Citizen Second Class- Apocalypse Next

by Robert Chazz Chute

  Marjorie who got right to the point. “How far you wanna go with us, girl?”

  “Like I said, Atlanta, if you’re headed that far.”

  “No, I mean how far are you willing to go? Chuck and I can take you all the way if you’re willing to pay the toll. Are you catching what I’m tossing your way? It’s an opportunity.” She winked and licked her painted lips lasciviously.

  “Or you could just let me out here.”

  “You eaten lately, honey?” she persisted.

  I sighed. My parents had strong ideas about how to hurt people who needed hurting. My sister was more devious. I decided to try Sissy’s brand of tactics. “Chuck? Marjorie? Do you want to hear a story?”

  “Chuck and I love stories. Do tell!”

  “Once upon a time, there was a girl on the run.”

  “A runaway? Runaways are interesting,” Marjorie said.

  “Shut up, Marjorie,” Chuck ordered. “Let her talk. She doesn’t sound like a Mexican, but I like the way she talks.”

  I ignored his slur and continued breezily. “This girl didn’t run away from home. She ran from authorities. They hunted her but she lost herself in the woods. Lots of woods in Georgia. That’s where this girl was from.”

  Chuck’s eyes flicked up to look at me in the rearview mirror again. His eyes were wider this time, less sure of himself, less smug.

  “This girl wasn’t treated well. She always had a perfect memory for every bad thing that happened to her. Lots of bad people everywhere and she ran into one or two. She never forgot the things bad men said or the things they did. She was patient and she waited, vowing revenge. One day, when she was just barely old enough, she went back to the people who treated her so badly. They were asleep and she showed up in their bedrooms with a couple of cans of kerosene.”

  “Oh, my god!” Marjorie whispered. She wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “I said shut up,” Chuck growled. “I’ll handle this!”

  Marjorie went quiet, her lips a thin line. I wasn’t sure if she was more scared of Chuck or of me. To be certain, I added a kicker. “The trick to doing something like that right,” I said, “is you make sure all the exits are nailed shut and doused first.”

  I didn’t get to finish my story. Chuck yanked the wheel and pulled over at a diner. “We can’t take you any farther.” He popped the lock and my door yawned open.

  Before I stepped out, I pushed my luck. “Thank you for the ride. Thanks to you both. You wouldn’t happen to have any money you could spare, do you? I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

  “Get out,” Chuck said.

  “That girl I mentioned? She was good with remembering lots of things.” I looked Marjorie in the eyes. “She remembers names. She remembers the smell of perfume that’s so heavy she can taste it. That’s the sort of thing that crazy girl with the cans of kerosene would remember.”

  “You’re a liar,” Chuck said.

  “I never forget a face, Chuck, just like you’ll never forget mine, right?”

  Chuck ordered me out but Marjorie wasn’t so sure I was harmless. I felt a familiar flutter through my stomach and my hands were cold but my death stare was steady. She saw something in my face that made her believe I was capable of something awful, something that might be bad for her. Marjorie was not wrong.

  She reached back with her phone and with a shaky hand held it to my bracelet. Ding! Forty dollars for me, maybe enough to buy a modest lunch special.

  I slipped out of the car. The door would have closed on its own but, trembling and angry, I slammed it as hard as I could.

  Grammy once told me, “All stories are real even if they ain’t true.” The little story I told them wasn’t entirely true, but to make it in the world, I had to be ready for anything. The atrocities that occurred in Campbellford had taught me that, and our little town was a tiny slice of the world. Everything was falling apart everywhere.

  I didn’t want to do terrible things, of course. I wasn’t going to be pushed around forever, either. Citizen Security and Safety had my face in their database so whatever they took from me, I would have to accept for the time being. I wasn’t prepared to accept every shitty thing fate threw my way, either. Not forever. No one can put up with abuse forever. Eventually, we either run, fight or die.

  Clayton Hobbs and what happened in the ditch had taught me harsh lessons about violence. From Mama and Daddy, I learned how to fight. Sissy taught me to be clever. Living with Grammy taught me patience.

