The Salvation State

by Marcus Damanda

  At the Chesapeake Bay Bridge in Maryland, cameras ran continuously. They had captured the image of Mrs. Riggs pulling up to the tollbooth in the bright blue bus with the words Emmanuel Church of Grace and Christian School on its side. They had caught her paying the toll and yielding to the car-carrier truck, letting it pass ahead of her. The cameras were stationary, yet the point of view changed constantly, switching from one camera to another in order to follow the progress of the bus along the span of the bridge. There wasn’t any audio, but the video resolution was excellent.

  “We’ve limited the scope of the footage out of respect for the several families affected by this tragedy and as a matter of sensitivity to our audience. Nevertheless, parental discretion is strongly advised.”

  It was impossible to see anyone other than the driver through the tinted windows of the bus. However, as it continued passively on toward its fate, Mrs. Fisher went on.

  “Something that hasn’t gotten enough attention in all the media frenzy spent on Rebecca Riggs is that it wasn’t just her parents on that bus. There were eleven children too, all returning from an afternoon field trip to the Baltimore Aquarium. In all, a dozen families torn apart by a single moment in time, captured here…”

  The video showed the car coming off the carrier, showed the bus swerve to avoid the collision, and showed it brake in a futile effort to stop before it passed through the thin gap in the guard rail. The video cut off just before the critical moment, leaving the rest to the imagination of the residents and the hundreds of thousands of people watching on television across the Eastern Seaboard.

  And on the Internet, of course.

  Mrs. Fisher said, “The driver of the truck was not at fault. The police investigation does suggest the possibility of negligence on the part of the loader, but authorities insist it’s too early to say for sure. It could have simply been a case of equipment failure at the worst possible time…”

  Equipment failure, Mrs. Black thought, thinking of Wendy, who had been behind the wheel of the car-carrier. Thinking of Barney, who had—rather heroically—rammed his Exodus into the back of the bus when it had failed to go straight over by its own volition. He still had the bruises from the air bag, and the frame of his glasses had cracked too.

  It hadn’t been so long ago that the two of them had been brought to Angel Island, mere kids themselves, wayward and needing salvation.

  All this for one fifteen-year-old girl. It isn’t worth it.

  But no. Well beyond Rebecca’s personal value, suggested by her Solomon reading, it was the principle of the thing. Mr. and Mrs. Riggs had reneged on them. No one did that.

  We’re doing God’s work, she reminded herself. It isn’t meant to be easy.

  She could not allow herself to slip into doubt. Her husband had insisted on this, and husbands were authority—even though, where Ruth Black was concerned, authority could be contested in almost all other things. Matthew had been adamant. The Solomon readings made her indoctrination necessary. Rebecca was destined for great things with Second Salvations—or against them.

  So, no choice.

  DC appeared at the flap of her tent.

  “Pray with me,” she said before receiving his report.

  ****

  Rebecca on the Run: 0:19:50.

  The kids were singing and candles lit the vigil again. Between songs, various prefects from both halves of New Sinai led the teenagers in prayer.

  It was not the fresh blast of propaganda that had brought them back to good behavior. It was the new presence of the FBI and the National Guard—all carefully kept off camera—that had brought them back in line. It was the sight, just behind the media crews, of helmeted police with riot shields and tear-gas canisters.

  Beyond all that, in living rooms and in bedrooms within the reach of Mrs. Fisher’s broadcast, the subject of Rebecca Riggs was discussed without so much supervision. Mrs. Black’s version of events was now being absorbed, or debated, by more than two million viewers. She would have been pleased by that number, had she known.

  But many more screens, unregulated and without guidance, showed something quite different.

  This is what the truth is, a young voice had insisted.

  And people saw Rebecca run.

  This is what the truth is.

  And people saw the collector in his air-ski—not as a rescuer, but as a dog himself, a government bully without a leash.

  This is what the truth is.

  And people noted the full accident with the bus and the car-carrier remained unshown. The bus might have stopped in time.

  It might have.

  This is what the truth is.

  ****

  Rebecca on the Run: 0:19:55.

  Ruth Black opened her eyes and crossed herself. Peripherally, she saw DC do the same. Both remained on their knees, side by side, facing the canvas wall of the tent.

  Outside, the kids sang from the book of Proverbs:

  Trust in the Lord with all of your heart, and lean not on your own understanding…

  “I know what to do,” she said.

  In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.

  “We’ve got Big Brother outside,” said DC. “Blue shirts, green shirts, and suits. Did you know?”

  “I’m not blind.” As a matter of fact, she’d been alerted to their approach while he had still been ineffectually zipping around in the sky. She stood, smoothed out her pants, and yawned.

  DC stood after. “Good to know. And?”

  Ruth liked dangling hidden thoughts and then being prompted to reveal them. It drove people like DC absolutely bats. “And we’ll have an hour or two before they really take over. Their presence, for now, is as much to quell any potential trouble from the impertinent rabble outside as it is to impress us. I’m sure they want to … motivate us. Inspire us to bring this to a quick closure.”

