The Salvation State

by Marcus Damanda

  Then she realized she was drenched to the skin. And inexplicably cold.

  She was shivering, even though she could tell the air was warm. Her whole body ached, just like when she’d had the flu the year before and missed three whole days of school and church services. She hurt everywhere. It hurt to bend her fingers, to scrunch her eyebrows.

  They’re leaving me out here to die, she thought, trying to stand. But she was still dizzy and had to support herself against a tree to get herself upright. Her feet slid and squelched. She nearly fell again.

  The wet, mud-covered clothes were not helping. She needed to find a place to dry off. She tried walking again. At first it seemed to help, uncomfortable as it was—but she realized before she had gone very far that she had somehow left one of her shoes behind. Rather than look for it, she took off the other one, discarded it, and kept going.

  Try as she might, she could not find a dry place anywhere. She took her shirt off and tied it around her middle. One of the sleeves tore in the process, but she hardly noticed. She prayed that if she were apprehended like this, the arresting officer would at least be female.

  She stood with her back against another tree and hoped the rain would stay away long enough for her head to clear, long enough for her to dry off a little. She put her hand to her forehead and felt the fever. She put it to her ear and did not feel that at all.

  When the singing started, she was quite certain she was imagining it. Young voices—a chorus of hundreds—came from all around her, distant but not remote. They were singing “Jesus Loves Me.”

  Shadows rustled in the dark. A quick, shutter-shot flash in the sky—gone more quickly than it had come. Clicking noises that could have been mechanical or animal. Giant spiders, maybe.

  And then an avenue lit up before her. The trees on either side seemed to glow. The ground was a swamp, the trail thin and twisty, but it was clearly a path. It went down. Rebecca could not tell or remember if this was the path she had struck coming to this place or if it would take her down the other side of New Sinai to places she had never been before. A trap, maybe, or a fever-spun hallucination…

  And just there, standing in the middle, stood her mother. Not in the flesh, though. She glowed, much like the trees did, but she was transparent. Rebecca could see more trees through her. She was wearing her best church dress and sensible shoes.

  She was speaking, her voice rising over the others. The singing continued, cutting into “Onward Christian Soldiers” as though a multitude of children had suddenly stood and begun to march, and yet those voices shrank under the power of her mother, the closeness of her. She was talking about Rebecca, but Rebecca could not see who she was talking to…

  “Everybody makes bad choices,” she said, her mouth curling in a small smile. “And we’re dealing with it, as parents do. She’s a child. She’ll learn.”

  It was the TV interview from last week, the one Queen James had made her watch.

  And then she was gone, even as Rebecca started to stumble toward the path, toward her. She knew her mother wasn’t real. She was a dream, a projection. And now, gone, replaced by her father, who was wearing his Sunday school shirt.

  “Suffer the children to come unto Me.” He pointed to his chest as he spoke. Then the movement reversed—or rewound—and the voice spoke again. “Suffer the children to come unto Me.” And did it a third time, even as the background singing passed from one ancient hymn to another.

  Rebecca recoiled. She turned away from the image of her father. But when she tripped, scrambling on her hands and knees away from the path, an echoing animal roar blasted out from among those darkened trees, eliciting a scream from her, sending her back again the other way—the right way…

  That was a bear. God, please. That was a bear. Help me.

  Her father was gone. The singing went on.

  Rebecca got to her feet and went back to the trees, back to the light. And again, she found she was not alone.

  Caroline was waiting for her.

  ****

  Rebecca on the Run: 00:16:45.

  Ruth and the interviewer knelt at the edge of the woods, right at the point where Rebecca had entered. The cameras rolled as they prayed together for her safety and her return to wisdom. The rubber mat under their knees was clear, carefully arranged so as to create the illusion that they were right there in the mud. Afterward, the camera would not show them from the waist down.

  It was nine o’clock at night, and it was Ruth’s fifth TV appearance of the day. She wasn’t tired, though. Finally she had gotten the interview she really wanted, with Donald Graham posing the questions. Prime-time cable with the very voice of New America.

  As long as Rebecca could keep this up, Ruth could.

  I will outlast you, she thought, even as her lips spoke the Lord’s Prayer in perfect synchrony with her interviewer. I will beat you. God is on my side. And it’s not like I was shot. It’s not like I have a fever.

  The only problem was, no one ever gave Donald Graham a question list. As they crossed themselves, stood, shook hands, and offered each other “Blessings of the Lord,” Ruth told herself it should not really be an issue. Graham was a believer—from a long line of prominent believers—and was also privately a contributor to Second Salvations. Public contributors could not always be trusted. True goodness was doing the right thing while no one but God was watching. The thought made her smile as they took their seats within the lighted tent.

  Graham didn’t waste time. “Mrs. Black, first things first. Is Rebecca safe?”

  “She is,” Ruth answered. “Masada police are positioned at twelve different points throughout the woods. They’re ready to move at a moment’s notice, should she injure herself or become trapped or get into any kind of trouble. We’ve pinpointed her location and tagged her with infrared. Doctors Smith and Freed are less than a few miles from her, keeping track of her medical condition. I’ve been told they are quite good—the best at this kind of thing.”

