüeh, professional gamer, Shanghai
We all heard it outside the game, of course, but then, five minutes after the second Broadcast, somebody – had to be one of the mods – set up something to play in-game, which was hilarious. I mean, we were still worried about what it meant, but it was totally relevant to then.
Andrew Brubaker, White House Chief of Staff, Washington, DC
We were in The Danger Room, getting opinions on the best way to fight back against the bombings. Over the few hours previous we’d pieced together that they were from a terror cell we had pinpointed as working out of Iran, with rumoured ties to their government, but their government denied everything. They would, one of the joint chiefs said. We were talking about tactical strikes, targeted at training camps that we knew existed, zero civilian casualties. They were purely designed to show that we weren’t fucking around, and we had them ready to go. I mean, literally, POTUS said the word, they’d be launched from carriers in the Mediterranean, just off the coast of Turkey. POTUS needed reassuring, because he’d never done one of these before. We’d gotten to the point where some of the weapons we had were so exact that they were like an acne solution: you find a spot, you nuke that spot, the rest of the skin is clear. It wasn’t like the old days of towers of rubble and burning bodies, and the chance that they could go wrong. It’s a science, I said to him. Estimated casualties based on sat knowledge were in the low triple digits, and if the government turned over the heads of the faction, that would be it. War over.
The Broadcast came in just like before and we all heard it, clear as day. This time we got the signifiers, in the speech; it was all in English, with an accent we couldn’t pin down. POTUS was devastated. What does it mean? he asked the room, but none of us had an answer. We have to make a statement, I said, try and keep things under control. Jesus, Drew, he said, I just need to know what this means before I say anything. I need to think. Fine, I said to him – and I was snappy, because we didn’t have time for him to pussy out – I’ll tell you what it means: it means that there’s suddenly going to be a whole lot of very, very angry people out there that this happened again, and that it was only in English; it means you’re going to have US citizens suddenly asking what there is to be afraid of, and they’re all so on edge you’re going to have to reassure them that everything’s fine, even when you know it isn’t; and it means that you’re going to have to step the fuck up and lead this country, because we’re in trouble, here.
He stopped crying. Alright, he said, alright.
HOIST THAT RAG
Theodor Fyodorov, unemployed, Moscow
The day after The Broadcast, Moscow fell apart in protest, the people wanting to know answers. There were many, many questions, and they had them written on their boards, and they chanted them in the streets. They wanted to know why we didn’t hear it in Russian (because not everybody spoke English, and some of the people – most of the people – didn’t even understand), and they wanted to know what there was that we should or shouldn’t be afraid of. They wanted to know why the church had not made a statement yet about The Broadcast, about what we should think of it. It was all over the television, the streets full of people marching toward the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, so when I woke up I told Anastasia that I wanted to get a better look, to go down and join them. Do you really care about this? she asked, and I said No, but that I wanted to see. I always like knowing what makes people tick, I said. She said that she wanted breakfast before she joined me, so I went by myself.
I used to live in Tula, but Anastasia got an apartment near Taganskya, which is right in the middle of the city, so I decided to move here, and move in with her. I didn’t know the city well, still, even though I had been there for weeks, so I decided to just go with the crowd. Everybody was walking so slowly because there were so many people, and it was like an army, left right, left right. After a while I saw some people I recognized, some of Anastasia’s friends from university, and they told me that the crowd was going to demand answers from the Patriarch right there and then. He has to tell us what’s going on, they said, you should come and help us. I explained that I didn’t have an interest – I didn’t believe in God back then – but that I would go anyway. I want to see what happens, I told them. Anastasia joined us a few minutes after that, and we marched. The crowd sang songs that I knew almost all of the words to, because there were versions with swearwords used at football matches, and we moved slowly, so slowly, but we kept going.
