Disclose

by Joelle Charbonneau

  We turn onto the next street and are approaching the agreed-upon meeting spot when the van streaks up to the curb. Before it can stop, the back door slides open. One of the twins grins at us as we climb in and go.

  There’s a rhythm to these things, Dewey said. A momentum to the energy of a revolution that like a fire has to be stoked and fed or it will burn out and die. The truth is the kindling. But we are the oxygen. Oxygen is necessary if we don’t want the fire to fade.

  “We have your microphone frequency plugged in. Dewey’s video feed at the Unity Center and the one from the Stewards outside the farm are running. Everyone is ready to move,” the twins report as the van comes to a stop.

  Huck swivels in the front passenger seat. “The police have the roads shut down past the bridge. Your friend’s father sent a message saying this is the closest we can get.”

  “Then this is where we go back on the air,” I say. The twins grin, grab their tablets, and scamper out while the others stash their weapons. It’s important the public sees that the Marshals are the ones with the guns. From now on, our only ammunition will be words.

  “Good luck,” Huck says as the van door slides shut.

  “You, too,” I call. The screens have been playing a taped set of images. Huck and his team will be controlling the broadcast while avoiding the Marshals when we once again go live.

  Mr. Webster was right. There are pedestrians everywhere on the sidewalks. Cars are bumper to bumper on the streets. Half of the public screens are playing a broadcast by the other network. The anchors with too-bright smiles are currently warning of an elaborate hoax and urging residents to stay inside. The words “STAND BY” appear in stark white against a deep blue background on the other screens.

  Several people shoot me startled looks as we merge with the crowd on the other side of the La Salle Street Bridge. Police officers direct cars to turn back as hundreds, maybe thousands of people who have answered our call head down the street to the protest at City Hall.

  The closer we get the denser the crowd becomes. Someone on a bullhorn or a speaker is instructing people to go inside. The banner on the other news show says, “PRANK VIDEO,” which sparks outrage in me.

  I nod to my camera crew, and the screen that asked people to stand by changes. Once again, I’m pictured, and this time I am not alone. Using their tablets, the twins stream video of the ever-growing crowd, then turn their cameras back to me.

  “As you can see, this is not a hoax,” I say. “The photos you have seen—the people out here on the city streets—the ones who have called the hotline to report the names of their friends who have disappeared—are all real.” The image on the screen changes. Puffy white clouds. Bright blue skies. A lush, sweeping rendition of “America the Beautiful” plays over video of sun-kissed fields, smiling people in overalls riding big green tractors or laughing while feeding chickens—part of an advertisement for the farm the team pulled because all of us know it.

  With the faces still smiling against the beautiful farming backdrop, Van nods to me that my microphone is live and I follow the script we came up with last night. “For years special newscasts told us all to be proud of the Great American Farm. You’ve seen the pictures I took when I was there. This is what is happening there now.”

  The screen changes to the feed of the Stewards who have gathered in Iowa and launched a raid on the farm. The video is jerky. The audio cuts in and out. But the gunshots and the screams are clear.

  “Look, it’s Meri!” someone shouts.

  “There are Marshals behind us,” Atlas whispers in my ear.

  “Do you see her?”

  “This can’t be real!” someone screams.

  “Look at the screen, you idiot!” I hear as we shove our way through the crowd until it seems as if word of who is coming runs ahead and a path opens in front of us.

  Our broadcast on the screens switches to the raid of the Unity Center, where Dewey and the others have overcome the small contingent of Marshals. While their camera crew captures Dewey approaching a dirty cage with a half-dozen adults and two girls a few years younger than me locked inside, I describe what those people have gone through.

  “They deserve better,” I say as the cage door is unlocked and those trapped inside walk free.

  Someone has erected a white platform in front of the main doors of City Hall. I spot Mr. Webster standing with several other officials. Marshals are everywhere. An official with a bullhorn orders people to disperse. No one complies.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see myself, sweaty and out of breath, once again on our broadcast. We got this far. I wasn’t sure we would or what will happen next. The Marshals in front of the platform raise their guns and start toward me, but I don’t run. I plant myself in front of the imposing stone structure of Chicago’s City Hall and shout over the noise of the crowd, “You’ve seen the pictures and the video. The government has targeted anyone who questions them. This is your wake-up call! We need to stand together and demand the lies end!”

  The screens—all of them, even the ones broadcasting the other channel—go dark. There are shouts of protests. A few cheers. Over it all I hear Atlas call, “Meri! Look out!”

  I feel the punch of the bullet. The burning in my stomach that turns icy cold.

  Atlas catches me and I look up into his face.

  The sky behind him is impossibly blue.

  And then, like the screens, everything goes black.

  Twenty-Four

  I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t been shot in front of City Hall. If those who were assembled on the street hadn’t seen for themselves the Marshal firing his weapon at me—an unarmed girl. If those people didn’t verify what they witnessed with others.

  Maybe our elected leaders would have found a way to put a stop to the change we started. Maybe when they regained control of the news they could have convinced everyone that I was a liar or spun a new tale about how their actions were necessary in order to make the country safer for, if not all, then the many.

