by Hannah Ross
Parked there was what appeared to be an old flatbed tow truck to which someone long ago added six-foot-high plywood sides with a four-foot fold-down plywood gate at the rear. Bold peeling letters on its side said COMPOST, and Tony was sitting in the driver's seat, his hands already poised on the steering wheel. He hopped out to join his wife.
"Well," Kate said, as she and Tony opened the gate. "I realize this probably isn't going to be a very… umm… enjoyable ride." She cleared her throat. "But it's the safest way I could think of, and once we're in the Boundary you'll have fresh clothes and plenty of hot water and soap to wash off the smell."
The truck was full of bags and barrels of fertilizer, which weren't all hermetically sealed, and the stink of ammonia was enough to make one's eyes water. "Once the truck is moving, the airflow will carry the fumes away. The most important thing, though, is that everyone must be absolutely silent when we reach the Boundary crossing."
"And anytime we stop," Tony added. "I don't plan to stop, but you never know what we might run into."
"What if your plan backfires?" one man demanded. "The Boundary must be crowded and swarming with police. What if we're all arrested and taken back to Zone C?"
Kate spread her arms. "I can't make promises. This is the best I could come up with. I can't force anyone to go with us, of course. If any of you have changed your mind, let me know right now and I'll arrange for the right people to hide you and keep you safe. Those who come, however, can help make a real change. You're all living proof of the abuse the White Tower inflicts upon the innocent every day. People must see you and hear you to believe it. In the Boundary, the government people will think twice before doing anything that would make them look bad. And most important, the men who are sick will be able to get proper medical care."
There was a murmur of voices and, one by one, the men climbed into the truck, the weaker ones helped up by the stronger.
"I hope you can make yourselves comfortable," Kate said over the piles of bagged manure, before she and Tony lifted the gate and slid all four slide bolts into place.
"Poor guys," she murmured. "First Zone C and now this."
Tony grinned. "I'll take a bag of fertilizer over a pile of radioactive waste any day," he said. "Ready?"
Kate nodded, and they were on their way.
Her nervous fingers twitched as her feet tapped the floorboard throughout the journey to the crossing point. As was customary with trucks bringing in wares from beyond the Boundary, they were stopped by a bored-looking guard.
"Pass?" he said, spitting out a glob of chewing gum and holding out his hand. Trying hard to look natural and steady her shaking hands, Kate produced her documents. The guard didn't bother doing more than a perfunctory scan, however, and returned the papers to Kate after marring them with a large blue-ink stamp.
"You oughta open your cargo hold so I can take a look, I suppose," the guard said none too enthusiastically, evidently unwilling to leave his comfortable seat and his crossword. He got up, however, in full readiness to perform his duty, and Kate's heart fluttered as Tony opened the dark and quiet cargo hold. The guard took a quick peek inside and backed off, wrinkling his nose.
"Manure for the Country Islands, eh?" he said, hastening to retreat. "Well, that's necessary, I suppose, but it sure stinks."
Tony flashed him a smile. "Yeah, but someone's gotta do the job."
The great crossing gate opened with a creak. They drove on and were inside the Boundary. A minute later, they were out of sight of the crossing point and Kate released a breath she didn't know she was holding.
They drove to one of the Country Islands, to the little white house Kate inherited from her grandparents. A few trusted people were due to meet them there.
As they came within sight of the house, Kate was almost overwhelmed by memories. So many happy afternoons were spent here when she was young, with her and Jordan helping Grandma peel apples, and listening to Grandpa's stories of how things used to be before the War – an endless country, with cities and towns scattered far apart, rather than bunched up together behind the protective belt of the Boundary. Airplanes soaring through the sky as if they were almost as common as cars. Farms spread out in the wide country, enjoying all the luxury of land, rather than practicing the intense stepping-stone farming of the Country Islands. It was all gone now, gone into the great black abyss opened by the greed and ambition of mankind.