The television called this a riot, but it wasn’t like any riot that I had ever seen. The atmosphere was amazing, so friendly and happy, and everybody was so happy to be alive. I remember years and years ago there were riots in Manezh Square, seeing them on the TV, the b
urning cars, the hooligans, and they were nothing like this. This was so civil all the way. All I saw was people of all ages, in a spirit of camaraderie, a celebration of good news, they thought. We are not alone! some of them kept shouting; Through this all, we are not alone! Then, after a while, we started to get word that some of the people in the crowd, the ringleaders, they wanted to take the church back. Take it back from who? Anastasia’s friends asked. Take it from the church? I said that they should ignore that gossip. It’s probably Chinese whispers, I said, and then a man in front corrected me. No, he said, they want to take it back from the Orthodoxy, because they have lied to us for so long. What happens after that? I asked him. What’s left after that? Whatever comes next, he said.
The good spirits – the singing, the shuffling – carried on until we stopped suddenly. More whispers came through that we had been stopped by the police, and then others came through saying that the front of the crowd – which we couldn’t see – had reached the Cathedral, and that this was all that we would see. Anastasia’s feet were starting to hurt her, and Marcela and Alexei, her friends, decided that they wanted a drink, so they went into a shop we passed and bought a bottle of schnapps, because it was cheap. Other people got bottles as well, and they kept us going for the next hour. We couldn’t go forward, because we were still, and we couldn’t go backwards, because the streets were full behind us, so we drank and sang. We stayed there for another hour, and then people behind us started drifting off, and we realized that we weren’t getting through to the front. Whispers came from the other end then, that something had happened at the Cathedral, that the police were there. Where’s this coming from? we asked the whisperers, and they said it was from the television, so we agreed to meet back at Anastasia’s place to watch it. By the time I got there, pushing through the crowd, I had been split up from the others, and Ana was already there (because she’s so small, I think, which made it easier for her to slip through the people). You have to see this, she said before I had even taken my coat off. We sat and watched the footage of the Patriarch bleeding on the steps of the Cathedral, and the police rushing toward the man who shot him, and that man then shooting himself in the face. He had a sign with him that read God Doesn’t Care What We Do, and the news cameras kept focusing in on it, showing us the sign over and over even as his blood started to soak across the pavement and into the white cardboard. The crowd were heaving, pushing forwards, even when the police were smacking at them, telling them to stay back, and then another man, so angry, screaming, threw a bottle of something with a rag in the top, set on fire, and it smashed all over the church. The paint was a lacquer, and it went up like it was oil. Anastasia couldn’t stop crying, so I tried to turn over the channel but the same image was everywhere, so I just told her to shut her eyes tightly.
Dominick Volker, drug dealer, Johannesburg
By the time I got back to my old lady – she hated it when I called her that, because she said, I’m not old, I’m only twenty-six, and that made me laugh – she was already on the pipe. I told you, I said, don’t fucking do that stuff, I don’t want our kid to end up like a bloody retard. I worked hard to get us this, I said, don’t fuck it up now. We had a nice house, in a nice district, well away from the rest, because I made enough money to keep it there. She didn’t have to work, and we had two dogs, because that was what she wanted. She was pregnant, so big she was nearly bursting. She had wanted a baby for fucking ever, and I kept having to tell her she would fuck it up if she kept smoking, but she didn’t listen, so I had to do better rules. Nothing harder than pot, you hear? I hear, she had said, but I didn’t always believe her, because sometimes I wasn’t home for days, so I didn’t know what she would be getting up to. I asked her if she had been watching television, if she knew what was going on; Ag no, she said, nobody’s got a clue. She left it fifteen minutes or so before sparking up again, and I told her not to, but she ignored me. Poor fucking baby will be coughing up his lungs in there, I said.
She said, shouldn’t you be out selling? But I didn’t think people would be buying, not that day, not in my usual markets. They’ve got something better today, eh? I said.
Dhruv Rawat, doctor, Bankipore
I was up very early, even though I had so little sleep – I remember looking at my clock when I couldn’t sleep, getting upset with myself about it, turning over and over. The hotel didn’t have air conditioning, so my room was very hot, and that made me more uncomfortable. That’s another thing that I missed about Bangalore: the air conditioning. They had started putting it everywhere, something that my hometown was pitifully far behind in regards to. I bathed, made my prayers, did not eat breakfast. I was at work so early that I managed all of the week’s paperwork before I even had my first patient, which was the man with the foot again. He had wrapped it up in his own bandage, which was little more than a tea-towel; it wasn’t bleeding any more, and the wound was pink where the skin was getting better. It worked, he said, look, it’s getting much better. Good, good, I said. You’re an excellent doctor, he told me; I will tell your father how good you are at this. He stood up, ready to leave, and I asked him, Have you thought about The Broadcast like they are everywhere else in the world? What? he asked. Sorry, I said, I’m just wondering. Have you thought about what it was – who it was, maybe, I don’t know – that we all heard?