  I’d like to believe the truth is stronger than fabrications under any circumstances. I’d like to say that the call for change would have continued to sound if I had only broadcast from a hidden location instead of making myself a target. Or that the government would have opened the gates to the Great American Farm and the Nevada Desert Energy Fields if the Stewards hadn’t publicly started the process of freeing those who had been imprisoned inside. I’d like to think once Rose and Mrs. Webster published the pictures and I appeared on the public screens that change was inevitable, but I’m not that naive. Not anymore.

  The Stewards did break down the gates of the Great American Farm that led to the orientation center. Dozens were shot and killed to free those who had been ripped from their lives and forced to work for the “good of the country.” The fight for that freedom happened live onscreen because even though the public screens went dark, private ones in houses and restaurants and other businesses continued to broadcast. And when those feeds were finally cut, the Gloss website live-streamed it, allowing even the most adamantly opposed to the truth to witness it all.

  Viewers witnessed Instructor Burnett shoot Mrs. Acosta as she shielded a young subject wearing oversize pinkish-gray clothes. Then they watched as Instructor Burnett shot the terrified boy before she herself was killed.

  Some of the subjects ran. Some were gunned down. Others, like Isaac, joined the Stewards in the fight.

  Interspersed with that battle were videos from those held at the Unity Center haltingly telling their stories. In between each, Dewey made a public plea for doctors and nurses to come help those who were held there.

  The country watched as the helpers came.

  Maybe if people hadn’t seen all of those things—too many to be ignored—maybe the government could have spun it all back to where we started.

  But they did see. The country watched someone die on the sidewalk in front of City Hall. And even if change doesn’t happen immedi
ately, nothing will be the same. I guess I know that better than anyone.

  From my hospital bed, I viewed the replay of the Marshal firing his gun at me. I watched the bullet punch into my chest. Relived my strangled cry. Atlas catching me—lowering me to the ground, and through my microphone everyone around the country heard him beg me not to die. That’s when the Marshal fired again.

  I guess we’ll never know why Mr. Webster stepped in front of that bullet. I’ve watched the footage a dozen times of him jumping off the platform and charging toward us, trying to understand his thoughts in those final moments. Maybe he knew it would be worse for the government’s containment attempts if the Marshal succeeded. Maybe he wanted to redeem himself in the eyes of his children. Maybe he wasn’t thinking at all. Whatever his reasons, I’m alive.

  The bullet that struck me fractured two ribs. I lost a lot of blood and I’m told there were some complications during surgery that scared everyone. Mr. Webster was struck in the forehead. He died before the ambulance arrived.

  The doctors would not clear me to go to the funeral today. So, I sit in my hospital room alone and read the Gloss website obituary Rose helped to write. The photograph displays Mr. Webster’s warmest smile. The accompanying article highlights his love of family and the sacrifice he made to free his son and bring truth to the country. His lifetime of government work is little more than a footnote.

  Funeral details were omitted from publication—Mrs. Webster’s attempt to keep the service private. I hope for Isaac’s and Rose’s sake she was successful. After the story of helping me escape the farm was published and his father’s subsequent sacrifice, Isaac has become one of the country’s heroes. When he visited me last night every nurse on the floor found an excuse to stop by. The fact that he’s good-looking might also have had something to do with it. Isaac and Rose both promised to stop by after the funeral to let me know how they’re doing. That’s why I am surprised when it’s Mrs. Webster, not Rose, who walks into my hospital room still dressed in a fitted black suit and yellow-and-black heels.

  “Is Rose okay?” I ask, ignoring the twinge of pain as I sit up.

  “It was a hard day,” Mrs. Webster admits as she crosses to the bed. “I thought it was best to leave her at home. She and Isaac are clearing out the office so it’s ready for when you’re released tomorrow.”

  “I really appreciate you letting me stay,” I say. While I’m fond of Dewey, I don’t think I’m ready to start every day with ancient Greek proverbs. Besides, he has his hands full with helping Scarlett, and Stewards around the country organize daily protests and “Truth Matters” marches. They don’t want to let the pressure being put on the government to subside or the horror of what we revealed to fade. Not until those in charge have been held to account and things begin to change. That will take time, although here in Chicago where the protests have been strongest, the mayor has already resigned. No one has seen him since he announced the special election where anyone—not just approved candidates—will be able to participate. According to Atlas, Scarlett plans to run.

  Scarlett will never be my favorite person, but even Atlas has to admit she’s effective when she puts her mind to doing something. If it weren’t for Scarlett and her strategic planning we would have never gotten into the network building or mobilized Stewards from around the country.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to talk to you about something.” Mrs. Webster takes a seat at the foot of my hospital bed. “Rose said Scarlett and Dewey were here yesterday. That they asked you to speak at upcoming protests and you turned them down.”

