Citizen Second Class- Apocalypse Next

by Robert Chazz Chute

  “My grandmother says you can understand a person’s religion easily. How much time do they spend kicking somebody when they’re down instead of helping them up?”

  “My old pastor would say the kickers are the kind of believers who smile on Sunday but shoot you on Monday. Some people enjoy a snootful of adultery and divorce but start yellin’ when you admit you are how God made you. I am how God made me and my God does not make trash. ”

  “So the CSS really don’t bother you?”

  “They bother me plenty but they don’t arrest me. Centurions can exercise discretion in Mason-Dixon matters. Sometimes I gotta pay with a little money and once in a long while, damn their leering eyes, I have to give ’em some sugar to shut ’em up. But I pass. If you pass for what you were born to be, they pretty much leave you alone.”

  “Doesn’t sound fair to Casey.”

  “It’s not fair, but it’s not about what we want. It’s what the citizens want.”

  “Citizens lobbied hard for the Mason-Dixon decision. The Select voted overwhelmingly.”

  “Yeah, they really taught us something, didn’t they?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Making progress is like pushing a car uphill. You gotta keep pushing or it’ll roll back, right over you.”

  Chantelle smiled and patted my arm with what seemed like genuine affection. “When the people in charge make those decisions, they’re in a room that’s all polished oak. Their desks are mahogany. They’re in a room with a lot of brittle old men and dusty women. When they write those laws, that’s when they’re being who they think they should be. People do a lot of silly things when they think they’re living up to a made-up ideal. But out here, down in the dirt? Different story. Down here, people are who they really are.”

  “Different how?”

  “The nights are lonely and I am a beautiful Jezebel. When they say Jezebel in church, the tone is mean. When they’re out at night driving around in their fancy cars and the seat next to them is cold?” She laughed. “That’s when things get real. The centurions leave me alone because the citizens who stop to give me a ride want me out here. They condemn us in the day. Sunlight makes ’em forget. When the moon comes up, they remember how sad they’d be without me.”

  “Doesn’t it make you mad?”

  “Mostly, I feel bad for them. They’re denying their true nature. I get it, used to do that myself. I used to be an angry man named Roger. Used to work for the Circle. Used to start and end my day with the pledge to keep the Circle unbroken. Hard to believe now, huh?” She tossed her hair, smiled and batted her eyelashes coquettishly.

  “The Select Few drove a lot of good people into Old Atlanta and underground. That’s gonna change.”

  “When?”

  “If all goes startlingly well, I think it will happen. Be like a werewolf, Kismet. Look to the full moon. Things’ll change, they always do. Every dog has his day and every drag queen gets their applause. Not gonna lie, though. The Lord tells me to be patient and wait for Her Grace. The long wait can feel like gettin’ served hot shit on a cold plate!”

  I never heard God referred to as female. When I told Chantelle so, she giggled. “Of course, God is a woman! Gotta be. You know how I know? She’s so patient with Man.”

  “You ever work inside the Circle’s wall, Chantelle?”

  She bobbed her head.

  “Ever talk to a citizen like this?” I asked. “To one of the Select, I mean?”

  “They aren’t great listeners,” she replied.

  “Just once, it would feel kind of great to tell one of them I felt sorry for them — ”

  “Oh, no, honey! Citizens only want to hear ‘yes, sir,’ and ‘how high up the alimentary, ma’am?’”

  I burst out laughing and Chantelle joined me. After a moment, she gave me a long sober look and added, “Seriously, though, never tell a citizen you’re sad for them. That’s the worst thing for them to hear. They can’t handle that. Got the worst beating of my life the night I made that mistake. They don’t want your pity no matter how gentle you say the words and how kindly you may mean it.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “You feeling more comfortable?”

  I stiffened but lied and told her I was okay.

  “The parks are either detention camps or heavily patrolled. You want to keep heading east on this road some more. If you get to Ponce, you’ve gone too far.”

  “Ponce?”

