by Kyle Andrews
“It's infecting the citizens.”
“You smell like tuna fish.”
“Do you know what this virus is?”
“Why do we say 'tuna fish' anyway? Is there some other kind of tuna?”
“I'm not amused.”
“We should switch spots. Maybe you'll like it more down here.”
The pain in Collin's toe grew again, quickly. It began to move across the rest of his foot and up his leg, until it felt like the entire thing was being crushed and twisted off of his body.
“Hate,” the man said.
Collin clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes as tightly as he could. He then said, “Never heard of them.”
“You're like rats, infesting the world. Building nests inside of our walls.”
“I thought we were like a virus.”
The pain shut off and the man walked around Collin, as though studying him from every angle. Collin wondered how he could see in the dark. Was he imaginary after all? No. Imaginary people couldn't shut off the lights or turn his pain back on. They usually didn't talk to him either. That's how he knew he wasn't crazy.
“Tell me where your headquarters is located and I can make the pain stop forever.”
Collin clenched his jaw tighter and breathed deeply. Sweat was dripping down his face. The inside of his cheek was bleeding. He must have bitten it while the pain in his leg was turned up.
He thought carefully about what he wanted to say. The path to his base was clear as day in his head. He imagined walking there all the time. Passing people on the street. They all said hello to him as he passed, because in is head, people were nicer than real people tended to be.
Those people weren't like Liz. That was a daydream. She was a delusion. Totally different.
He could tell the man where that base was if he wanted to. He could make the pain stop. But he knew that if his own pain ended, it would just be starting for countless others. Not Liz, because she was gone, but others. Friends.
Hearing the man still asking him the same questions came as some relief. He didn't know how long he had been in that place. He couldn't remember everything. He could never be sure that he hadn't given them what they wanted until they asked again.
“You do want the pain to stop, don't you?” the man asked.
“I want it to stop,” Collin said, in a weak voice. “I want it to stop.”
“Tell me where your headquarters is located, and I can make it stop.”
“I want it to stop,” Collin said again, for good measure. “Do you have a pen?”
“I'm recording this conversation.”
Good to know that tuna schtick was on record. At least now Collin wouldn't have to remember it later.
“Do you know where Toller Street is?” Collin asked.
“Yes.”
“Take Toller down to Seventy-Third Street. Turn left. Take Seventy-Third Street up to Dowden Avenue. Turn left. Take Dowden Avenue down to Sixty-Second Street. Turn—”
“Left?” the man replied dryly.
“Right. Turn right. Take Sixty-Second street up, over the bridge, and turn onto the parkway. From there, exit thirty-two.”
“I've heard enough.”
“No, listen to me. You need to take exit thirty-two. It's vital.”
“Stop.”
“Then turn onto Federal Way. You'll see a large and imposing building. Seriously, it's... imposing.”
The pain started to rise in Collin's leg. It grew more and more severe, surpassing anything that Collin had felt up until that point. He couldn't help but scream.
“I've tried being nice to you,” the man told him, sounding bored with his job, and obviously not knowing what the word 'nice' meant. “And what do I get for my trouble?”
Collin could barely hear the man over the sound of his own pathetic screams. Liz wasn't even watching anymore. She was disgusted by his weakness and left.
“Directions to the HAND building,” the man finished. “And poor ones at that.”
“THE—” Collin started. Everything he said was coming out as a scream at this point. “TH—THEN TAKE THE T—TUNNEL!!!”
The pain ended. Collin released the breath that he'd been holding in his lungs and gasped for more air.
The man approached his head once more and punched Collin across the face. He then wrapped his hand around Collin's neck and started to squeeze. As he did this, he said, “There is no gadget for this. No device. No quick relief. No turning it off. I want to kill you. I want to feel your body go limp in my hand.”
Collin couldn't speak, but he managed to get a good snicker out at that one.
The man released Collin's neck and stepped back. He asked, “Have you been imagining what your friends have been doing since you were captured?”
Collin didn't answer.
“Have you imagined them thinking about you? Missing you? Planning your rescue, maybe? Do you imagine your girl weeping for you?”
“You don't know my girl.”
“You speak like a man with hope,” the man told him. “But let me tell you a secret. There is no hope for you. You've been forgotten. Nobody cares about you. Nobody is coming for you.”
Collin had considered this possibility before. It wasn't news to him, but he didn't enjoy thinking about it. He preferred to think of an escape, and a big celebration upon his return home. Maybe it wasn't realistic, but it's the way he liked to think.
“Your stunt with the sheet made no difference. Your attempt to spread your message failed. You have inspired nothing but the belly laughs of me and my colleagues.”
Again, Collin said nothing. By now, the swirls of color were gone. All that was left was the dark room where not even the imaginary Liz was sitting anymore. He was alone with this man who could turn on the pain—the unimaginable pain. He didn't enjoy that. He tried to pretend that it wasn't wearing him down, but it was. He wanted the pain to end. He wanted it to be over more than anything.