  DC nodded. “Honestly, Mrs. Black, I hope it’s working.”

  “Oh, but it is. By the time the suits try to assert themselves, our next plan will already be underway. They’ll have to wait for us to see it through.”

  “They don’t have to do anything. Lester Tatum is out there. He answers to the president.”

  Never met Tatum before, she thought. All for you, Rebecca. Imagine that. “She may not surrender herself,” Ruth admitted at length. “But we can still make it look like she had.”

  The words seemed to fill DC with relief. “About time.”

  She hadn’t wanted to do it this way. An honest surrender would have made things so much easier down the line. But they were on the clock now. God knows the government of New America was not famous for its patience.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “It is time we took this matter into our own hands.”

  “Details?” DC prodded. “Do you have a particular method in mind—or can I just take care of it?”

  Ruth did have an idea in mind, but it was probably close to his own. They had worked together long enough for each to know something about the other’s ways, means, and capabilities. Here was an opportunity to give her little dogcatcher a sense of empowerment, so they could both go forward from this point with a little less tension between them. And it was his area of expertise too. No denying that.

  “By all means. Feel free. End it.”

  He started off, then stopped at the tent flap. “Question.”

  Ruth waited. Unlike him, she would not be goaded into asking for hidden thoughts.

  “Is Paula Darby alive?”

  She hadn’t thought about that. “No idea. Fifty-fifty chance, I guess. Why don’t you go find out?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Convergence

  Rebecca Riggs walked alone in the dark.

  She had left behind the lights, the path, and the ghost-singing. She was going down blind, with only the night sounds of the forest for company. Her feet were bleeding and scratched, but she could no longer feel them. The one sleeve she still possessed was torn up the middle. Her pa
nts had been fairly shredded as she stumbled helplessly into briars and forced her way through thickets.

  She imagined herself stepping out, suddenly, onto nothing. One sheer drop, totally undetectable, and her little escape plan would be foiled in a quick and crippling plunge—or, if she were lucky, a fatal one. She didn’t want to be left out here to starve or for the animals to eat, but it was easy to imagine it happening.

  Where she could, she held on to tree branches as she walked.

  Her watch told her it was ten at night. She’d left DTR twenty-one hours ago. She’d gone more than a full day without food. She thought of her least favorite DTR supper offering, the infamous Tuesday burger sliders that tasted like hockey pucks on bread. A person had to drown them in ketchup and mustard just to soften them up enough to get down. And yet the thought of them was dreamlike, torturous. The hunger was simply unbelievable.

  She tried to block it out, to focus on using her hands to see, to keep putting one numb, bleeding foot in front of the other. Sometimes it worked. Other times she had to manage different, more hopeful things to think about.

  She had long since passed the point where she had heard the fake animal roar and imagined a bear lying in wait for her. For that reason she was pretty sure she was in entirely new territory now, going down the side of New Sinai opposite from where she had entered.

  I will do this, she told herself. I will come out the other side. If they’re waiting for me there, then fine. Then there was nothing I could have ever done. It was all stupid and for nothing.

  Yet the desire to make it that far filled her heart and strengthened her. They didn’t want her to emerge on the other side. All of their efforts had been spent trying to lead her back the way she had come. And that was enough to make her want to succeed.

  Let me beat the mountain, God. Just let me beat that.

  There was hope that way too. Not much, but a little.

  Miss Paula had seemed to think so.

  ****

  Rebecca on the Run: 0:20:35.

  DC took in the scene and sighed.

  It looked like Marcy Barrows would be receiving her just reward alone. There was no way DC could turn Paula Darby over to the magistrate and the courts like this. He barricaded his displeasure behind a wordless glare, directed first at Wendy, who was supposed to be the reasonable half of this partnership, and then at Barney.

  Fixing the situation could not wait. He’d have to get the magistrate’s ear, stat, and explain. There’d be no real trouble, but Paula’s hearing would have to be delayed until she was presentable again. That would require doctors, medical accelerants…

  He could make a case for a closed hearing, but that would take time, and it would require reports. He hated reports.

  Or he could just have her killed. Could tell the magistrate she’d made a move and forced his hand. It would be quicker. Safer too. This one had a mouth on her—its current condition notwithstanding.

  This one has a conscience, he corrected.

  God on a rod, this was inconvenient.

  “Didn’t keep her end of the deal, DC,” Barney said in that annoyingly nasal voice of his, discarding his white coveralls onto a folding chair. Underneath he wore a simple T-shirt and jeans. He rubbed his horn-rimmed glasses on his shirt and put them back on. “Didn’t do what she said she would do. If we don’t have discipline, what do we have?” His sneakers were blood-rimmed at the bottom from when he had stepped carelessly.

  Wendy chewed her fingernails, but she managed to say, “Blessings of the Lord,” between nibbles.

  It was done and there was no undoing it. No time for argument, for conflict. He returned the salutation, unable to fully repress his snarl, and stepped closer for a better look.