  “Ponce de Leon Avenue. Home Depot, Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods all moved inside the Circle. Look for those signs. You’ll find a place to lay your head at the old Home Depot.”

  “Really? Why there?”

  “Those abandoned buildings are official shelters now. The old food stores don’t take newcomers past dusk but you’ll find a space in the old Home Depot. That’s your next step. Trust me.”

  “But I have to get into the Circle — ”

  “Getting in and out isn’t easy, Kismet. An opportunity will present itself.”

  “Thank you, Chantelle.”

  “When you lie down, wind the straps of your pack around your arm or something. Use it for a pillow and you won’t lose it. And don’t take those hiking boots off. Somebody might try to gank those from you.”

  I wore my mother’s boots, the same she’d worn when she came back from her first tour of duty in Mexico. I felt sorry for people who didn’t like their parents. Without them, I felt like a bird who couldn’t fly.

  “You still okay, Kismet? Your eyes are lookin’ a little bit wet. There’s a storm comin’ but it’s not raining yet.”

  I said nothing. Instead, I hugged her.

  Chantelle patted me on the back gently. “It’s tough out here. Y’all going to have to be tougher. The Select ask too much of us and give too little kindness in return. See what God puts in your path and what you can do with it. Maybe She’s got big plans for you, too.”

  I pulled back and wiped the tears from my eyes.

  “I know how deep and raw the deal is,” Chantelle said. “I came to Atlanta from Lilburn, Georgia. Got here in the back of a truck.” She got a faraway look in her eyes, as if she could look through the dark, clear to a brighter future. “The Select keep pushin’ us down, but people are like springs. All this time they’re keepin’ us down is just building up more energy and heat. All this friction they give us is gonna backfire.”

  “Revolution?”

  “A reckoning. Rumors of torches and pitchforks are already on the wind. The meaner the Select get, the harder and faster the reckoning will come.”

  In the distance, thunder rolled and rumbled.

  Chantelle gently brushed a strand of hair from my eyes. “Their time’s runnin’ out.” She reached up to her own pile of ringlets, withdrew a small black clip and slipped it into my hair. “There. That will help you see clearly.”

  A little yellow coupe slid up to the bus stop. Chantelle frowned and sighed. “It’s showtime.”

  The passenger side window rolled down. A woman with a short shock of peroxide blonde hair called out, “Hey! Chantelle! Need a ride?”

  Chantelle squeezed me tight once more and stood. I hadn’t realized how tall she was. She towered over me. “Good luck, Kismet! Stay safe and be patient. Full moon’s comin’! DHD, baby!”

  I’d heard of DHD several times from travelers who’d begged for water at my grandmother’s gate. Refugees were our most reliable source of news. The catchphrase came up a lot. When people felt safe, they even used it as an expression of greetings and farewell among friends.

  Don’t hope. Do.

  Chapter Eight

  I found the old Home Depot in time to beat the rain. A CSS officer manned the gate. The glow from his pad made him look ghostly. He ordered me to turn to the door, to stand still and to refrain from smiling. I wasn’t in the mood to smile, anyway.

  A quick flash from above the door made me blink. Biometric scan.

  The result popped up on the guard’s screen immediate
ly. “Kismet Beatriz, huh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Says here your parents are citizens.”

  “Military status, yes. My mother, father and big sister have all served, yes.”

  “Why didn’t you join up?”

  I wasn’t in the mood to discuss my family history with a stranger. “As far as I know, it’s still a choice, sir.”

  He smirked. “They’re talking about bringing back the draft so maybe you won’t have that choice much longer.”

  “Does that mean everyone would become a citizen?”

  “That’s probably the question that’s holding it up. Says here you were born in Old Mexico.”

  This wasn’t idle curiosity. He was trying to rattle me, to shake loose a mistake. “When I was born, the state was still called New Mexico.”

  “We should never have made that concession. Do you agree?”