  I had intimidated a couple of predatory creeps and got forty dollars on the gamble. Still, I doubted I was up to the far greater challenges waiting for me in Atlanta.

  Chapter Four

  I passed several cars in the parking lot before checking out the menu in the front window of the diner. Bacon, ham and sausage were scratched through with a bright red marker. What’s the point of a diner without the food names that all mean dead pig, shredded, flat, tubed or otherwise?

  Sugar was off the menu because of crop failures in the tropics. Someone had scrawled a sun-bleached note that read: Sugar substitutes are available but don’t complain about the price.

  I could see customers inside but the restaurant’s front door was locked. A guy sitting in a nearby booth pointed at the door and mouthed something I couldn’t understand. I caught on when he pointed at his wrist. The lock had a scanner and it wouldn’t pop for me unless I was valid. I didn’t have a citizen chip in my bracelet. I wasn’t allowed entry unless someone let me in. The customer was still watching me so I waved to him, hoping he would open up for me. He turned back to his meal and pretended I was invisible.

  Kismet Beatriz: Not valid.

  I gave up on the front entrance before somebody called CSS. Feeling lightheaded and ravenous, I made my way to the rear of the restaurant. There I found two rundown outbuildings. Judging by the wire surrounding it, one used to be a henhouse. The other building looked like an abandoned barn.

  I found a big trash receptacle. I was not above dumpster diving but it was locked. Frustrated and hungry, I asked aloud, “Who locks up garbage?”

  A woman’s voice came out of nowhere, “It’s to keep the raccoons out.”

  Startled, I peered around the dumpster to find a server sitting on the back steps of the building smoking a cigarette. She might have been 35 or 50, one of those people who look haggard and could be younger than they appear if not for the cigarettes. Too much sun and hard living.

  She looked me up and down for a few seconds before taking another drag and staring off into space. I knew that look. Anyone who didn’t count knew that look.

  “You have raccoons?” I ventured.

  “Not real raccoons. I think they’re all dead by now, at least around here. The locals used to cook ’em up, roadkill stew. Now they hunt ’em.”

  My gaze went to the big silver padlock, still mystified. The server followed my gaze and let out a thin, wheezing laugh. “By raccoons, I mean you, honey. Scavengers break off from the packs of illegals whenever they come by here. They scrounge for scraps. The boss got fed up so it’s locked.”

  “I’m not an illegal.”

  “But not a full citizen, am I right? You couldn’t get in the front door.”

  “No shirt, no shoes, no service.” I held up my left arm and pulled back the sleeve to expose my bare wrist. “No chip, no privileges.”

  “As they say, second-class is no class.”

  “But I’ve got a little money.”

  She exhaled a long plume of smoke and stared at me, her eyes red with broken blood vessels. Finally, she sighed. “You like eggs?”

  “Real eggs?”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “You want a what with a who? Are you for real?”

  I hurried to say, “I like powdered eggs, too.”

  “Thirty bucks up front. I’ll bring you a plate.”

  “Twenty bucks. Ten now and ten when you deliver.”

  “Thirty bucks or nothing.”

  “Thirty bucks, a bottle of wa
ter and you let me use the restroom.”

  “Forty for the bottle of water, too. I can’t get you into the toilet. That’s customers only.” She nodded toward the building I’d taken for a barn. “There’s a sink in the garage if you don’t make a mess. Don’t drink from that tap, though.”

  “Forty for a meal and a bottle of water? I’m not sure,” I said.

  “I tell you what, I can nab you some toilet paper as a bonus. I’m sure you can find a comfortable spot out there among the trees.”

  I was accustomed to relieving myself in the woods. The trick was to find a log to hook your legs over or to hold on to a branch so you didn’t pee on your pants. I liked the idea of real toilet paper but I didn’t care for the way she told me to go in the woods. When she looked at me, she saw an animal. I glanced at the server’s bare wrists. No chip. She wasn’t a full citizen, either. She was just like me but with a little bit of power.

  I should have left it at that but curiosity got the better of me. “Is your boss one of the Select?”