“Tell me where your headquarters is located,” the man asked again. “They don't care about you. Nobody cares about you. You owe those people nothing.”
That wasn't true. Collin owed those people everything. He held onto that fact. He made it his world. It was all he had left.
34
Ms. Bloom walked from the front of the classroom to the back, then turned around and returned to the front. The whole time, she held a ruler in one hand and smacked it against the palm of the other.
Justin sat there, waiting for her to say something. It had been ten minutes since she finished taking attendance. He had arrived late, nearly missing his chance to have his name checked for the day. That would have been a headache that he didn't need.
Not far from where Justin was sitting, there was an empty desk. A month earlier, Libby would have been sitting there. They wouldn't look at each other or talk to each other at that point, but she would be there, and he could keep his eye on her. Now he tried not to look over at her desk, because doing so might cause someone to think that he cared about her, and he couldn't have people thinking that.
One of the other students raised their hand to ask a question. When she saw it, Ms. Bloom snapped, “No questions. Just listen.”
She then fell into another round of silence which lasted another couple of minutes. It was obvious that she didn't know what she was supposed to say to this group of students, all of whom knew exactly what was written on the sidewalks when they came in, and all of whom would be looking to their history teacher for answers. Were the quotes real? Where did they come from? What did they mean? Why didn't they match what she had been teaching them for so long?
At long last, Ms. Bloom said, “History. It's why you're all here, correct?”
Nobody answered her. Most of the kids didn't care enough about the class to take part in her presentation.
“When you hear the word, what is the first thing that comes to mind? The first image?” she asked. Seconds passed in silence before she said, “Answers, please.”
&
nbsp; Hullo Welsh was the first to raise his hand. He was an average student, of average looks, with nothing unusual about him at all. No matter how hard he tried to impress his teachers or the other students, nobody ever seemed to notice him.
Ms. Bloom ignored him, pointed to a girl named Go and asked, “What's the first thing that you think of?”
Go probably wasn't paying attention before she was called upon. She didn't appear to know what the question was or how to answer it. She shrugged and asked, “Could you repeat the question?”
Go was popular and pretty. She didn't have the best grades in the class, but she didn't have the worst either. She was hoping to be assigned to the media when she came of age, but she would probably become a grunt like everyone else, manufacturing this or cleaning that. Assignments weren't handed out based on want, after all.
“What is the first image that comes to mind when you think of history?” Ms. Bloom asked again, growing more frustrated by the second.
Hullo raised his hand a little bit higher, poor kid.
“Umm... I guess I think of, like...” Go was taking forever to answer the question.
Justin wanted to tell Ms. Bloom that Hullo had his hand up, and maybe give the guy a chance to shine for once in his life. Instead, Justin slouched down in his chair and stared at his desk. Drawing attention to Hullo would mean drawing attention to himself.
“Justin, why don't you answer for me,” Ms. Bloom then said.
“War,” Justin answered without giving it any thought at all.
“Exactly. War. History is plagued by war. Blood everywhere. Infection. Disease. Slavery,” Ms. Bloom said to him, and then turned to the rest of the class. She went on, “People usually want to look back on the past fondly. Childhood memories, playing with friends or getting laid under the table in that part of the cafeteria where nobody can really see you unless they're standing right there.”
More than one of the students cringed. Justin thought it was funny, but he didn't change his expression at all.
“But in reality, history is dirty. It's skinned knees and a couple of unplanned pregnancies. Do you know how long it takes for a skinned knee to heal? How long before you can wear a skirt again?”
Ms. Bloom walked to the chalkboard and looked at it for a moment before turning around and telling the class, “I'm not saying that there is no point to history. We can learn a lot from our past. But we must move on. We must decide that we are going to wear protection from now on... So our knees don't get skinned.”
Students were looking at each other out of the corners of their eyes. If everyone else was anything like Justin, they would be praying that Ms. Bloom would stop talking. But then, it wasn't likely that any of them were praying.
“What worked in the past does not work in the present. That's the point that I'm trying to make,” Ms. Bloom finished. “Who can list some examples?”
Hullo raised his hand. Nobody cared.
“Ix?” Ms. Bloom said, looking toward Ix Tierny who sat in the back of the class.
Ix was the type of student that preferred to get by without creating any waves. When possible, he would stay quiet and hope that nobody noticed him. Justin was pretty sure that his name was supposed to be pronounced 'Nine'—like the Roman numeral—but Ix has never corrected anyone in his life, so whatever his mother intended, his name was now 'Icks'. This led to more than a little bit of bullying, with many clever nicknames, but Ix didn't care what other people said about him. He had a lot in common with Justin in that sense.
“I don't know,” Ix said. He then raised an eyebrow and answered, “Paying attention in class has worked in the past, but I'm kinda wishing I hadn't done it today.”
The other students laughed. Ms. Bloom did not seem as amused as they were. Pointing to another girl, she said, “Trixy?”