  The guard’s question could have been a trap. It wasn’t relevant to whether I should gain admittance to the shelter. I risked not answering his question and stuck to what he needed to know. “My parents are both Army. I was born at White Sands. Can I go in? It’s going to rain and — ”

  “White Sands ... legal and on base?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He asked my date of birth. That information had to be on his screen but I told him, anyway. After a pause, I asked if there was a problem.

  “No problem,” he said. “I’m deciding whether to believe you. Records can be faked. You’re arriving in the middle of the night. Lotsa refugees would kill to get into a shelter, especially with another storm coming in.”

  I shrugged. “I’m from Campbellford, just north of here.”

  “Most refugees are headed in the direction you came from.”

  “I’m not a refugee.” At least, I wasn’t the kind of refugee he was supposed to worry about.

  “A word of advice: With a last name like Beatriz, expect to get stopped and questioned. We’re getting pretty sick of people who look like you.”

  “What can I do about that?”

  “If I were you, I’d head north and I wouldn’t look back.”

  “That’s not what my family fights for,” I replied.

  “Another word of advice,” he said sternly, “Watch your tone when you’re talking to a CSS agent. Now go.”

  I couldn’t have been more civil. What more could he want from me? It seemed he was waiting for me to thank him. I remained silent. Finally, he sighed and waved me on. The lock buzzed and the door to the shelter opened just as the wind picked up and a torrent began to fall.

  He called after me, “Welcome to the Hobo Hilton!”

  The lights were dim but still bright enough to pick my way through all the bodies on the floor. If not for the snoring, coughing and rustling, this refuge from the rain would look more like a morgue, or maybe the scene of a bomb blast.

  All the spots along the walls were taken by people who preferred to sit while they slept. I found a spot that was more sparse, surely because it was directly under a spotlight. The concrete was cool but the air was too warm from all the people crammed into the shelter, warming the stale air with each breath.

  Remembering Chantelle’s advice, I took off my boots just long enough to massage my aching feet, then hurriedly laced them up again. I considered digging into my pack to fashion a makeshift mattress out of my clothes.

  Out of the darkness, someone shushed me. From another direction, someone scolded, “Stop your fussin’!”

  I didn’t think I could sleep but I went still. Eventually, I fell into a fitful sleep full of anxious dreams. In one vision, I was rushing to get somewhere. I was late for something but I didn’t know what. When I looked behind me, someone was following, gaining ground, closing on me.

  I woke up for a moment. My left shoulder ached from sleeping on the hard floor so I turned on my right shoulder and somehow collapsed into asleep again.

  My father taught me how to control my dreams, a feat I had not fully mastered. “The key to becoming a lucid dreamer,” Daddy told me, “is to ask throughout the day, is this real? Is this happening? When you ask that question so much that it seeps into your dreams, you’ve got the key to waking within the dream and gaining control of it.”

  Sometimes I slipped into that lucid state of consciousness. When I did, for a short time before waking, I could fly. When I told my father of this accomplishment, he hugged me close. “When your body is resting but your mind breaks the bonds of gravity and dream logic, flying is the best feeling you can have, isn’t it?”

  “It was great,” I said. “When it happened I felt so…” I struggled to describe it.

  “Free,” he said. “When you fly, you’re free.”

  “Exactly!”

  “The world is screwed so tight, it might collapse in on itself,” Daddy told me. “Keep lucid dreaming in your toolkit. It can help with lots of things.”

  “How?”

  “It’s good to have a place to retreat to. No matter what goes down, you can bring yourself up. It’s eased my mind, gave me time to work on problems, even got me through boot camp and cooled down a whole lot of hot trouble since.”

  But that night in the shelter, freedom and flight were denied me. Worry took control of my ship of dreams and would not relinquish the helm.

  In the last reverie, in the nightmare I would remember best, Grammy stood alone in a field bare of crops. I couldn’t go to her for some reason. I yelled for her to come to me. Instead, she wandered away. I wasn’t sure if she was looking for me, confused or ignoring my cries. I think I was invisible to her, maybe a ghost. I begged her to come back. Squinting against bright light, it seemed Grammy was swallowed by the sun.

