by G. K. Lamb
“Arrest her!” I hear my father’s words like the first crack of lighting with a storm hot on its heels.
Father’s words cut down to my soul. I have been tortured, cut, bashed, and pushed to the edges of human endurance but this wound overshadows them all. I’m completely blindsided. I thought he loved me? I had assumed Mother could do something like this, but never Father. I didn’t know him at all. The realization of how little I know cripples me. Whatever love he has for me has been overshadowed by his duty to the state.
Peace Officers obey his command. Walking toward me, their rifles are aimed at my chest. Unable to cope with this unimaginable turn of events, I stand frozen. The Peace Officers approach. Their eyes are void and their breaths are metallic and unnatural. Closer and closer, the Peace Officers step toward me. I see no way out.
In a blink of an eye, Mother springs forward and grabs hold of the Peace Officer’s rifle.
“Run!”
Her words reawaken me. Without hesitation I spin around and begin to run as fast as I have ever run.
As soon as I enter the hall my soul receives another unrecoverable blow.
Bang! Bang! Two gunshots ring out, exploding my world. My body continues to run. The tears flow uncontrollably from my face. Only Mother’s desire for me to live keeps me from giving up. All that I love most in this world taken away from me in the blink of an eye.
I reach the service elevator and hit the call button. Survival and adrenaline push reality from my mind. The world blurs into a tunnel of intense focus. Frantically, I tap the call button. The doors don’t open. Charles lives on the bottom of the building. There is no way the elevator will return before the Peace Officers find me. My body trembles. I move to the corner. Maybe I can take the rifle from him before he uses it on me and by then the elevator will come. No sooner than I think about the rifle, one of the Peace Officers bursts into view.
I react instinctively. Grabbing the barrel of the rifle I shove it back into his face as hard as I can. The butt of the rifle connects with his mask causing a loud crack and jars him enough that he loses his grip on the weapon.
Hands wrapped around the barrel, I flip it around without thinking. My sweaty hands clutch desperately to the handle. The Peace Officer raises his baton, ready to strike. My finger squeezes.
Bang! The Peace Officer crumbles to the floor. A heartbeat passes and the second Peace Officer emerges. Bang! Bang! Holding his chest, he slumps down the wall to the floor. Breathing hysterically the rifle falls from my trembling hands.
Ding. The elevator arrives, its doors grinding open loudly. Back peddling, I stumble into the elevator and begin frantically tapping the button for the service entrance. The doors slowly close and the gory scene disappears. The elevator jerks, dropping me to the floor. Crumbled on the floor of the elevator I begin to weep.
Mother died to give me a chance. Father just sat there. Two men lay dead by my hand. This can’t be happening. In less than five minutes I’ve lost everything. I’ve lost my family and my principles. How can I hope to tell others the truth when I didn’t even know the truth about my parents? How can I preach peace with blood on my hands?
Ding. The elevator opens its doors to the service corridors. Scrambling up, I press through the doors before they close. With tear-filled eyes the return journey through the hallways is difficult. Half-delirious, I almost pass the door to the alley.
The door pushes open easily. The yellow light above the door accosts my weary eyes as I stagger into the alley. Walking as quickly as I can, I cross the few meters to the waiting van. Pulling the door open I crawl inside. The final piece holding the dam back in my eyes breaks loose. I’m sobbing and weeping uncontrollably, and Mr. Herrington turns around.
“What on earth happened? Where is Mr. Standish?”
“No time to ask, look!” Victor says frantically.
Following Victor’s pointed finger with my eyes to the front window, I see four Peace Officers with rifles coming down the alleyway from the street.
“Punch it, Victor! If we stay, we’re all dead,” I say.
“Hold on, what about Charles?” says Mr. Herrington.
Victor slams the accelerator pedal down as far as it will go. The van roars to life. Speeding away, the Peace Officers are forced to jump aside to avoid being hit. As soon as we pass them, their rifles aim and fire.
The back window shatters and falls away in a shower of broken glass. Whiz-snap. Bullets ping and thud in the body of the car. The front window quickly follows. Tiny shards of glass cascade off Victor and Mr. Herrington. Dozens of bullets zip through the van before Victor is able to turn out of the short alleyway.
Turning into the street, we crash into an oncoming car. The impact is startling but doesn’t seem to faze Victor. He shoves the gearshift into reverse, points the van in the opposite direction, slams it into drive and steps on the gas pedal.
“Everyone all right?” Victor says.
“I didn’t get hit.”
“Mr. Herrington, what about you? Are you all right?”
Victor reaches his arm across the middle console and grabs Mr. Herrington’s shoulder. His head falls forward, limp.
“Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Evelyn, see if he has a pulse.”
Leaning forward, I place my fingers on his neck. His skin is clammy, my fingers find nothing.
“No. No.” The words tumble out of my mouth. Victor starts to sob.
