by P. F. White
Someone else called out: “Goddamnit Earl!”
Hank stood up to answer it.
“I actually had very similar concerns when I first arrived...and the bad news is that nothing I say right now is really going to make a difference to you. Quite simply: you are in a weird situation, and so it is perfectly okay to respond with paranoia and suspicion. However: I ask you to allow us to prove our good intentions. We are good people here. Our mission is a good one- no, a great one,” he paused a moment before adding: “And besides: would you rather take your chances outside?”
The man named Earl shrugged.
“Fair nuff,” he said. Hank glanced down: surprisingly Mr. Earl Beckenbottom was actually on the list. He was an expert in artificial petrochemical production, refinement, recycling, and something called “heatless alloy production”. The man was also a renowned cello player as well. It just went to show: you never could tell about people. The next person raised their hand. This time it was a woman with a baby in her arms. She looked very tired.
“What if I want to go?” she asked. She bit her lower lip, “What if I don't think this is the place for me? What then? Am I being forced to live- to live here?”
John answered before anyone else could.
“You are free to leave at any time ma'am. Seriously. If at any moment you decide this isn't the place for you we will outfit you with the best equipment we have, within reason, and let you go. The only caveat is that you cannot return under any circumstances. We simply cannot let you back in...” he held up his hands apologetically, “I'm sorry but those are just the rules.”
Another man shot to his feet, his fists balled and anger clear on his face.
“And just who makes these bullshit rules!” he said. His voice was almost a shout. Hank glanced at the record. Jonathan Sykes, former attorney. Not on the list. Go figure.
Miriam fielded the question.
“Well Mr. Sykes, if you stay here long enough: you can help make these rules,” she gestured to Hank, “This man here? His name is Hank Fletcher, and no more than a month ago: he and his family were allowed entry into this tower in the same way you were. He has also done more to change the various policies here than almost any other person. If he can do it, then so can you.”
Mr. Sykes looked like he wanted to say something to that, but a woman beside him was already tugging on him to sit back down. Reluctantly he did. Another woman stood up next, raising her hand.
“Excuse me,” she said, “Do you have any...that is to say any word on the rest of the country? My boyfriend was in New-York when...well...”
She tried really hard not to cry, but she failed. Phil, the head technician from the com lab, fielded the question as gently as he could.
“I'm terribly sorry,” he said, “The news we have gathered from around the world is not good. New York looks like it has suffered...well, a fate much worse than most places. Casualty rates there are near one hundred percent. Almost no one made it out, and even the airplanes were affected.”
The woman started sobbing very hard then, one of the men led her away towards the door to recover herself. A man, Earl, stood back up and asked:
“What about Texas?” the set of his jaw said he was probably a native. Phil swallowed hard, he glanced at everyone else. How did you put a spin on the stories they had heard about that place?
“Well Texas is...complicated,” said Phil. Hank tried not to smile. Thankfully Adriana had a better explanation.
“Texas is currently undergoing some form of revolution,” she said. Earl smiled broadly at that and put his hands on his hips.
“Shiiiit,” he said, “I knew you couldn't beat Texas!”
Adriana smiled: “Casualty rates there are actually some of the lowest in the nation.”
More than one newcomer smiled or whispered to their neighbor at that news. It wasn't a lie, thought Hank, it is just the difference in decimal points. Most of the nation was quickly approaching one hundred percent casualties, according to the preliminary reports from the other towers. Texas had somehow managed to trail behind by a slim margin. It wasn't exactly hope, but it was something at least.
A woman stood up. She had a defiant set to her jaw.
“What about Germany?” she said with a strong accent, “I have family.”
Hank looked down at the sheet. This woman had refused to give her name. She only had told everyone that she was a doctor, and she certainly seemed both skilled and knowledgeable. Most of the other survivors just called her “Boss” and said she had been second in command for the entire time they had known her.
Phil cleared his throat and responded.
“We don't actually have clear data on Germany yet. We are still correlating with the other towers. Our data should be improving in the coming months, but it is likely we will never have a complete picture of exactly what happened world-wide.”
The woman nodded curtly. She didn't seem to need very much time to decide her next move.
“Then I wish to receive the gear you speak of and begin preparations to leave immediately,” she seemed to stare at each of the tower representatives individually. Finally Hank stood up and said:
“Very well. If you will follow me: we can begin getting your things at once.”
“That would be most acceptable,” responded the woman.
Hank left with her. The others continued to answer questions for another four hours. The first hour was the hardest, after that everyone had taken a break for snacks, talked amongst themselves and things had generally progressed to a more social manner.
While Hank helped the unnamed German get supplies from nearly every floor (her list was quite staggering in its' thorough nature,) Adriana worked with the newcomers to address any concerns they might have. When that was over: to help them re-arrange their living quarters to better suit their communal lifestyle.
Eventually they would switch back to a more individual arrangement, she knew that, but the simple act of helping them change their surroundings proved surprisingly therapeutic for most involved. The building had, understandably, been designed with very reconfigurable walls in mind. Aside from the elevators and stairs there wasn't much in each floor that couldn't be changed, provided you were willing to put in the effort. It was still hard work, but she was glad to be doing it. By the time it was done: she was already on a first name basis with nearly all the newcomers, and had arranged a play date with three of the new infants and baby Alexander.
Explaining how that name had come about would take some doing, Adriana knew that. But for right now she was happy that the child had a name. Moreover: she was happy with the knowledge that, somehow, her family's own personal apocalypse was now over.
They had become the old hands now, the residents. These newcomers looked at them the same way that the Fletcher family had looked at the other tower residents who now shared their home, their work, and even the most intimate parts of their lives.
In time, she knew, the newcomers would adapt.
If necessary: she would help them.
There was a line that Hank had used when he taught his old “The Ethics of Survival” class. It was a line that the auditors and most of the class had simply glossed over, but remembering it now: Adriana felt she finally understood it:
“Humanity does not go quietly into the future, nor should it. Humanity screams and fights and bleeds for everything it accomplishes. Humanity claws progress forward inch by blood-soaked inch. It always has, it always will. Survival is not simply about not dying. Survival is about staring into that dark and shining future and deciding that, somehow, you will be the one to go on. We are all the better for it. If there is one thing to be proud of in this human race it is that, no matter what, we have always found a new way to progress. We survive so that we may thrive. Anything less is simply inhuman.”
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