Trixy Cantor replied, “The open workforce. Leaving people to worry about finding their own jobs led to high levels of unemployment and misplaced talents. The system we have today caters to a person's strengths, and eliminates the negative aspects of joining the workforce.”
“Very good, Trixy,” Ms. Bloom told her. “That wasn't hard, was it?”
“No, Ms. Bloom,” Trixy replied. She was a suck-up who would probably end up working in the sewers for all of her effort.
The rest of history class was spent with Ms. Bloom trying to sell the students on the evils of history and the dangers of looking backward. It was an obvious and desperate attempt to put an end to whatever sparks were going off in the minds of the kids. At least, it was obvious from where Justin was sitting. Maybe others would be more willing to accept her lesson. There were no counter arguments being made. Then again, what person in their right mind would make them in such a public place?
There was an old saying among the members of Freedom: 'Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.' Those who don't look at the past to see how countries were taken over will be conquered themselves. Those who don't understand the missteps of their ancestors would stumble just as surely as they did.
But what about the opposite? If someone is never taught the history of revolution and freedom, what would happen to them? As Justin listened to Ms. Bloom teach her class, he wondered if people were more likely to rise up and rebel against their oppressors if they understood the way it happened in the past, or if knowing that history and understanding it would actually make them less likely to act for themselves. Would those ideas seem outdated and old fashioned to modern people? Would they view a revolution as barbaric?
If one were to listen to the political news shows, the opportunity for the people to make their voices heard was on Election Day, when they cast their ballot for their next representatives.
But that was the trick. The only people on the ballot were approved members of the political elite. They lived in a world apart from everyone else. They went to different schools. Drove different cars. They were the only people in the country who got to decide their own salary, without having to pay it themselves.
They would fight and debate about this or that, putting on a good show for the people. Yet somehow, when the doors were closed and they made their decisions, the citizens were never given an inch.
Election Day was coming in about a year and a half, and Ms. Bloom had been discussing it for the entire semester as a prize fight between two opponents who were nothing alike. She told the students that this was the glory of the system. The chance for the people to create history and recreate the nation. This was their revolution, when they would get to vent their frustrations. Then, win or lose, they would go back to their normal lives and pound their fists until the next election. Round and round it went, but the house always seemed to win.
So, which was it? Would the people be more inclined to stage a full scale revolt if they understood the history of such efforts? Or would they be less likely to do something which had been done once before, and eventually turned into the world they now lived in? Justin couldn't decide. There had never been a way to test the idea one way or the other. History was presented to the people in federally approved packets. The people who founded this country were not noble, wise or even human in those packets. They were hateful oppressors and criminals who happened to set the stage for what would eventually become a great country.
But when you held the revised history up to a bright light, you could see how thin it really was. Now, the true past was beginning to show through. Good and bad. Right and wrong. It wasn't always pretty, but it was real.
Where would people like Ms. Bloom fit into the world when history no longer fit into their packets? When opinions varied? When students asked questions that teachers couldn't answer? When history had to be studied, rather than taught, would Ms. Bloom be able to survive?
By the end of the class, Justin was so caught up in his own thoughts that he hadn't heard the last half of Ms. Bloom's desperate attempt to get her students back on track. There were so many questions to ask about the world. Justin could barely wait to get out
of the classroom and start learning something.
35
Sometime in the afternoon, Libby met with Amanda's doctor. He was a nice man, who apologized for not seeing her earlier. The flu was hitting the Garden hard, and he hadn't slept in days.
What he told her was a more complicated version of what Lacy had told her earlier, using words that Libby didn't quite understand and naming all of the medications that they could use on Amanda.
Seeing the names of those medications written out made Libby wonder how much time in medical school was spent just learning how to pronounce the medications. How much time could have been saved by giving them simple, catchy names instead?
Treatment wasn't free. Like most things in the Garden, there were various ways of paying for what one needed. Bartering was always popular, or Libby could work in the hospital. She didn't really care what she had to do. In the world outside, she would have been working a lot harder for a lot less in return. At least this way, she could choose the payment option.
Her mother was going to be treated, and that was the one important decision that she made that day. If Libby had to spend the next ten years working off that debt, she would. It was her responsibility. It was her choice.
As she filled out forms and signed papers, the doctor told her that he would be waiving a large part of his fee. Others had volunteered to do the same. He told Libby that she'd already paid them more than anyone else had ever offered. He said that many of the medical workers thought that they owed her more than they could ever repay.
Libby would accept a discount, but she didn't accept the idea that people owed her. She didn't do anything for them except scan her DNA. They owed Leo more than they owed her. They owed Uly. They owed Collin Powers, and the others who had shed far more blood than she had.
Now that her condition was stable, Amanda was scheduled for more tests, before being moved to one of the other floors. While that happened, Lacy suggested that Libby walk around a little bit and get something to eat. Libby reluctantly agreed, but wasn't sure where to go or what to do with herself. She had been in that place for a month, but she still didn't know her way around.