Chapter 1 #2
I thought I had seen the last of colour among the autumn leaves, but my lips curl at the unwarranted display to the east end of the wall.
An American flag the size of a house is stencilled onto the cement canvas.
This isn’t unusual; I have seen the same template used on other city walls, and I believe they’re usually repeated every hundred yards.
An enormous government stamp in place of flags, which must have been deemed too subtle.
Each red and white stripe is as tall as me, and stamped in the upper left is the single star of the United State of America.
The new flag would usually set my teeth grinding, but this one is different.
This one has been rectified. A crowd of men on scaffolding were monitored by rangers as they scrubbed at the graffitied stars decorated above the lonely star.
A rainbow of colours has been hastily scribbled in the scrappy way a star can be drawn in one fluid five-point motion.
While they were brushed away, their colours bled into one another above the singular white star.
Such a rebellious statement is enough to cost a life, but I cannot hide the smirk that the defiance provokes.
A middle finger from those who still believe in the United States.
It’s a sight I cling to, my heart gripping thoughts of a revolution like a comfort blanket.
The truck slows on our approach, while a large solid iron gate mechanically creeps open with a spine-pinching metallic wail.
A dozen rangers spring into action within the processing bay, like the scattering of vermin from a nest, crowding the vehicle.
Seeing them in these numbers sends me shuffling in my seat.
I’m reminded of the few times I’ve seen them, and how every encounter was laced with violence.
Dressed in black Kevlar jumpsuits and full-face helmets, they seem nonhuman, almost robotic.
Their hostile conduct keeps the ever-taut string of tension gripping the people.
As the Grim Reaper is synonymous with death, the ranger is a visual reminder of the government’s ever-watchful presence, an extension of their surveillance, their large, reflective black helmets like the dark eye of a raven.
The government has stationed rangers as a permanent military presence.
It didn’t happen overnight. A trickle of black Kevlar dripped down the hierarchy, replacing the muted green-and-beige camo like a slow cloak of decay.
As the complaints of brutality arose, then came the helmets.
These anonymous soldiers were repurposed to correct illegal or rebellious behaviour with draconian policing.
It didn’t take long for the resistance of civilians to simmer down.
Our driver, like the majority, is a private, designated by the single red stripe that runs from his shoulders to his wrists.
The higher the rank, the more red stripes, and the sergeant with the power trip and a gun on his lap behind me sports three.
Guns are much more restricted nowadays, with weapons manufacturing highly regulated by the government.
They can’t risk having another civil war on their hands, can they?
“Stay seated while we register you!” the sergeant yells from behind.
What the living hell is he on? My jaw tightens in annoyance rather than intimidation.
I hover by the window, straining to listen when he climbs out and discusses my details with the gate rangers.
They log us in and out of checkpoints like detainees, but to be fair, every gender has to detail reasons for leaving and the destination of travel.
All for our “protection,” of course—not at all for surveillance.
I lean towards the driver. He had enough compassion to answer my questions today—a thread of good woven within the tapestry of misery.
My family warned me about rangers, and I have seen them deal out cruelty, but I think I’d be compelled to ask, even if he hadn’t been kind.
Hesitation drags on my words, making me stammer, since I hate how na?ve it makes me sound.
“What’s it like in there? In the city?”
He’s still. Their helmets create tunnel vision, so even a glance in the rearview mirror would be noticeable. I don’t think he’s going to answer, and my body deflates with his delay.
“A mess.” His sigh is louder than his words, while disappointment drips from his tone. “A real fucking mess.” His helmet tilts towards me slightly. “Attacks on women are on the rise. Just keep your head down. Don’t cause trouble.”
There’s not a thing about his words that should bring comfort, but they do. It’s honesty. My father always said you should learn as much about an enemy as possible. And that is what this place is: my latest foe.
“Thanks.”
There’s a moment of silence, and my ears prick at a mention from outside of my new work placement. The ranger twists in his seat, his Kevlar hissing with the sudden movement, while his incredulous tone startles me. “Why don’t you just go to the R&R facilities?! Why the hell would you opt for this?”
I look up at him under a furrowed brow, my voice tired. “You wouldn’t understand.”
He shakes his helmet in response. “They’re safer! You’d be in Eden quicker!”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“I know what I’d pick.”
He does not understand. I spring from my seat, talking through a clenched jaw.
“They’re medical prisons for guinea pigs.
The women cowed into submission. Education consists of knitting, sewing and cooking.
I’d sooner die than be hauled into one of those places.
What, just so I can race to be with the Eden elite? Race to become somebody’s wife?”
His helmet shakes again before he turns, almost fully facing me, mirroring me through the sheen of his helmet. “And this place isn’t a prison? It’s just a bigger cage. A bigger pool to fit more sharks. The rest is inevitable.”
I’d love to ignore his words—to dispute them—but I watch the gulp bulge down the column of my throat in the reflection of his helmet.
My brain fires comebacks. Venom positions on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t bring myself to part with it.
We stare at each other in a grip of frustration.
This world we are a part of makes no sense.
We are fighting for something out of reach—an ideal that no longer exists.
The American dream was once the shining example of liberty throughout the world, but it is long since dead.
The rear door opens, and the tether of our stare loosens as the sergeant bounces into the truck. With the completion of my registration, an outside ranger motions to the concrete watchtower, and the second gate rolls open, slowly unveiling the city.
An audible gasp escapes my parted lips. From stillness to chaos.
Paths heave with bodies, overflowing from the curbs, and steam puffs from the manholes in the road, joining an amalgamation of body heat and vaporised breath from the men, rising like smog.
The lower of the high-rises are loosely decorated like patchwork—a fragmented city with corrugated metal sheets roughly bound like a corroded jigsaw puzzle and decorated in primary-colored paints.
These clashing shades conceal the buildings, as they have been repaired, insulated, and embellished for practicality rather than visual appeal.
Like the vehicle I sit in, the city is strictly utilitarian, a tatty reflection of what it used to be.
At the crossroads of the street, steel rigging is propped between the buildings, hosting giant digital screens with four sides, one facing each road.
They’re new—well, newer than my last visit when I was a kid—but I have been told about the infotrons, much like the jumbotrons that were once used at sporting events.
Each screen seems nearly half the size of a basketball court, split horizontally into three strips, so they aren’t assaulted by a sudden gust of wind, but they still sway despite the one-foot gap between them.
Right now, they’re displaying drone footage of a coastline, which may be California.
Charred palm trees and blackened sand, buildings flattened, while anything above ankle level has been scorched into charcoal remains.
There’s the wreck of a frigate, rusting and collapsed against a pier, with a gaping hole in its keel.
Its edges are thick and green with seaweed, and the tide washes in and out of it, splashing its jagged iron opening like the mouth of a cave.
Along the fractured asphalt of a coastal road, shells of helicopters lie on their sides, their windows burnt out, with the blades snapped like a discarded children’s toy.
It’s harrowing to see the remains of war, so still and falling into decay, emphasising the passing of time.
But the idea seems to be to spark inspiration, as a quote is layered over the footage.
“They can try to break our peace, but they can never weaken our strength. Victory is ours.” —President Bryce Beckett