  She was in the restraining chair, clamped in place at the wrists and shins. Her fingers twitched and shook, all splayed and extended. Barney had given her all ten of the inch-long steel splinters. He’d put four surgical staples through her lips to keep her as quiet as possible. She still made noise, though—caged screams, as she blew blood bubbles and hitched breath. One of the staples had nearly come free.

  In order for her to be this aware, after all that, Barney must have given her a shot too.

  “Idiots,” he said.

  The screams tapered to sobs. She was relieved, DC knew, that someone who was not a full-blown psychopath had returned to this tent. He shook his head. He didn’t want her relieved.

  But then he thought of a fourth option. Commutation of prison time—to service. That could be achieved quietly. Immediately.

  Perhaps she had reason to feel relieved after all, if she was more cooperative this time.

  “Don’t clean her up. Not yet, anyway. But get all that garbage out of her. I need her to talk.”

  Barney went for his coveralls.

  “Not you,” he said, then motioned to Wendy.

  “But I’m already dirty.”

  “Barney,” DC said, his voice devoid of emotion, “every time you open your mouth, I want to kill you a little more. And as much as the species would be improved by your absence, I just don’t have the authority. So don’t tempt me. Shut up.”

  Barney shut up.

  “Right now I need you to go to the med tent and bring back an antiseptic injector or some very strong antibiotics. I don’t trust your tools.”

  He escorted Barney outside and pointed in the direction of the medical tent. He didn’t say anything, just watched him go. Meanwhile, DC stayed where he was by the open flap, but he didn’t go back in. He waited, listening impassively to Wendy’s ministrations and Paula’s responses.

  He quickly got bored, then remembered he didn’t have time to be bored. He spoke into his shoulder radio, channeling a fellow lieutenant who worked for the Masada PD. “Zach?”

  “DC?”

  “Yeah. Looks like I’m going to be a while. Maintenance. Go ahead and pick up the other one. Put her on ice until we’re ready.”

  “Roger that.”

  Meanwhile, if the FBI started wrangling jurisdiction, DC was pretty sure he’d hear from Mrs. Black directly. Still, one could never be too careful. Negotiations might keep her too busy to contact him.

  “Let me know if the suits start to move in too. Okay?”

  “I’ll let you know if I notice anything” came the response. “But it’s not like they’re going to check with me first.”

  Me neither. “Understood. Thanks. Out.”

  ****

  Rebecca on the Run: 0:21:02.

  Caroline found Brian again and stayed close to him. She was afraid. She’d lost Laura in the crowd, and everyone else—grownups and kids alike—seemed like her enemy now. Thankfully he didn’t push her away or ditch her. Not that she would have let him. She stuck to him like flypaper.

  They sang together. Not knowing if it was against the rules or not, they took turns holding the sign aloft. No one seemed to mind.

  Her eyes returned to the big screens, to the counter that kept going up and up.

  At prayer time, they went to their knees and bowed their heads. Miss Lisa tried to lead them. Caroline tuned her out.

  Brian regarded her. “Think she’ll make it a whole day?” he whispered.

  “I hope so,” she whispered back.

  And I don’t even know why.

  Prefects moved through the crowd. It wasn’t safe to keep her eyes open during prayer. Even on a normal day at DTR, the offense was always met with swift and resonating consequences.

  They get to keep their eyes open, the petty part of her thought, a bitter reflex. Spying on us.

  But Brian had closed his eyes and was moving his lips, silently praying or faking it for show.

  She followed his example. Then, from behind, she felt a hand take her upper arm. Another went over her mouth.

  She opened her eyes. She’d expected to be busted for peeking—by one of the guy prefects, judging by feel. But the man who grabbed her was much older than that. In fact, he was a police officer. Swiftly, he ha
d her on her feet and began marching her away. She dared not make a sound.

  The camera people were praying, the screens gone blank. Only the prefects would have seen anything, and they were ignoring her. Even Brian, trembling as he stayed on his knees, kept his eyes shut, kept himself safe. Would anyone do anything if she tried to scream?

  No. She knew better than that. Everyone knew better than that.

  ****

  Rebecca on the Run: 0:22:14.

  Paula leaned over the makeshift metal sink and spit. Then she sat back, blinking, still in the restraining chair but unrestrained, and waited for the painkillers to kick in. She felt herself being rolled back to the center of the tent, back to the cop.

  “Look,” he said, holding a screen to her face that looked like a slightly oversized phone. “I’m going to show you something you need to see. You’re going to speak to Rebecca again, and soon. After you see this, you can tell her all the ‘truth’ you want.”

  The painkillers worked fast. Even as the woman in the tent wrapped her fingers, the torment mellowed to a dull, throbbing heat. Her lips felt fat—she could feel the holes from the inside with her tongue—but there was no real pain there. The side of her face where the teeth had come out … nothing. No pain at all.

  She didn’t know if she would be able to speak, though.

  But she looked. She found herself unable to resist. Whatever she was told to do now, she would do it. It wasn’t the medicine that coerced her. No one—not even the monsters from Angel Island—used those kinds of drugs anymore, not since the Scourge. Taking away a person’s free will was an offense against God. Absolutely illegal.