  “But this is rather new, isn’t it?” Graham asked. “It’s been the better part of a day since Rebecca Riggs fled into the woods. She’s already in the legal custody of Angel Island and Reverend Black. Isn’t it time to end this? Why not just go in and get her?”

  “The truth is,” Ruth said, working those exact words into the interview deliberately, as she had been doing all day long, “we’re already in constant contact with her. This is all a reaction to the horrible news about her parents, which we had hoped to deliver in a safer, much more sheltered environment. I’m afraid we may have moved a little too soon, a little too aggressively, last night—and even so, the news reached her before we did. She’s grieving, not thinking straight. For her long-term benefit, she has to come to us when she’s ready. Simple as that.”

  “How did she find out? About the accident, I mean. The accusation on the Omniscience site—”

  “I’m sure I cannot say. Someone must have put that into her head. It would not be the first sabotage of Second Salvations’ reputation, as you know. But what kind of person would use the deaths of a child’s parents just to further their own political agenda? It’s very disheartening.”

  “Will you pursue it once she’s turned herself in?”

  “The law says I have to,” Ruth said with a shrug. “But not until she’s ready to answer such uncomfortable questions. It could be a while.”

  “What about the funeral? Will she attend?”

  “No. We had made arrangements for her to do so, but not now.” In the back of her mind, such a flagrant lie almost caused Ruth’s conscience to twinge, but only for a moment. She had long ago come to terms with the importance of the greater good. “Not with such a spotlight on her. We’ll hold a special service on the island.”

  “Was Rebecca the head prefect at DTR?”

  Ruth huffed. “Absolutely not. She’s barely fifteen.”

  “But—”

  “She must have stolen the shirt—or vest or whatever it was. One thing we do know is tha
t Rebecca was on laundry duty for the early part of last night. So not much of a mystery there.”

  “Stealing is a serious crime…”

  “It is,” Ruth agreed. “We must remember, though, what this poor girl is going through—the horrible news and the lies. There is a time for discipline, and also a time for compassion.”

  “Is it true that Rebecca Riggs was accepted at Second Salvations weeks ago?” Graham asked unexpectedly. His voice had gone surprisingly stern. “And that her parents changed their minds?”

  Ruth blinked at him, considering. “Been surfing the Net, have we? The things being said there, the pure speculation—”

  “The head caretaker here at DTR actually told us that,” Graham pressed. “Is it true?”

  “That’s Rebecca’s private business,” Ruth said, mustering disapproval, allowing it to mask her mounting discomfiture. “Normally for ethics’ sakes, I would not even consider answering that. Really, Mr. Graham, I am surprised at you.”

  He waited.

  “Under these circumstances, however, I suppose I had better be very clear.” She folded her hands together. “Damascus Teenage Retreat and Mrs. James are under the false impression that we’re in competition with them. The answer is no, Mr. Graham—and the implication behind the question is quite irresponsible, in my opinion.”

  Dangerous, too, you self-regarding little twit.

  Silence and the space between them stretched.

  “I just thought you’d want to go on the record,” he responded, unfazed, “since the assertion had been made.”

  Ruth composed herself. “How thoughtful of you.”

  ****

  Caroline, it turned out, was no more real than her mother or father had been. Rebecca came right up to the image, which showed her friend sitting in a chair, answering questions from an unseen questioner. The interrogator’s voice was vaguely familiar, like when she’d heard a voice in a TV commercial but couldn’t quite put her finger on the name of the actor or actress.

  “If you could say one thing to Rebecca right now, what would it be?”

  The image of Caroline answered, “I’d tell her to come back. Everyone’s real worried.”

  Rebecca put her hand into the image and saw it emerge on the other side.

  The recording of Caroline began to cry. “I’d tell her everything will be okay. That no one’s even mad at her.”

  That was a lie. Rebecca could tell, even if the questioner could not. Caroline was crying because she was saying things that weren’t true. She didn’t like lying.

  “What are they doing to you?” she whispered, pulling her hand back, wanting to cry with her friend and not letting herself. She looked up, trying to find the source of the projection. The trees were too close, though. There was no way an air-ski was shining this down from above. It was coming from nowhere.

  Hallucination. Her stomach sloshed and lurched. Paranoid. Fever.

  “Come back, Rebecca,” Caroline said. “I’m really, really scared for you.”

  Rebecca walked through her, hoping to dispel the phantom, and heard something crunch under her bare left foot, cutting it at the heel, even as she felt part of whatever it was sink into the muddied ground. The image went out.

  Again, Rebecca fell. Between her dizziness, the abrupt absence of light, and the sharp, sudden pain, she lost herself just long enough for all balance to abandon her. Finding herself on her side, she drew her foot close and—squeezing her eyes, biting her lip—ripped the small fragment free from her heel.

  The avenue of trees grew brighter. Before each one now stood one of the residents from DTR, or a Prodigal Sons boy. There were scores of them, fading off and disappearing into the distance. They held signs, words of encouragement, or pleas for her return. Theirs were the voices singing, but the movements of their lips did not quite line up in time with the words she heard.