Well, yes, of course, he said. I have wondered if it was a form of God, somehow. That’s what all the English and the Americans believe, I think. You wondered that? I asked, and he said, again, Of course I did. Because who is to say that it wasn’t? What about the Vedas? I asked him, and he shrugged. If it is Brahma, somehow, thinking we should be spoken to – and don’t you think that sounds stupid just to say it? – but if it is Brahma, I don’t think it will matter that I wondered if it was. And if it isn’t, well, it probably isn’t real anyway.
Meredith Lieberstein, retiree, New York City
We woke up to the news that New York was under a curfew of sorts. It wasn’t called a curfew, that wasn’t how it was sold to us, but Leonard said that’s what it was. We’re requesting that you stay in your homes where possible, he read off the website. Requesting? You wait, they’ll turn it into an order before you can even blink, he said. There were little riots, panic-fuelled and disorganized, but for the most part people seemed happy staying in. They don’t want to even let people go to churches, Leonard said, because they’re worried that large groups of people like that equal some sort of target. That was Leonard; when they let you go to church he mocked you for wanting it, and when you couldn’t he wanted to stand up for your rights. He was a complicated man.
Regardless, people were panicking all over the country, all over the world. It was so ambiguous, The Broadcast, so open to interpretation. If you believed in God – and people did, far more readily than they had in the months before The Broadcast, that’s for sure – if you believed, then there was the question of what we should be afraid of. Most believers wrote it off as saying that we shouldn’t be scared of The Broadcast, of God’s presence, and they found comfort and solace in that. Some didn’t, and wondered if this wasn’t telling us in advance not to be afraid, not to be afraid of what was to come. And then those of us who didn’t believe, who were sitting on the fence or just plain stubborn, we were asking where it came from, still. We were saying, Well, there must be a scientific explanation for this, because there always is, because it’s never so ridiculous that you have to just make a wild leap into fantasy.
But then, we lived in New York. We were down the road from the bomb-site, only a ten-minute walk, and we could smell the ash on the air, so we were afraid almost constantly, and we wanted reassurance that we knew we couldn’t have. Leonard knew that it wasn’t God, but I … I didn’t.
Andrew Brubaker, White House Chief of Staff, Washington, DC
The Broadcast was one of those situations where everybody heard what they wanted to hear. It was a Barnum statement. You ever hear that? The circus leader, P. T. Barnum, he
used to have this theory about generic statements being taken over by people, hearing what they want to hear. That’s how cold readings work: they throw stuff out there, and as long as they hoist that rag into the air with enough conviction, the people it’s targeted at will believe it and read into it whatever it is that they’re looking for. It’s like horoscopes: they’re generic, but people believe them. For most people that was fine; for our enemies, that was an invitation.
Ed Meany, research and development scientist, Virginia
I met up with Sam Tate, one of the guys I’d been to college with. He worked in R and D, special projects, weapons and weaponization, stuff that I didn’t know about and didn’t want to, and he asked to have a coffee with me, talk through something. He looked nervous. They’ve told me I’m going on site somewhere, he said, and they’ve asked me to – I put my fingers in my ears. I don’t want to know, I told him. Alright, he said, so we sat in silence for the rest of the drink. When we were done I asked if he was alright about the Nevada bombing. I knew that he had friends out there, that he’d worked out there for a while. Yeah, he said, I hated working there. You really hated working there? I asked, and he said, You have no idea; at least now I’ll never have to think about it again, will I?
Andrew Brubaker, White House Chief of Staff, Washington, DC
We pulled some staff from the DC office, told them to make their way to Ohio, to the silo there. We weren’t ready to launch them, not even close, and they hadn’t been tested, but we wanted them there in case. It never hurt, we reasoned, to have every eventuality covered. Of course, as soon as you start thinking Nuclear, it’s there the whole time, in every conversation that you have. But we were a long way from that.
