The Salvation State

by Marcus Damanda

  He heard the vibrating from outside the stairwell walls and recognized it instantly. He switched on his radio. “Mrs. Black?”

  ****

  Ruth Black was in the lobby, alone, when DC radioed her. Her receiver wrapped directly around her left ear, a transparent loop of plastic that would have been unnoticeable to anyone not looking for it. If Mrs. James or anyone else had been standing with her at that moment, they might have assumed she was talking to herself.

  “News?” she asked, pacing, holding one hand to her ear.

  “Freight elevator’s moving,” DC said. “Those things are slow. Should be able to stop it between floors before it lands, if the old lady knows what’s good for her and cooperates.”

  Over the receiver, she could hear ambient noise: his footsteps, a door opening. The sound of his breathing lost its echo quality. “Where are you? Shouldn’t you be coming here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Be there soon. I want to check the grounds first, in case they split up.”

  ****

  Rebecca had known Miss Marcy was there the whole time. She was careful not to betray that knowledge by looking at her, though, even as she hit the bottom of the stairs and ran straight in her direction. She had anticipated a host of enemies lying in wait for her, in fact, and counted herself lucky when she could only make out one. The bright white shirt and the camera-flash light of the videophone identified her easily.

  The devil you know, she thought, steeling herself, telling herself it could only be worse, going the other way. God only knew how many people waited to spring on her around back. She didn’t think the cop could be there, not so quickly, but there was no way to be certain.

  She kept running, full tilt, as though making for the woods. But she was ready all the while, and when Miss Marcy came for her—thinking to roll her in one quick sucker-tackle, no doubt—Rebecca lowered her head, let out a cry, and drove herself right into Miss Marcy’s stomach.

  They went to the ground together, but Miss Marcy had already lost. Nary a sound—other than sucking breath—escaped her lips as Rebecca pinned her arms with her knees and punched her in the face. Once, twice, three times…

  Then, scooting back over her middle as Miss Marcy’s hands flew up to protect her face, Rebecca punched her twice more, this time in the sternum—straight punches, not uppercuts, leading with her two prominent knuckles, just as she’d been taught.

  And finally she stood, turning a full circle, suddenly panicking again. Surely there’d be an army coming for her by now. But there wasn’t. Not yet.

  Miss Marcy just lay there, curled into a ball, gasping.

  She saw the videophone Miss Marcy had propped up on the windowsill. I don’t have time for this, she thought, going to it anyway.

  She saw her own face in the screen as she drew near, growing bigger and bigger as she picked it up. It was taking live video of her and feeding it to Miss Marcy’s personal Omni page. The Views line at the bottom indicated there were currently six people watching.

  “My name is Rebecca Riggs,” she said to the screen, and suddenly found tears were threatening again. It annoyed her because she was not a crier as a general rule. She fought them down. “This is what the truth is: Second Salvations murdered my parents, and I’m running away.”

  She couldn’t know, as she tossed the phone aside and started running again, how famous those words would ultimately become. It wasn’t her name at first—nor her accusation, nor even her admission of deliberate flight—that would catch the attention of so many people. But the video, still in record mode, was already being shared by all six of the anonymous watchers on Miss Marcy’s Omniscience page.

  By the time Rebecca made it to the scooter between the road and the edge of the woods, one of the watchers thought to add the caption: This Is What the Truth Is.

  By sunrise, that video would go viral.

  ****

  As DC turned the corner on the west side of the dormitory building, he was just in time to see the prefect he had stationed there pulling herself up from the ground. Before he saw Rebecca, however, she’d already brought her knee up into his crotch. Doubling over, more surprised than hurt, he followed her with his eyes.

  She’d done it in midrun. She’d hardly broken her stride.

  He straightened, wincing. Rather than follow her, though, he drew his gun. “Rebecca!” he called after her. “Stop!”

  You weren’t supposed to run. All of his subdue gear was in the front lockbox of the cruiser. You were supposed to be upset, maybe even in shock. You were supposed to look to us for help and guidance.

  He aimed.

  I was supposed to just tranquilize you in the car.

  She’d never hear the shot. His gun had a silencer. He couldn’t impress her with noise. He fired, just off to her right, blowing a fist-sized hole into a tree that sprayed fractured splinters.

  She cried out. Still she ran.

  He fired again, brushing her hair forward and grazing her left ear. He was unconcerned, even when she screamed. There would be no permanent damage. Maybe a scar. No big deal.

  Still she ran.

  He sighed and ran after her. If she got much farther away, he wouldn’t be so sure of his aim. And if he killed her, he’d be in trouble.

  ****

  The freight elevator stopped, just between the second floor and the garage. Eleven pairs of eyes turned to Paula.

  “I don’t know,” she said in answer to their unspoken question. “Just give it a minute.”

  This is bad. This is so, so bad.

  She was sure the fear showed in her face because it quickly spread to the girls who surrounded her. None of them said anything. They did as they were told and waited, but the gathering fog of their collective anxiety filled the entire elevator box, seeming to shrink it.

  Then came the voice over the intercom: “Do not be afraid.”