  By their light, Rebecca identified the thing that had been in her foot as glass and steel. Tiny, with wires that could have been mistaken for strands of spray-painted human hair. Inside, a cylinder that looked like a miniscule telescope vibrated, its lens broken.

  “You’ve been here,” she said.

  You came while I was sleeping.

  Still on the ground, Rebecca worked at untying the shirt from around her waist. The effort proved a real challenge, though, as the knot she had made was caked in mud.

  Like my pants. Like my arms. Like my hair.

  She had to sit up and work it out with both hands, which widened the tear in the sleeve. All the while, she did her best to block out the voices, did her best to use the light without looking at the images directly. She didn’t want to see anyone she knew, not even casually. Not even Brian. She didn’t want to think about what was going on at DTR.

  She was aware, as the knot came free, that she was thinking clearly for the first time in hours. She checked her forehead with the back of her hand and found it warm, not hot. Her ear was starting to sting again. Although she didn’t exactly welcome that sensation, it heartened her to entertain the possibility that she might not be as sick as she had thought.

  She tore the damaged sleeve off and put the shirt back on. If they were sending her images, then they were watching her too. Probably the cop with the gun was watching her.

  The water she had swallowed during the rain came up suddenly. She vomited, splashing her hands and her pants, as clear as the rain had been.

  Hunger returned.

  ****

  Rebecca on the Run: 00:18:01.

  Finally they gave her medication. It came in the form of an injection, which they stuck into her arm after swabbing it with alcohol. Paula didn’t even wince. The pinch of the needle was nothing.

  “I need to go,” said the voice of the collector. “Our little rabbit is getting her wits back, and apparently she has more brains than we might have guessed. So this has to be live. This has to be good. And it needs to happen quick, got it?”

  The medicine took away the pain entirely. It also calmed her. Slowly, her breathing returned to normal.

  Another voice answered, “Shouldn’t be a problem. God be with you.”

  Departing, the collector did not bother answering.

  Through one eye, through the haze of medication and drying tears, Paula could see the collector and the man with the needle, more or less. Her other eye was swollen shut. She ran her tongue over the space where two teeth had been, tasting the blood on her puffy lips.

  She was standing. She’d been allowed to put on a fresh head prefect’s shirt. She was steady on her feet. They had not assaulted her body—not below the jawline, anyway.

  Following each “chair session,” they had prayed by her side, even the collector. Paula had prayed too. But she’d kept her prayers in her head and not shared them. Until now, she’d given them nothing but her screams, and she had surrendered those reluctantly.

  Only when they had threatened her fingers had she agreed to do what they wanted.

  There was a third figure in the room, a woman with a sophisticated-looking camera on a tripod. At least Paula wanted to think it was a camera. It really did look like one.

  But instead of just taking her picture or making a video of her, it emitted a spreading vertical laser light, electric blue. Without damaging her in any way, the light bisected her face. The glare didn’t hurt her good eye. On one side of that light, she imagined, she appeared much the same as she ever did—a rather plump-faced young woman of twenty with blonde hair and brown eyes. She didn’t dare think what the other half of her face looked like.

  In the reflection of the camera lens, both sides of her face looked perfect.

  The man who had spoken to the collector—the one in the white lab coat with blood-spattered sleeves—recovered his dentists’ tools from the sterilization bin. He slid them into their respective loops in a leather carrying case and zipped it shut. “Showtime,” he said, coming toward her. Gently, he patted her bad eye with a soft green cloth that smelled of aloe, wiped
her nose, patted her good cheek with his bare hand, and tossed the cloth into a biohazard bin.

  Vision clearing, Paula noted the nametag: Barney Scruggs—no “Doctor.” She also noted the insignia, which showed a golden cross radiating light above an empty tomb, the entrance stone rolled off to the side. Above all, the words “Angel Island.” Below it, in smaller letters: “Second Chances at Second Salvations.”

  Really, he didn’t even look that much older than her.

  He left the steel splinters out where Paula could see them. “You shouldn’t even have to lie,” he consoled her. “Not if you’re careful. This really is in Rebecca’s best interests.”

  ****

  Rebecca held her stomach with both hands. It continued to clench and unclench, as though it had a mind of its own, as though it was looking for something more she could throw up. Then, abruptly—

  Rebecca caught herself in time to force herself into the brush and out of the light, fumbling with her belt. She hoped they couldn’t see her when she was in the dark and off the lighted path. She couldn’t bear the thought of being watched as she let herself go, holding on to a branch, with her feet in front of her, bent over without sitting.

  In the minutes that followed, she did her best to take care of herself and clean up. But when she stepped back into the light, contemplating her choices—down the path, toward surrender, or deeper into the woods, into the wild and dangerous dark—the stink followed her. It didn’t matter how far away she got. The stink was on her; it was part of her.

  Puke and shit. I’m a disgusting mess, just like Miss Marcy said.

  She’d never said the word “shit” aloud in her life. She’d heard it spoken, once or twice by friends on a dare, but she’d never uttered it herself. Within Rebecca’s mental glossary of curses, that word, and a few more that were supposed to be even worse, had always remained safely caged.