Back at the safe house, I help Victor carry Mr. Herrington’s lifeless body onto a bunk. Grief beyond words envelopes me. Holding Mr. Herrington’s cold leathery hand, I weep. I continue to weep, until every tear is shed and I am truly empty inside.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Time passes agonizingly slowly and the safe house is deathly silent. Pain and grief ping-pong in my mind. My crying has long since stopped and has been replaced by a gripping pain in my chest. Victor, too, has grown quiet. Together we find ourselves on our knees beside a bunk, our hands still touching Mr. Herrington’s lifeless body in the naïve hope that he will soon sit up to wake us from this most terrible of nightmares.
In the course of only a few days, my entire world has crumbled. Every death I have caused and every foolish decision I’ve made since I followed my hunger for truth replays with excruciating vividness in my mind. I am finally at a point where I do not know how to go on.
Even if I was able to stand right now and leave this place, what would I do? Everyone I know is either dead, missing, or in the same emotionally destroyed state that I am. A dark thought crosses my mind. If I went to the authorities and professed my sincerest regrets for my recent actions and behaviors, maybe they would let me go back to my old life and put all of this behind me. As quickly as the thought enters my mind, waves of disgust wash over me. How can I even think that while lying before me is the body of a man who gave his life for the truth? A man who put his trust and faith in a young girl he had only just met? How can I think that while Victor, who may have lost more than I did today, struggles to plan our next move in the midst of his own grief?
How can I consider putting all this behind me, when Mother sacrificed her life so that I could continue to live and seek truth? By even considering such a cowardly act, I disrespect the memory of all the people who have sacrificed their lives so that I could be here and possess the knowledge that I do.
I stand quickly. My legs dance with electric sensation as blood returns to them. I resolutely refuse to give up. The pins and needles in my legs focus my attention on the here and now. I may not know what to do outside these walls but I can take charge of the pain and hunger I’m feeling right now.
Taking one limping step after the other, I reach the kitchen. Opening the cabinet doors, I search through them looking for painkillers. In an upper cabinet, I find a large white bottle with a generic chemical name I recognize typed on its label. Opening the cap, I dump four of the
large capsules into my left hand. I pop them in my mouth then scoop a handful of water from the tap. As soon as I swallow them my body begins to feel better. Surely a placebo effect, but real or not, I welcome the relief.
The refrigerator holds dozens of plain packaged meals. Caring little for flavor at this point, I pull one of the silver packages off the top shelf and close the door. Inside it are an assortment of smaller silver packages. I take out the one labeled crackers, open it, and begin to eat the bland dry triangles as I walk back over to Victor. He is smoothing back Mr. Herrington’s thinning grey hair.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
Victor’s hand stops mid-stroke. Lifting his eyes to mine, I see his aching sorrow. “Thank you, but no.”
I nod my head sympathetically. I feel ashamed as I lift another dry cracker to my mouth. What an inappropriate question at a sensitive time like this! I decide my hunger can wait. I turn toward the kitchen intending to leave my food packets on the counter when the computer terminal catches my eye. A small red light is blinking rapidly.
“Victor, what does this light mean?”
Victor strokes Mr. Herrington’s hair one last time then stands and slowly walks over toward to the terminal.
“Blinking light…”
His voice trails off as his bloodshot eyes focus on the red light. Suddenly he rushes to the terminal. His fingers dance in the projected light and the screen comes to life.
“I have that light set up to alert me whenever the television network is transmitting an emergency broadcast. This is bad, this is bad.”
His fingers continue to type, and as they do, the live stream from the central network fills the screen. What I see sets the hackles on my neck on end. Standing in the center of the screen is Damian. He stands where Rourke normally sits to regurgitate his Caretaker-approved nightly news. Bullet holes and unmistakable splatters of blood are clearly visible on the normally drab backdrop.
“People of the Great Society, my compatriots and I have seized the broadcast tower here in Einsam to put an end to the lies and deception that has spewed over this desk for as long as any of us can remember. We are here to give you the truth the Caretakers suppress and hide from each of you. There are many lies in the Great Society but the biggest and most profound surrounds each and every one of you right now. The masks you wear. The airlocks you pass through a dozen times a day. The fear and paranoia you all feel. With every breath you take, you reinforce the lies designed to keep you in line. You are all so preoccupied with making sure each breath isn’t your last that you fail to see the atrocities the Caretakers commit against us. We toil in soot and filth; we live like rats in a cage; we have no freedoms; we are nothing beneath their boots! We are arrested and beaten for the smallest of “crimes” and every day, thousands of us stand in unemployment lines with empty stomachs. Open your eyes! You are citizens, not sheep; rise up! Demand better from your Caretakers. Let them tremble at the sound of your collective cry for justice!”
With a guttural roar, Damian’s fist punches the air over his head.
Then everything changes. A loud gunshot causes the speakers to crackle with overload. Damian’s head bursts open and his body falls out of frame. Fresh blood and grey matter splatter the backdrop.
“They killed him. Damian’s dead,” I say, tears tracing my cheeks.
“No, no, no. This can’t be happening. That damned fool. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it all!” Victor slams both his fists on the desk as he begins to sob.
