At some point someone must have handed me a sweatshirt, because I am wearing one. It is no comfort to think that had he been cured, he would have in all probability died as well. The anger has ebbed away, and so has the guilt. I sink into a dullness, a place of suspension: I can no longer feel anything. “… some are calling the measures unnecessarily harsh … public outcry against the DFA and the RCNY…” “… emergency convention of the Regulatory Committee of New York … swift judgment … scheduled for execution by lethal injection at ten a.m. Raven is right about one thing: It is war now, and armies need symbols. But things have changed since the Incidents. It would have been suppressed, the way the very existence of Julian’s brother was no doubt slowly and systematically expunged from public records after his death. “Julian … resigned his position and has refused the cure…”Ī year ago, the story would not have been reported at all. “Julian Fineman … head of the youth division of Deliria-Free America and son of the group’s president…”Įvery radio station is the same. The radio stays on for most of the day, piping thinly through the walls, and no matter where I go, I can’t escape it. The radio and the coffeemaker sit directly on the cement floor, nested in a tangle of wires. Other than the folding table and chairs, and a room full of sleeping cots, there is no furniture. I have no idea how many of the other resisters will be joining us presumably, at least some of them will stay. Tack and Raven have prepared us for the move. One of the rooms is piled with tents and rolled-up sleeping bags. We must be skimming our electricity from them: We have lights, a radio, even an electric coffeemaker. I gather we are twenty miles north of New York, and just south of a city named White Plains. I look for the woman who brought me here but see no one who resembles her, hear no one who speaks the way she did. I recognize only one of them, a guy Tack’s age who came once to Salvage to bring us our new identity cards. These must be other members of the resistance. Faces turn to me, expectant, smiling, and turn away again when I do not acknowledge them. Julian will go to the gallows for us, and we will smile, and dream of victory-hazy-red, soon to come, a blood-colored dawn. “We leave tomorrow to go north,” she says simply, and just like that the conversation is ended. I feel a surge of hope.īut when she looks at me again, her face is composed, emotionless. For a moment I think she is going to relent. Raven rubs her forehead tiredly and sighs again.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |