by Kyle Andrews
Looking into that woman's eyes, Rose could see that she was grasping for something to hold onto; something real. So Rose leaned in closer and whispered to her, “Don't mourn for Croy Fisker. This is the alley where he tried to rape me.”
And then she walked away.
Half a block from the alley where she had nearly been killed the night before, Rose turned and looked back at the scene that was beginning to take shape. The angry villagers were preparing their pitchforks, but one woman stood apart from them, deep in thought.
13
There was no privacy in the Campus. Though Collin had been longing for quiet time by himself, without people watching his every move and hanging on his every word, it didn't seem like he would be getting it anytime soon.
Each of the classrooms that lined that hall served a purpose. One was an office, filled with desks and people sorting out schedules for rendezvous and decrypting communications in objects that had been dropped into trash cans or posted on bulletin boards all over town. It seemed like complete chaos from where Collin stood, but he assumed that they had a system and that it would all make sense if it were ever explained to him.
A few of the other classrooms were filled with bunk beds and cots. Mek had taken the little girl into one of those rooms and placed her on a cot. Collin made sure to check on her as he was getting the grand tour of the place from Tracy.
Each time he poked his head into a room, everyone in that room turned toward him, as though they expected him to heal the sick or turn water into wine. They were looking for someone to save them, but that person wasn't him. He could barely manage to hold onto his own sanity, much less take on the task of leading all of Freedom into a brighter tomorrow.
He would turn away and start to move out of each room as soon as Tracy finished telling him what purpose it served. He wanted to escape those glances and whispers. He wanted to get out of there before someone asked him to bless their child and he was struck down by a bolt of lightning for unwillingly committing acts of blasphemy. But each time he turned away from a room and faced the hallway, he saw more people, eager to listen to whatever he said next.
It didn't make sense to him. He wasn't anyone important. He had simply taken a stand in the hopes of making a difference in the world. Was that really so unusual? Wasn't that why all of those people had joined Freedom in the first place?
He was shown the kitchen, where a thin, old Asian man handed him a bowl of vegetable soup with a big smile on his face. As Collin took a taste of this soup he realized that he hadn't tasted real food in weeks. After his escape, everything had been so rushed and chaotic that he never stopped to think about whether or not he was hungry.
The soup was warm, but not too hot. Collin could spoon it into his mouth quickly, which was greatly appreciated. He might have drank the soup directly from the bowl if so many people hadn't been watching him. Because of them, he was forced to mind his manners. It allowed him to taste the soup as it went in. The sweetness of the vegetables. The delicate blend of herbs.
“A hint of nutmeg?” he asked the old man.
The man's smile grew wider as he realized that not only was his soup enjoyed for simply being food, but that the finer details of his creation were being appreciated. The man leaned in a little bit closer to Collin and said, “You're the first person to catch that.”
“It's good.”
“Damn right it is. Want more?”
Collin handed the man his empty bowl and waited for his refill to come back to him. As he waited, he turned to Tracy and said, “When the girl wakes up we need to make sure she's fed.”
Tracy nodded and said, “Yeah. I figured we'd need to feed her eventually.”
“Sorry. I just...”
“You care.”
“I guess.”
“That's why people like you.”
The mention of all those other people and their feelings toward Collin made him feel uncomfortable again. He turned toward a wall, studying different pictures and recipes that were hanging on it, just so he wouldn't have to look at any of his admirers.
“It will settle down,” Tracy told him. “Nobody here thinks that you're anything except what you are.”
“What's that?”
“The guy who held the media captive for days. The one who made HAND look stupid when they couldn't find you. You're the guy who helped stop people from calling us 'Hate' all the time. That's something, right?”
“It's something,” Collin nodded, still not sure exactly what to think or say about it.
The old man returned with Collin's bowl of soup and handed it to him. As Collin took it, he extended his hand and said, “I'm sorry. I never introduced myself. I'm Collin.”
The man grinned as though Collin introducing himself were some sort of joke. He then shook Collin's hand and said, “Liam.”
“Thank you for the soup, Liam.”
Tracy took Collin's arm and led him out of the kitchen. As they walked, she said “He's been planning this meal ever since we started putting together your rescue. I think you just made his year.”
“It's good soup,” Collin replied, then changed to a much more comfortable topic and asked, “So, about my rescue. How did that happen?”
“Quickly,” said a woman, approaching Collin from behind.
Collin turned and saw a tall, middle-aged woman with gray hair that was pulled into a ponytail. She looked like she could have been either a HAND officer or a model in another life. Tough, but with gentle eyes.
“I'm Mig. I coordinate things around here,” she said and then glanced down to the bowl in Collin's hand and said, “I see you've met my better half.”
“Liam,” Collin nodded.
“It's good to have you here, Collin. I truly mean that.”
“I appreciate your effort.”
Mig looked to Tracy and said, “Timmy called in a while ago. He made it out in one piece, more or less, but he's hiding out in his brother's apartment for a while.”
Tracy smiled when she heard the news. Collin had almost forgotten about the member of Tracy's team that never made it into the van.
Mig turned back to Collin and told him, “We had a lot of help. There are a lot of people in this city who are happy to know that you're safe.”
“I'm not sure what to say,” Collin told her.
“Don't worry about it.”
Collin's eyes drifted over to a computer monitor, which was displaying a local news feed. There were images of Mayor Northfolk speaking the night before, and the shrines that had been set up for people who had died in the chaos that followed. Collin wanted to tell Mig that it wasn't worth all of this, just to save him. But he kept his mouth shut. Being ungrateful wouldn't help anything.
Mig took a deep breath and said to Collin, “Look, I know this is overwhelming. I know it must be strange to have so many people staring at you and listening to everything you say. Lord knows, they never do that when I'm talking and it would probably give me a stroke if they ever did. But I'm not a wide-eyed little fangirl, swooning over the latest media heartthrob. If I didn't think that you had something to offer, I never would have risked my people to free you.”
“What can I do?” Collin asked.
“I brought you here because I think you might be a valuable consultant. You... know how to get attention.”
“By getting myself captured?”
“It worked. And I know you've been locked up, so you haven't seen how huge an impact you really had, but let me tell you that it's been electric. Why did you do what you did?”
Collin shrugged and shook his head, not really sure what she expected him to say.
“You know. Tell me why you thought it would be a good idea to sit yourself down on the sacrificial alter.”
“Can we stop with the religious metaphors?”
“No problem. But you know why you did it. I just want you to say it.”
Collin took a deep breath. Did she really want to hear that his big stand was the result of c
abin fever and frustration at the complete lack of action being taken by Freedom? Maybe not. But she asked, so he said, “I got tired of sitting around, waiting for the world to change around me. I got sick of watching people like me get hunted—People like Uly Jacobs get murdered, all while we sit in holes in the wall, waving our fists in the air and getting nothing accomplished.”
Mig stared at him without any expression on her face for a few moments before she raised an eyebrow and said, “Was that hard?”
She smiled and put a hand on Collin's shoulder, looking him squarely in the eyes as she said, “I'm sick of it too. We're all sick of it, and because of you even normal people on the street are starting to open their eyes and ask themselves if this is really the world that they want to spend the rest of their lives in. It's like these documents that Libby Jacobs gave back to us. We've always known that a lot had been taken from us. We've always had the gist of what we were hoping to get back. We've had bits and pieces of these things—Hand-copied knockoffs that may or may not have been close to the real thing.
“Now we have these documents. Granted, many of them are hand-copied still, but they're the original words, with the power and history behind them. Your letter is like holding one of these documents. Your words have weight to them, because you weren't just rambling from your hole in the wall. You were willing to look the authorities in the eye and declare yourself. That's what we want to do now. We want our chance to flip-off the powers that be.”
“I'm still not sure why you needed me for that,” Collin told her.
Mig started to walk with Collin, down the hallway and toward one of the offices where Campus workers were organizing their business. As they walked, she said, “John Hancock. You know who he is?”
“He signed the Declaration of Independence.”
“Him and a ton of other people. They say—whether true or not—that he signed his name big enough for King George to read without his spectacles. That's what you did. You wrote that letter and hand-delivered it to the people of this city in a way that nobody was going to overlook.”
“You want me to do that again?” Collin asked, genuinely confused.
“Let's not rehash our former glory, shall we?” Once they reached the door of the office, Mig stopped walking and said, “Right now, you should just rest. Catch your breath. Heal. Nobody expects anything from you until you're ready.”
“And once I'm ready, you expect me to save the world?”
“If it wouldn't be too much to ask.”
“Not at all.”
Mig studied Collin for a second, looking into his eyes as though she could read his mind. She then said, “It's nice to see that you can joke. You're still you.”
“Am I?”
“You're a lot better off than most people would be. Believe me. I've seen what can happen to people.”
Without saying anything else, Mig turned and walked into the office, leaving Collin alone with his bowl of soup. He turned around, not sure where he was supposed to go or what he was supposed to do next. This time, there were only a few people staring at him. He tried his best not to look annoyed by them as he walked down the hall.
He didn't know where he was headed when he started walking. Somewhere along the way, Tracy had vanished and he was now left to make up his own mind about where he wanted to be. It felt strange. Despite what Mig thought, Collin didn't feel like himself. He didn't know quite how he felt or who he was anymore, but thinking about the person he was and the life he once had was like thinking about a character in a book that he'd once read. Familiar, but beyond his ability to actually see or touch.
He eventually made his way to the room where Mek had placed the little girl. There were other people in the room. Some were watching TV. A few of the kids were playing games.
Collin walked to the cot where the little girl was still soundly sleeping and he sat down beside her. He didn't want her to wake up in that place, with no familiar faces nearby. Not that he was a close family friend or anything, but at the very least, she had to know that he wasn't going to kill her. That had to count for something.
His soup was getting cold, but he ate it anyway. He made sure to eat it slowly, savoring each bite. Maybe it was because he hadn't eaten real food in such a long time, but that soup was probably the best tasting food he'd ever eaten, with the possible exception of a brownie that he'd once been given.
When he was done eating, Collin set the bowl down on the ground beside him and looked at the little girl. She seemed so peaceful as she slept. Nobody would ever know that she'd just lost everything.
With food in his belly and his mind as much at ease as could be expected, Collin's eyelids began to grow heavy. He leaned his head on his hand, but quickly decided that he needed to lie down. The cots looked nice, but he didn't know whose cot was whose and he didn't want to take anyone's space, so he stretched out on the floor next to the little girl and decided that he was going to sleep for a while.
“At present, there have been three reported deaths as a result of the Hate attack on the HAND building last night,” a woman's voice said from the TV. Collin hadn't paid that TV any attention until he closed his eyes and it became the only sound he could hear.
“Seventeen year old Croy Fisker was brutally gunned down last night by what officials are calling an especially barbaric attacker. Witnesses close to the scene report that the attack was most likely the result of racial prejudice. The extremist group, Hate, is of course known for it's acts of violence and discrimination. Authorities believe that these latest attacks are a sign that the group is growing even more desperate and intolerant.
“Racial justice advocate, Beta Winston was at the scene of Croy Fisker's murder this afternoon, paying his respects and sharing in the sadness and outrage that has rocked his community.”
The woman's voice was gone now and replaced with the angry words of Beta Winston, who half-growled his words, “So when you see one of their fliers, rip it down! When you hear their vile words, cast that person out! If you know someone who is associated with this group called Hate, call the authorities and have that person removed from the streets. Our streets! Our homes! Not theirs! Our lives! Not theirs! Our children! Not their victims! No more! No more! No! No! No!”
Collin opened his eyes just in time to see the face of Beta Winston on the screen, staring slightly to the side of the camera with a look of anger and resolve in his eyes.
The image then cut back to the news desk, where a female anchor said, “'Our children. Not their victims.' Such powerful words from a community that has suffered an unimaginable loss. We'll be sure to keep you updated with the latest on this story as it unfolds. As we mentioned before, there was another murder reported today, but authorities have yet to release the name of the victim. Stay tuned to channel six news. We'll be back after these messages.”
The news faded out and a commercial started to play on the TV screen. Collin closed his eyes again, wanting desperately to fall asleep, but he couldn't get the voice of Beta Winston out of his head. That deep, growling voice, commanding the crowd. Selling them whatever story he decided to weave on behalf of the authorities and passing it off as heartfelt concern for a suffering community.
Winston was well known all around the country. Whenever an opportunity for publicity popped up, he was there. He claimed to fight for communities like that of Croy Fisker, but as Collin observed the man over the years, he came to realize that there was something much more sinister in his words. He was not interested in raising up a community, he was interested in perpetuating the notion that those communities were separate from the rest. His job was to paint the picture of a common enemy for those communities to rally against, and in doing so, those people all rallied behind him. He gave them a war to wage and declared himself their general. But of course, he was just a part of the same system as any other politician.
Beta's words echoed in Collin's head, over and over again. The way the audience could be heard reacting to those words. The
way the news anchor repeated them, turning them from an angry cry to battle, into gentle words of empowerment. It was all one machine, perfectly tuned over the course of decades.
For so long, Collin had struggled to understand how people could fall for the lies and willingly accept a life of misery. When he was younger, he believed that if people just heard the other side, they would have to come around because it was the only thing that made sense. But as he grew older, he realized that there were a good many people in this world who had no interest in sense or reason. They didn't want to listen or think. They wanted someone to show them. To lead them. To do their homework for them.
Beta Winston was only a cog in the machine, but he could play the crowd like a fiddle. When he spoke, people listened because he was a personality. He put on a good show. He spoke with that growl in his voice and people mistook it for genuine outrage.
Freedom didn't have a face. It didn't have a voice. The message that got out was whatever the nightly news reported, and it had nothing to do with their real goals or ideals.
If Freedom was going to succeed, they needed someone like Beta Winston. Not a liar, but someone who knew how to sell their words to the crowd. Someone who could draw attention. Someone who could expose the lies that were being spread about their people. They needed to look into the eyes of those lying reporters and call them out.
But how could they go about doing that when free speech was purely theoretical? When there was no way to appear on television, or to sit in on one of those Sunday morning roundtable discussions? How could Freedom reach the masses and make them listen?
14
Rose chose not to go straight home. She usually preferred to avoid her family at all costs, but on this particular day, she chose to go to her sister's apartment instead of her own. For some reason, which she was sure she would regret later, she wanted to see their faces.
Her sister, Daph, lived two buildings away from Rose, in the apartment that both girls had once shared with their mother. Now their mother was dead and Daph lived in the apartment with her own fourteen year old daughter, Ze.