The computer screen stays fixed on the gore behind the desk, but the sounds of shouting and more rifle fire give clues to the raging gun battle off-camera. Powerless to do anything, I watch Victor shake his head back and forth as he mumbles “Why?”
The sound of shooting stops abruptly and the screen goes black. Victor jumps up from his chair, sending it toppling to the concrete floor. Holding his hands over his eyes, Victor storms toward me. I step quickly to get out of his way. Pacing between the kitchen and the terminal, Victor continues to shake his head and cry, “No, no, NO!”
Damian’s actions and subsequent death seemed to have broken the last thread of Victor’s sanity. Nothing I say or do can console him. So I focus on my own breathing and try to digest what has just transpired. Slowly counting my breaths helps me calm down. Victor’s pacing, too, begins to slow. I can see he’s beginning to claw his way out of the avalanche of emotions that threatens to bury him.
The computer speakers suddenly emit a long, loud BEEP and the screen reads Please Stand By. Victor swipes at his face with his hands and steps back to the terminal. Righting the chair from the floor, he sits down at the controls. The screen changes again, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. The video stream resumes.
The gore-covered studio backdrop is gone, replaced by the yellow-lit cobblestones of Victory Plaza. Four people are visible in the frame, four of the people who left with Damian. I remember their clothing. Arms bound behind their backs, they are on their knees on the harsh stones. Their faces are covered by gas masks but they are undeniably petrified. Standing directly behind them are four Peace Officers with rifles trained on the back of their heads. We can hear the sound of approaching footsteps and dread fills my chest. Entering the frame in front of the four is a tall Peace Officer Commandant. Six silver diamonds on each of his coat’s gold epaulettes glimmer in the light.
“Do not believe these subversives’ lies! The Caretakers are your humble servants. Everything they do, they do to protect you. They only want the best for you. But I can see how many of you might doubt me after what you’ve witnessed so I am forced to prove to you the truth of my words.”
The pause is sickening and tense. I brace for what I know is going to come next.
“See these subversives die by their own lies. Remove their masks!”
For a moment the four struggle against the prying hands of the Peace Officers, but bound and prostrated, they struggle in vain. Three of them instantly begin to gag and scream soundless screams. They quickly fall on their faces. The fourth continues to hold her breath even as her eyes and nose begin to bleed. The Peace Officer behind her jabs the end of his rifle into her back emitting the unforgettable sound of breaking bone. Unable to keep her lips sealed, she cries out in pain. Her final defiant cry echoes through my body and every fiber of my being. She falls to the cobblestones next to her three, now-motionless friends. Her own twitches and convulsions quickly subside.
“This, citizens, is the truth of our Great Society. There is no secret here, only a painful and deadly truth.”
The commandant pauses again. “Stand by for a message from…”
A thundering explosion and a burst of light interrupt the commandant. The camera whips unsteadily around. A massive, flaming hole clearly dominates the west side of the broadcast tower. Flames leap out of the building, igniting the ash which falls as embers to the soot-covered plaza. Soon the sky is raining red embers and the ground is aglow with fire. The commandant shouts something incomprehensible toward the camera just as another explosion rocks the broadcast tower. The signal cuts out and the screen once again turns black.
“Victor, what’s happening? Are those bombs? Did Damian plant them?”
“No, we don’t have any bombs. No, this is something else. This has to be Fowler. She must be exploiting Damian’s speech to begin her terror spree. Damn, damn him. He was always so short-sighted. We knew Fowler was going to launch her operation soon, so instead of waiting it out and presenting a voice of reason he just lumped us in with the real subversives!”
“What can we do? Is there anyone else in your network who can help us?”
Victor’s face burns red with anger. “They’re all gone, all dead, all ruined. A single day! One damn day and what took us years to build, what Herrington spent his life creating… it’s destroyed!”
“Then it’s just us. What’s our plan; where should we go? We need to be someplace safe, and I don’t t
hink we’ll be safe here much longer.”
“I don’t know; I don’t know,” Victor said as he looked around the room.
“We have to think, Victor; it’s just the two of us now. We have to keep trying to open people’s eyes to the truth.”
“How? Everyone’s dead, and they died when their masks were taken off! How do we convince the entire nation that what they saw didn’t happen? We can’t! It happened, and now we’re ruined.”
Words of anger almost leave my mouth before I rein them back in. Victor’s right. What people saw was real, it was true. But it may not be the whole truth.
“Victor, were you recording that broadcast?”
“Always, why?”
“I may know how we can still show people the truth.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head.
“Go to the shot where the cameraman flipped the camera around to look at the tower. With any luck, he caught an image of one of those silver trucks, like the one near the field the day they killed Victoriana’s cat. Go frame by frame.”
Victor returns to his place behind the terminal. His keystrokes rewind the video file until he finds the first image of flames coming out of the tower. Then he begins to go slowly forward, frame by frame.
“There, stop!” I yell. The plaza is clearly visible, as is the street at its far side. And in a total of six frames, we could see the unmistakable shape of the silver truck with its mysterious tanks.
“I don’t believe it. You were right.”