Grandma and Grandpa always lamented how small their place was, but Kate didn't quite grasp their meaning before she left the Boundary gates, many years later, in search for her brother. As a girl, the little cottage garden with its rows of high vegetable beds and neatly pruned fruit trees was a magical country where bees buzzed, butterflies fluttered, and things grew. She was not even aware of untamed, pristine nature and the wild greatness of it.
The large group made the little place seem terribly cramped. The sickest got the most comfortable seats while the hardiest settled down on the floor, occupying every available corner. Kate cooked great pots of noodles and served them with canned meat balls. The lunch made their charges more relaxed, and by the time everyone was sipping coffee in paper cups, the ex-prisoners were already talking comfortably. This short-lived ease, however, was interrupted as they heard the noise of a car engine outside. The men fell silent at once.
"What is it?" someone asked in a whisper, wary and ready to flee.
Kate smiled. "Don't worry. It's only Dr. Hill, a good friend of ours and a very trustworthy man. You have nothing to fear."
There was a knock on the door. Kate went to open and beamed at the new arrival. "Thanks for making it so soon, Charlie. I knew we could count on you."
Charlie Hill looked around in astonishment. "Hi Kate, Tony. Wow, who are all these people?"
"These," Kate said, making a sweeping gesture, "are the survivors of Zone C."
It took Dr. Hill quite a while to get the gist of Kate and Tony's story, and once he did, his face assumed an expression of utter disbelief and horror. "What? You actually mean that… But no, that's impossible, the government would never be so… The Registry camps are supposed to be for the good of the people."
"Charlie," Tony said. "The government is lying to the people. It's as simple as that. The Registry program and the camps aren't about improving the living conditions of the Freeborn. They're about profit for the White Tower and the Van Wullens. Take a look at these men. Talk to them. You're a doctor. Running a couple of simple tests should be enough to convince you that these people were exposed to toxic pollutants to a degree no living creature should have had to tolerate."
Hill looked closer at one of the sick and emaciated men. He looked genuinely scared. "I - I don't know what…"
Another knock on the door relieved him from the necessity of speaking. "That must be Linda and Troy," Kate said, going to open the door. "Hi there, Linda! I'm glad you could make it on such short notice. Troy, do you have all your equipment ready?"
"Right here," Troy said, lifting up a large, professional-looking camera. "But what's the rush, Kate? We haven't seen you guys in ages. Why don't you and Tony pour us a nice drink and..." Edging past the doorframe and seeing the somber group, Troy clasped a hand over his mouth. "I… Oh hell! What's going on?"
"More than you think," Kate said. "Come on, Linda, get your recorder out. You're going to write the story of your life."
Linda Schwartz and Troy Ellis, good friends of Kate's from her days as a social worker in an urban district, were staff members and co-owners of a marginal independent newspaper called The Query. They published all sorts of minor and often questionable stories a respectable newspaper like The Urban Observer wouldn't print. Being a many-branched venture, they also had a little-known radio channel and TV show, made possible by constant soliciting of donations. Kate would have preferred a more solid channel to broadcast the outrageous findings, but she knew the Observer was entirely in the Van Wullens' pocket these days. She could only hope that the voice of truth would be
loud enough, wherever it might come from.
A few minutes later, Linda had her laptop out, typing feverishly. "I'm just making some head notes. This is going to be huge. Huge, Kate. People torn apart from their families and sent to work, get sick, and die in Zone C. It's incredible. Frankly, I'm not sure the public will believe it."
"Oh, they will," said Troy, taking a close-up snapshot of a bony, wrinkled hand belonging to a young man of about twenty years. "The people have long suspected they were being duped. They'll be clever enough to spot the truth. Well, most of them, anyway."
"You do realize you guys will have to lie low for a while after coming out with this story?" Tony cautioned. "You won't be able to work for some time, and unless there is a major revolt and the White Tower is actually overthrown, you might have your path as news reporters cut off forever."