  Paula was the only one who recognized it. They’d spoken together earlier, after all. But it didn’t address her. It addressed the group.

  “My name is Mrs. Black. My husband, Reverend Black, runs the Second Salvations facility on Angel Island. I am wondering, is there a Miss Paula Darby on the elevator with you ladies? Is there a Rebecca Riggs? Be honest, now—the elevator will land and open soon enough, anyway.”

  Again, Paula felt herself nailed down by their stares. God, she prayed, fortify me. Make me strong for what’s coming. Because she knew there was no longer any hope for her.

  “Surely one of you will answer.”

  The girl nearest the com button pushed it, eyes streaming. “Miss Paula’s here,” she said, voice quavering. “She told us to get on.”

  Paula closed her eyes. She didn’t fault the girl. It was the truth.

  “Hold her,” said the voice. “All of you, until the door opens and I can receive her. She must not be allowed to run.”

  Paula waited for the hands.

  “If she does run, all of you will pay for it.”

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  ****

  The pain did not register right away. She felt her hair blow forward, and she knew it was a bullet. The man was shooting at her.

  He had yelled at her to stop, and then he had shot at her. Twice. The first shot might have been a warning or just a poor shot. Not the second one, though.

  He’s shooting at my head.

  Fast as Rebecca had always been, she found she could run faster still when someone was trying to kill her. In her mind’s eye, she saw the scooter before it actually came into view. She zeroed in on that thought, cutting through a thin avenue of trees instead of going around, hurtling some obstacles and ducking under others. She felt the trickle of blood, but she still didn’t feel the pain.

  He got me. How bad? God, help me.

  What had her parents done? It must have been something terrible, because of all the things Rebecca had ever done, she was pretty sure none of them merited having real bullets fired at her. Even running from the police—they were suppose
d to use shockers for that. That’s what she’d read.

  It was a quiet night. Behind her, she could hear the pursuit, could hear the man stop, mutter something and start going around. The long way. Good.

  Ahead of her, she could hear the faintest hint of another approaching car.

  No. That’s not just one car. That’s at least two.

  She saw the scooter, tucked where she had left it in the small copse between the deeper woods and the street. As she drew closer, swirling red-and-blue lights emanated from around the bend on the road to Damascus. The glow grew and intensified as she hopped on the scooter and fished the keys out of her jeans pocket.

  Headlights, as the scooter came to life—two sets of them, just as she had thought—burned her vision. They were driving both sides of the street, cutting off anyone who might be thinking to go the other way. Except—unless…

  “Stop her!”

  Were their windows down? Could they have heard? Why didn’t they have their sirens on?

  She felt the blood on her neck, a tingling at her ear.

  Rebecca lowered her heard. Gritting her teeth, she drove the scooter forward, between the vehicles and past them. A sound escaped her lips as she did it, something slightly less than human, an animal wail of terror and flight.

  The sirens came on full blast.

  When they turn around, I won’t be able to outrun them. Not on this thing. The road’s no good.

  She drove to the bottom of the hill, much faster than she had when she had sneaked out to meet Brian earlier. Gunning the scooter all the way to forty miles per hour, she practically slid out twice on her way to the base of New Sinai. But before she got to the main road that would ultimately take her into Masada—and before the police had managed to slide back into single file and turn their cars around—she got back off the scooter and simply let it fall.

  Then she dropped to her knees, gasping in sudden agony. Her hand went to her left ear. A quarter inch of it was gone from the top. She allowed herself to scream, now looking at her blood-covered hand.

  She looked to the sky. Why is this happening to me?

  She wondered if Miss Paula was okay. She wondered how her parents had died. She wondered what she looked like now, and she thought about surrender.

  Behind her again, the red-and-blue glow. The sirens. The police.

  Abandoning the scooter, she fled into the woods on foot.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Proverbial Fire

  She didn’t expect to get very far. Any second now they would hem her in, shock her with coil guns, cuff her, and carry her off like a duffel bag. From the moment she had seen the second and third police cruisers arrive, Rebecca was certain it was only a matter of time. Now, as she scrambled farther into the woods, clawing uphill in the dirt on all fours, she could see how being apprehended sooner rather than later might have its benefits.

  Her ear hurt so badly. It was still bleeding, although the flow had ebbed to a pulsating drip. The wound was hot. She could feel the burning even in the small part of her ear that was no longer there.

  Maybe they’ll find the missing part. Maybe they’ll ice it until they catch me. Maybe they have painkillers… Maybe they’ll give me some kind of—

  Lights, focused, white, and bright. From high above her, they washed over the forest canopy, cutting through in straight streams where the trees were thin. Where they touched ground, they were like moving pillars, expanding wherever they found clear spaces. No noise accompanied them.

  That’s the air-ski I saw in the back of that cruiser. They don’t know where I am.

  The searchlights kept her moving. The man in the sky had tried to kill her. Maybe he was the one who had killed her mom and dad and was only here to make a clean scrub of the whole family. He would not care about fixing her ear. He would not have medicine.