  She chuckled. “You think one of them would eat at a little greasy spoon on the outskirts of Atlanta? I’ve never met a real boss. I just know Marsha and Benny. Marsha works the breakfast shift with me. Benny’s the cook. Some guy comes by to check on the place from time to time but Benny runs the place. Owners? I don’t know any owners. That’s not how it works.”

  “How do you think it works?”

  “A company that’s owned by another company that’s owned by a huge corporation runs this diner. A good chunk of the world, too, I suppose. I’ve never seen one of the Select in here. Real bosses never have a reason to get dirt under their fingernails. They just sit back and watch the money roll in. Sweet gig, huh?”

  She took my resentful silence for assent. “Gimme a minute. Gotta finish my coffin nail.” She sucked on the cigarette and blew another long plume of smoke. She looked at her cigarette in disgust. “Synthetic. Just as deadly as ever but not as sweet as the real thing. The ciggies and the food taste bad. Miracle living through better chemistry, my ass. I used to be fat. I miss the reasons to be fat.”

  She held up her cigarette and stared at it as if it had secrets to reveal. “Sometimes I think the bosses of the world want us all dead and or at least livin’ miserable. Misery sucks all the energy away. They only let us have what little we got just so we don’t storm their walls. Just as well. I can’t make any trouble. My knees are shot.”

  “You don’t want to go all torches and pitchforks on their asses?”

  She put a finger to her lips. “Maybe go easy on the T & P talk. You don’t know me. For all you know, I could go inside and call the CSS on your skinny ass. Don’t be stupid. I need you to live long enough to pay me my forty bucks.”

  The server sucked down the last of the cigarette and got to her feet. “All the money up front. By the sound of you, I’m not confident you’ll last until I get back.”

  I held out my bracelet and she dug one of her own out of her apron. Before the devices touched, she said, “I’ll meet you in the garage at my next break. Wait for me. I can’t just put in an order to the kitchen. You’ll get the leavings I scrape from customers’ plates, you understand?”

  I shuddered. Then, I nodded.

  “Take your time with the sink and give yourself a good wash. You’re sweaty. Benny’s car is in there. You touch it, you die. Got it?”

  I wanted to smash the server’s nose and turn it into a blood fountain. Then I could take her bracelet, force my way into the diner and eat all their greasy food. Instead, I gave her all the money I’d scammed from the creeps. Hunger smashes pride in half. It would be a cold meal swallowed down with bitterness. Still, I was eager to eat something.

  My only satisfaction was found in not thanking the server. In the face of indignity and scorn, that compensation was microscopic. I hated to feel helpless but who doesn’t?

  Secondhand fake powdered eggs and fascism, I thought. It’s what’s for dinner.

  Chapter Five

  Inside the garage I changed out of my dusty clothes. The sink was hooked up to a well. I used the pump and a rag to wash up before pulling fresh clothes from my pack. Mama said that in the infantry changing to fresh socks could make the last ten klicks to a long ruck a tad easier. With nothing to do but wait, I washed the shirt I’d worn and twisted it over and over to wring it out.

  I didn’t taste the water from the pump. I could smell there was something off about it, a strong metallic odor. I decided not to use my filter straw. Better to wait for the water bottle I’d paid for. Giardia and other waterborne diseases were pretty common but in the last several months cholera outbreaks had appeared throughout the South. People blamed the refugees for the spread of disease. The propapundits said without mass immigration, no citizen would get sick.

  Grammy taught me otherwise. “Nobody running north had a hand in building the water systems in the detainment centers. They didn’t build the waste management in the camps, neither. Everything’s been breakin’ or broken since I was a girl. It’s not a new thing but it’s always been a needful thing. Hate is the virus. Seems like pretty near everybody’s got that fever.”

  That rang true. One of our neighbors a few farms over was Clayton Dobbs. As we sat on our porch, Dobbs leaned on our fence and railed on about a refugee who didn’t have the energy to keep traveling north. The homeless man hung out at the men’s mission in Campbellford.