  We come from starlight and ultimately we will be returned to the stars as stardust. I read that somewhere, I don’t remember where. When I awoke, I worried I’d somehow caught a signal that Grammy was dead.

  I never had bad dreams about Mama and Daddy when they went away. They were called to duty more often than they were home so their absence was normal. However, when Sissy left to join the Air Force, I began to have nightmares about her. I was sure my sister would be killed in a plane crash or get blown up by some unseen enemy. My sleeping brain came up with gory scenarios. Sometimes, I woke up screaming.

  Grammy would come into my room and place a cool hand on my sweaty forehead to soothe me. I would babble about what I’d seen and my grandmother would always say the same thing, “Dreams are just dreams. Sleep now. Sleep.”

  When I woke from the vision of my grandmother getting swallowed by a star, I wasn’t so sure that dreams were mere figments.

  The spotlight above me had powered up to deliver a dazzling light that made me wince. No wonder the place I’d made my bed had been available. In the distance, someone was banging on something and yelling. Around me, everyone stirred, yawning, stretching and scratching.

  The banging got closer. Above the noise, a man yelled, “7 a.m.! On your feet! Rise and grind, feed and fuel. Out by 8, pay your dues, back by noon!”

  The crowd parted to make way for a man hammering the inside of a steel trash can with a baton. It was the CSS officer who’d been on the gate when I walked in around 3 a.m. I’d got almost four hours. It felt like I’d slept four minutes.

  “Make your way to the exits, grab your grub and grab a vest. Out at 8! Back by noon!”

  A man and a woman to my right appeared to be together, already gathering their things. They both had sleeping bags and were in the process of rolling them up. An air about them made me think the couple knew the routine. I caught the woman’s eye and asked why we had to be back by noon.

  “First night?”

  “First night in Atlanta, yeah.”

  “It’s not all like this. It is a lovely city,” she said.

  “Used to be, anyway,” her partner grumbled. “You can pay for breakfast. That way you don’t have to come back by noon. I don’t recommend it. Better to put in the four hours of work. The food is bad
and there’s not enough of it. Worse, it’s way overpriced.”

  “What if I skip breakfast?”

  “You stay the night, it’s part of the package so you pay, either way. May as well take the lousy food.” She smiled brightly. “It’s the way it is.”

  “That’s Miranda,” the man said. “I’m Mike. My wife is a philosopher. Good thing she has a happy disposition.”

  “Might as well laugh as cry,” Miranda said.

  Mike made a face. “Balances me out.”

  “We have a deal,” the woman added. “Only one of us can panic at a time. If we both lose it, we may as well walk into the sea.”

  The man looked at her fondly. “She’s pulled me back from killing myself a couple of times now.”

  It seemed a strange admission. Back in Campbellford, no one would admit to suicidal thoughts unless they wanted the rumor spread all over town. People who live in small places have little to entertain themselves. We either turn to each other or we turn on each other. I had assumed it would be different in the big city, that strangers would be more wary of each other. The Slow Apocalypse was not an urban or a rural phenomenon, though. It changed all of us.

  “C’mon, people! Soup’s on and it’s getting cold!” The CSS man called.

  I’d been wiping the sleep from my eyes on his first pass. This time I paid the guard more attention. He wore a big hat that was not part of the regulation uniform.

  After he passed by, I whispered, “Is that guy really CSS?”

  “Sure is,” Mike replied.

  “I’ve never seen one with a hat like that,” I said.

  “He’s old,” Miranda explained, “Old and old school. It’s a state trooper’s hat. I guess he used to be one of them before all the police became CSS. Even nasty bastards can hold on to a bit of nostalgia.”

  “Careful, Miss Sunshine,” Mike chided her gently. “Nasty words could ruin your reputation for seeing the best.”

  “Pardon my husband. Sometimes he confuses my sunny disposition with stupidity.” She gave him a hard look. “I choose to smile despite the stupidity of others.”