"But if we back off," Linda said, "how are we different from the Observer? We have a place to stay where nobody would think to look for us, Tony. We'll be careful."
"And besides," Troy added, "once the story is out on the Web, nobody will really be able to stop it. It will spread like wildfire. They can't arrest everyone or send the TIO on every man's tail. They'll have to come clean. Our job is to make sure they have no choice. Are any of these guys ready to be interviewed?"
"Not before they've had a thorough screening and emergency medical treatment to combat the effects of toxic chemicals," Dr. Hill said, snapping into the attitude of a medical man. "It's of utmost importance. Even those who don't feel sick now might be in danger without knowing it. We'll need volunteers to transport them to my clinic. Ordering a bus would be too conspicuous."
"We could use the truck," Kate suggested. "We did on the way here."
Charlie Hill looked horrified. "In the cargo hold? That's no way to transfer people!"
"It was no big deal, compared to what we had to suffer before," one of the survivors murmured.
"And it was the safest way by far," Kate added. "Or do you have any better suggestion for getting all these unregistered people across the Boundary without being detected?"
Dr. Hill didn't hear her. He was busy checking someone's pulse as he mumbled, "We live in dark times."
Kate could just discern his low voice.
* * *
A few quick phone calls to trustworthy people in the area produced a small procession of cars that stopped by the little house, taking off again with some intervals so as not to attract attention. The ex-prisoners, accompanied by Kate, Tony, Linda and Troy, were taken to Dr. Hill's clinic. The preliminary analyses threw the good doctor into spasms of horror.
"Their blood work… I've never seen anything like it. It's a wonder those poor people can still stand on their feet. What's been done to them is attempted murder. Cold-blooded murder."
Linda offered to let Dr. Hill give his medical opinion anonymously, but this was indignantly declined.
"I'll stand by my diagnosis and I'm not at all afraid to speak out. And if they take my license away, well, then, I'll travel across the Boundary to practice there. From what I gather, the Freeborn would find a doctor useful, with or without a license."
Once all the patients received a thorough screening in Dr. Hill's clinic, the preliminary results threw him into a fit of disbelief and indignation. "It's incredible that living people were deliberately exposed to such levels of toxins. I only wonder more of them didn't die. It's an outrage and a shame for all our society."
"Can anything be done for them?" Kate asked.
Dr. Hill shrugged. "I'm giving them what treatments I can. Some chelators for heavy metals, a few other basic procedures. But will it be enough? I don't know. I've never had such a case, let alone so many at once. Only time will tell, but I expect some of these men, even those who feel fine now, will eventually develop malignant tumors. I'm not going to talk about it beforehand, of course. No reason to raise panic ahead of time. But they should all be under close monitoring for years to come, or they'll be running a risk. I recommend screening every six months, so we can catch anything suspicious right away."
Linda and Troy soon collected enough material for a full-blown story. They planned to come out with it all at once – in print, on the radio, live on TV and online. As soon as the story was out in the world, they would go on the run and watch how, hopefully, it snowballed into a massive shift in the public opinion.
* * *
A few days later, Kate remained apprehensive about the possible consequences that might await her friends, but Linda and Troy were becoming increasingly militant as the clock ticked onwards and the publication date drew near.
"I don't care if we have to flee across the Boundary and stay there for the rest of our lives," Troy kept saying. "The White Tower bastards aren't getting away with what they have been doing. Not if we can help it."
13
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Though Alexander Dahl was sick and removed from the thick of politics, important confidential meetings still took place at Silver Oaks almost as often as in the White Tower. The current meeting was held between Ned Thornton, Andrew Van Wullen, and Eleanor Dahl as the gracious hostess. Normally a secretary would be present to keep records, but this was too sensitive a situation. Andrew and Ned preferred to keep it in the family until they work out a line of action, something that was badly needed in light of recent circumstances.
Silently, Andrew refilled their glasses of whiskey. Eleanor was sipping sugarless black coffee through pursed lips.