  “They don’t really need me,” I say. There are dozens of Stewards who were released from Unity Centers and the farm who can talk about their experiences. Atlas is going to speak at the next one about his father. According to government logs the Stewards uncovered, a man matching Atticus’s description was killed before reaching the Unity Center on the same day he went missing. As a Steward, Atlas’s father vowed to use the deadman’s switch if the Marshals captured him. He told the truth.

  “Have you thought about what you’re going to do?” Mrs. Webster asks.

  “I’m going to go back to school when it starts in a month. Maybe at some point I’ll talk to my dad.” He contacted the hospital after watching me get shot and asked that I call him when I’m ready. I’m not sure when that will be.

  When Mrs. Webster says nothing, I add, “I guess I just want to try to feel normal again.”

  “After everything that has happened, I believe it’s important for things to not go back to normal,” Mrs. Webster says gently. “Already there are people who are determined to go back to their lives as if the truth behind your broadcast or the pictures or the protests aren’t real. We can’t trust the government to change unless people are paying attention to what they’re doing. The protests and marches Scarlett and Dewey are organizing will help. The protests are why as of this morning the Gloss website is working again.”

  Not long after the doctors arrived at the Unity Center, the government used their power over the internet to render the Gloss website not viewable by anyone outside Gloss offices. The codes Mr. Webster gave us were changed and despite the twins’ hacking prowess, the e-zine site remained blocked from public view.

  “That’s great,” I say.

  Mrs. Webster agrees. “It is, but no matter how hard Dewey and Scarlett work, eventually the protests will end. People will go back to their lives. If we’re lucky we’ll have new leaders in place by then. But once people have stopped paying attention, what will stop our new leaders from making those same choices, or ones that are even worse?”

  A vague sense of panic builds in my chest. “I don’t know.”

  Mrs. Webster smiles. “You enlisted my help because it’s important for people to learn the truth from a trusted source.”

  “Which we did.”

  “And in spite of everything, there are people who refuse to believe the truth. Some are determined to bury their heads in the sand. Others are already working hard to justify what was done.” Mrs. Webster places her hand on mine. “The only way to make sure the truth is heard is to continue to share it. I’m hoping you’ll agree to help me and the Gloss team do just that.”

  I shake my head. “I’ve already shared my story. You said it yourself—eventually they’ll stop paying attention.”

  “That isn’t the only story that needs to be told,” Mrs. Webster insists. “The people need to hear more than the news the government wants them to hear. To make sure things don’t simply go back to normal, the public needs to hear every day from someone they trust to look for the facts. When Gloss launches its new broadcast channel in a week, I want the people who tune in to hear from you.”

  Mrs. Webster is right. Things can’t be allowed to return to normal. But . . .

  “Why me?” I ask.

  “Because the viewers understand what you’ve been through. They watched you stand up to the government in order to tell them what they needed to know. Until people learn how to ask their leaders tough questions and push for answers they might not want to hear, they’ll trust you to do it for them,” Mrs. Webster explains.

  “I can’t,” I say, glancing at the tablet and stylus on the bedside table. “Dr. Blitzer said it would take six weeks for my ribs to heal.” Which would get me excused from gym class for the first few weeks of school. Going back to class and figuring out my future is what I’m supposed to be doing. I shouldn’t have to be responsible for more.

  “And Dr. Blitzer assured you that as long as you’re careful you’ll be able to do just about everything you normally do—even travel.”

  “Isaac should do it,” I say. “Everyone trusts him, and he’d look great on the screen.”

  “Isaac has decided to go back to the farm. He’s going to help exhume and identify those who died there. If you agree to work with Gloss, Isaac has asked that you come back to the farm and report on those efforts.”

  Go back?

  “A
nd while you’re there I’d like you to visit the other part of the farm, where the actual volunteers work.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “The news does a special broadcast on that part of the farm every year. Everyone already knows that story.”

  “How do you know what the story is until you see it for yourself?”

  I just assumed the volunteer section of the farm was portrayed correctly on the news because they needed that truth to hide the lie on the other side.

  “Hey.” Atlas hovers in the doorway and my heart flips. He looks a touch dangerous and very attractive in the smoky-gray shirt and pants he wore to Mr. Webster’s funeral. “Am I interrupting?”

  “I was just about to leave.” Mrs. Webster squeezes my hand. She starts to leave as Atlas steps into the room, then turns back and says, “I almost forgot. I was supposed to mention something Thomas Jefferson once said. ‘Where the press is free, and every man able to read, all is safe.’”

  It hurts to laugh, but I can’t help it. “You’ve been talking with Dewey?”

  “He is hard to ignore.” Mrs. Webster grins. “Can I ask one more thing? Do you still think there are important questions that need to be answered?”

  I don’t hesitate before saying, “Of course.”

  “Then before you decide what you plan to do, ask yourself one thing. Do you really want to trust someone else to ask them?”

  Before I can answer she turns and heads out, leaving a clearly confused Atlas in her wake.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks, crossing to take my hand.

  I study our entwined fingers, thinking about everything we have lost in the search for the truth, what we have gained, and what could be lost again just as quickly.

  “I think it will be,” I answer. But there’s only one way to know for sure.