  She put her back against a tree, gathering breath, resting her legs. On a good day, Rebecca was capable of sprinting a full mile at the end of an eight-mile run. From the age of thirteen, she’d even been able to outrun her mom, both in short and long distances. But she was tired now, so terribly tired…

  She closed her eyes, lips still fluttering in pain. But no tears. No freak out.

  The whole world isn’t like this.

  Was that her devil’s half talking? Or was it her devil’s half that wanted to turn herself in? It was hard to tell because both halves of her mind spoke in her own voice.

  No. That was Miss Paula’s voice, speaking from Rebecca’s memory.

  Even if she turned herself in, going to Angel Island would be no better than if that psycho collector cop had blown her brains out. They kill who you are, Miss Paula had said, which to Rebecca implied some kind of … what? Brainwashing?

  And Miss Paula knew things. She wasn’t a kid. At eighteen she would have gone to Citizen Registry and gotten all kinds of information that was forbidden to minors. Rumors about those secrets abounded, of course, and some of those rumors were probably the truth—secrets did have a way of slipping, no matter how closely guarded—but there was no denying that Miss Paula knew more about the world than Rebecca did.

  You have to run, she’d said.

  “Where?” she asked again, to no one but herself.

  Another surge of pain from her ear. It pushed away thought, demanding her attention like a squalling infant. Rebecca felt like someone was taking a jagged knife to her ear, right that second, all while someone else simultaneously held a blowtorch to it. It made her hands literally flap in helplessness until she found a job for them.

  She tugged at the breast pocket of Miss Paula’s black prefect shirt until it gave at the seam. You have to apply pressure, she told herself. On TV and in books, that’s what they always said about injuries. She’d read other things too—various things about disinfecting or cauterizing—but the one thing they almost always said was to apply pressure. Mom had made Rebecca apply pressure once, driving her to the Urgent Care after she’d gashed her shin in a six-stitch bicycle crash.

  Sorry about the shirt, Miss Paula, she thought, tearing off the pocket. But she only held the smallest possible part of it to her injury. Slowly, gingerly, she pinched it between her fingers and … touched.

  She hissed, her eyes watering. When she tried to press, she actually yelped out loud, then pounded her fist on the ground in frustration. In anger.

  She was scared too. The shaking spread from her hands to her whole body. She pictured herself as though from a distance. Even though the flow had mostly stopped, the left side of her head and neck were drenched in a solid, drying scarf of her own blood. She never would have guessed ears could bleed like that.

  This isn’t going to work.

  She knew next to nothing about this area. Her church and home were in Annapolis, Maryland. The only part of Pennsylvania she knew was DTR and strip mall nearest to it. Even at home, she was not exactly a woodsy kid. She hadn’t participated in AWANA in two years.

  She knew she couldn’t even be a full mile into the woods. She should be moving. Why hadn’t they found her yet?

  She did not want to go to Angel Island. She had promised herself she would not be taken by them. But she needed someone. She was just a kid, after all.

  She wanted her mother. She wanted her father. Yes, even him.

  You will not cry, she told to herself. You will not waste energy on crying.

  The circling, expanding lights moved ever closer in her direction.

  Rebecca tossed the ruined shirt pocket aside and got to her feet again.

  ****

  On her twelfth birthday, Rebecca got to stand in line with everyone else at last.

  Her first communion was a big day, not only for her, but for her father. In a way it was Daddy’s too—his first time leading it. The line was at least fifty people long. And it was the grownups’ service.

  Daddy wore a fancy red-and-white frock over his only suit and his best tie. His blue eyes glittered with barely suppressed pride, even as the rest of his
face projected pure solemnity. Rebecca didn’t know how much of that was for her and how much was for himself, and that was fair enough. Her own heart swelled for them both.

  By design she would be the last to receive the sacrament. It had been her mother’s idea.

  At the very front of the line, Mom took a small chunk of bread and dipped it into the cup held by her father. Rebecca knew her mom would be especially perfect today so as to set the right example for her.

  “This is my body, broken for you,” Daddy said. “My blood, shed for you.”

  Not that her mother was ever anything less than perfect.

  “Do this in remembrance of me.”

  Mom took her bread and wine with her eyes closed, knelt, crossed herself, and moved on. As she passed Rebecca on her way back to her seat, she briefly took her hand and squeezed it, a fleeting transference of uncomplicated reassurance and love.

  It was important that when the time came for her to do it, Rebecca would be alone—just her and God, represented this Sunday morning in the mortal figure of her own father. The whole church would see Rebecca do this without her mother by her side, would see her do it on her own. The presence of her earth-father did not count, as such, since he was presently only a vessel for the Son.

  It had been a long time coming, but Rebecca would now be one of them. She would belong. She felt very adult, advancing in line with the others. She thought of her father’s words last night at dinner.

  “This is a serious thing.”

  The line continued to move. Those who had received their weekly share of grace and mercy returned to their pews and sat. Many bowed their heads and prayed. Others just waited for it to end.

  “You have passed the age of innocence. You are now old enough to determine your own eternal destiny.”