"This must be stopped at once," declared Thornton, tapping the desk with the bottom of his glass for emphasis. "We'll arrest those damn journalists and everyone aiding them. And we'll ban this trash from circulation. Block the radio station and TV channel, take down any goddamn website that dares to repeat this story."
With great disgust, Ned Thornton pushed aside a newspaper which had a first page headline in thick black letters saying, "The Secret Sinister Purpose Of The Government Registry Program: Violation Of Human Rights In Labor Camps".
"I want to know who is responsible for this," Thornton hissed, "and once I do, I'll make sure they disappear without a trace."
Andrew Van Wullen gave his niece's husband an indulgent smile. "You are too hot-headed, Ned. What do you think will happen if you start a full-blown war against these dirt-mongers? You'll only get people to understand that you take these accusations seriously. Their sympathies will be with the poor persecuted ones." Andrew's mouth twitched in irony.
"What worries me," Eleanor said, "is that this scandal has reached the ears of Alexander. I don't know what to do about it now. Alexander is much too ill to worry about these things. He can do nothing, except exhaust himself with anger."
Andrew Van Wullen looked at his sister. At fifty-five, he was as alert and vigorous as his brother-in-law was weak and sickly. "You can tell Alexander to stop worrying. We're going to fight these bastards with their own weapons. We'll recruit authoritative specialists to support our version of the story. We'll enlist the Observer, the radio, all the TV channels, and thousands of websites. We'll make those idiots look like what they are – deluded headline-chasers who have no idea what they are talking about."
Ned looked mutinous. "That isn't enough. I want to see some arrests."
"You can't arrest people for practicing freedom of speech, Ned. Under our current political system, people are entitled to spew whatever nonsense they might believe. They can be arrested for other reasons, though."
A smirk of understanding passed between the two men.
"I see your point, Uncle."
Eleanor looked uneasy. "But Andrew." She looked at her brother. "What these people say. It isn't true, is it? People aren't really being sent to work in toxic zones?"
Andrew looked annoyed. "The Registry project is well-regulated. I'm sure nobody is being abused like those idiots claim. But anyway, this is totally beside the point. Reclaiming the areas we have settled on has great economic potential. We can't balk just because some of
those lazy Illegals are raising an outcry because they were sent to do some regular work for the first time in their lives. So some of them prefer to go on living like savages. So what?"
"But they are being... paid, aren't they?" Eleanor said, her uncertain look shifting from her brother to her son-in-law.
Ned tsked. "They get free room, board and medical care, and a chance to obtain Class B citizenship if they play their cards right. I'd say this is much better than anything they could have hoped for until now."
Eleanor still looked uneasy, but decided not to press the point. "Well... I suppose. I better go and check on Alexander. Should I tell the help to fix you lunch?"
"That would be good, Eleanor," Andrew said. "A couple of ham sandwiches with tomatoes and lettuce should do splendidly."
"I prefer tuna, if possible," Ned said. "And some good strong coffee."
Once the door closed behind Eleanor, Andrew rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Women," he said, shaking his head. "They never really understand, do they? Next thing we know, we'll be handing out social security to the Illegals! If we let such petty considerations hinder our every move, we'll never achieve anything."
Ned took a sip of his whiskey. "Yes. I quite agree."
14
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The night lay like a dark, quiet blanket over the Country Island. The blinds in the little house were rolled down. From time to time, shifting clouds revealed the pale moon, which produced a dull reflection in the Plexiglas panes of the super-efficient, multi-story greenhouses that surrounded it. The greenhouses were fully computerized and didn't require much maintenance. A friendly neighboring family had taken over the enterprise and came over to check on things once a week or so.
The car that stopped next to the house at this unlikely hour did not belong to the neighbors, however. The thin, harried-looking man who stepped out of it was Dr. Charlie Hill, who knocked frantically on the door, torn between the desire to keep quiet and the need to be heard.