  “I go into town, minding my business, and suddenly I’m getting harassed by this tall-ass man,” Dobbs said. “You’d know him if you saw him, wears a battered old suit and a bolo tie. A bolo! Gotta be from Down There! Beggars and takers! They got nothing good to give! I don’t know him from Adam but that man has a thumpin’ gizzard where his heart should be, botherin’ good people just trying to go about their business.”

  I recognized the phrase ‘beggars and takers’ from the propapundits. “It’s not racism! It’s math!” (They always insisted their hatred couldn’t be rooted in racism.)

  “‘Down There,’” Grammy scolded Dobbs, “is code for either genitals or Mexico. Neither is expected to be heard in polite company.”

  “But the tall man, he’s always askin’ for money!” Dobbs insisted. “I ain’t got no money and neither do you. Nobody does, not enough to spare, anyway. But here’s this immigrant embarrassing folks, people who are too poor to paint and too proud to whitewash.”

  “You ever dared to ask a stranger for money, Mr. Dobbs?” Grammy asked.

  “Of course not.” Hobbs looked horrified that she would even ask.

  “It takes bravery. The beggar is always more embarrassed than the person he’s asking, I assure you.”

  Dobbs ignored my grandmother and ranted on, “Y’all don’t understand! These people are dangerous!”

  Grammy gave him the side-eye and whispered to me, “Imagine being such a coward you can’t bear to hear a person asking you a question. All this fool had to do was say no.”

  “I’ve called the CSS twice on that fella,” Dobbs whined. “He runs off before they can run him off for good. He was back the next day asking for $5 or $10 from everybody to feed his family!” Dobbs was so worked up, he had to wipe the sweat from his brow and was panting a little when he finished. “Damn immigrants, takin’ our jobs, tryin’ to live off us — ”

  “Which is it?” Grammy called back from the porch. “Takin’ our jobs or livin’ off us?”

  Dobbs smiled and wagged his finger. “Mother Beatriz, you are a clever one.”

  “Not so clever, just not so stupid fearful,” Grammy whispered to me again.

  “All I’m sayin’ is be careful when you venture into town. Beggars used to be just a city thing. Now they’re everywhere! That fella is a foreigner up to no good, I guaran-damn-tee!”

  Grammy was funny about our neighbor’s fears but I understood how Mr. Dobbs felt. I didn’t go into town often. When I did, I made sure to walk on the opposite side of the street, walking fast past the Mission. Most beggars were po
lite but once when I was eleven or twelve a man followed me down the street. With his long gray beard, wild eyes and toothless mouth, the stranger demanded to know who my father was. He followed me for two blocks shouting, “Who’s your daddy? Who’s your daddy?”

  Just the memory of his harassment gave me the shivers.

  As it happened, I did go into town a couple of days after Dobbs paid his visit. A tall man in a battered suit wearing a bolo tie stood outside of the Mission. From the other side of the street, it appeared he was asking passersby for help. His voice was inaudible and he did not raise his head to meet anyone’s eyes.

  On my way back, the tall man was shouting for help as four burly guards attacked him. They shoved him to the ground as he screamed, “You’re breakin’ my arm! I’m a godly peaceful man of faith and you’re doin’ this to me? To me? I got an arm that’s already gibbled and you’re breakin’ my one good arm!”

  The guards dug their batons into his side and shouted at the beggar to cooperate. As far as I could tell, the only order they’d given him was to cooperate. It was hard to figure how he could comply more or harder.

  The man cried as they zip-tied his hands behind his back. “It’s come to this? It’s come to this!”

  He shouted for help a couple of more times, right up until they pulled a black bag over his head and carried him to a waiting truck. He was quiet after that. I’d heard enough to know that, despite the bolo tie, that man was no immigrant. He had the same soft accent as Clayton Dobbs. If that man had ever even stepped a foot out of Georgia, I’d eat nothing but crow and not complain.

  It has come to this, I thought.

  I didn’t want to dwell on that memory but hunger has a way of gnawing away all other thoughts. Despite my trepidations, the server brought me what I’d paid for. She emerged from the diner just as darkness fell. She stalked in and put my meal on a workbench. True to her word, she dug a bottle of water out of her apron and slammed it down beside the plate of cold powdered scrambled eggs and two stale biscuits.