Chapter 2 #3
“Oh, no, sir. Please let me pay.” Especially for the batteries—I was ready to spend my last few dollars on them.
“No, I insist. And please call me Seth. If you require any other flavours, any other items, let me know, and I can make arrangements.” His face lightens as he passes me the tea container and batteries.
“Seth. Thank you,” I say, “this is so generous. I will be back.”
“Thank you, dear. Have a great day.”
I tilt my cap back down while leaving and hang out in the porch’s shelter as the rain returns, tucking the container beneath my arm as I pull out my CD Walkman.
It’s been dormant after using up the last of its power months ago, but batteries are trickier to source in the Wilds, and are usually outrageously priced.
With a tap of the play button, I wedge my one working earbud into my ear with a buzz of static—and then the music plays, lifting my cheeks.
Like an old, missed friend, Alanis Morissette sings to me, keeping me company as I continue to The Riverside with a light bounce in my step.
Before long, I see three rangers beating a man with batons on a street corner while his newspaper unfolds and scatters like tumbleweeds along the wet streets.
Like a piston, they rhythmically strike him in time with the music.
Their helmets reflect the horror, their batons moving swiftly like ribbons of dancing silver.
I try not to stare as blood blooms along the man’s face, unsure of its source.
I keep my head low, still hearing the whipping impact as I turn the corner and try not to wonder what he did to deserve it.
Petty theft? An unauthorised relationship with a woman? Whispers of rebellion…?
I had hoped to reach the bar before the clock struck eleven.
The current of men slows when we approach the last crossroads before the bar.
Some have stopped beneath the screens. Those who wait don’t talk or acknowledge one another; their eyes are fixed above, waiting like loyal soldiers preparing for orders.
Their chins are raised to watch, but there’s a pride to their stance, a political statement of their loyalty to the government.
I wonder if they are on their way anywhere, or if they left their homes and workplaces for the occasion.
Others push by, either ashamed or disinterested in demonstrating in the streets.
I pull the peak of my cap lower, shouldering through the crowd, desperate to get out of the street before the clock strikes.
I discreetly glance at window reflections and track my peripherals as I approach the bar.
My mind reels through the possibilities of being harassed or attacked, thinking, Maybe if I preempt enough scenarios, I’ll handle them better—but I’m pretty sure it only adds to the unbridled anxiety that comes with walking among droves of men.
When I fumble in my pocket for my keys, the release of the alarm from my grip is unnerving, and I hate how dependent I already am on its protection.
The crowd of men is twenty yards away, but I still feel too close when the murmuring starts.
A static buzz from the speakers positioned on lampposts begins, signaling the broadcast of the Unity Siren.
My heart quickens in sync with the ticking seconds, which I’m running out of.
The hair on the back of my neck rises, sending my shoulders up like the hackles of a cornered dog.
With the brass key pinched, I wedge my tea container beneath my chin and step out of the human stream before the black door of the bar.
In my haste, I grapple with the lock before slipping into the safety of the porch.
My quickening chest peaks as I rest my palms upon the cool glass.
From outside, the roar of men vibrates the window beneath my hands.
I snatch them away, for fear the angry vibrations might make me itch.
Voices sound through the speakers, accents I haven’t heard in a long time—the French president, the English prime minister, the Russian president, Canadian, Spanish, Chinese, and an array of other nations.
They say the same things in so many ways, but the rhetoric remains.
“America must be stopped.”
“America must be held accountable.”
“America must be defeated.”
Like a wave, the crowd’s reaction heightens with each leader, softens, and then peaks again with a new face.
The anger is palpable, and I back away from the glass, feeling no safer behind the door.
I press my one working earbud into my ear, but even Alanis Morissette can’t save me from the Unity Siren.
It’s unnerving, their extreme behaviour rising to that of a mass demonic possession.
There must be a hundred men at that infotron, and the same again at every crossroads throughout the city.
My chest tightens as I do the math. Thousands of men within a mile of me, screaming hate at the rest of the world.
Every three hours, four times a day, the Unity Siren plays through every fortified city.
Like the historical practice of bloodletting, the men are expected to expel their anger towards the powers that declared war on us.
I had heard a siren from outside the walls once, where the shouts of men were a whisper on the wind, but it is inescapable here.
The animosity crawls beneath my skin, and I want to run from it, but there is nowhere to go.
Then there is an unsettling silence, a few seconds of only my breath.
A few seconds to notice how clammy my palms have turned and the cold sliver of sweat spreading from my spine.
President Beckett’s voice is like that of a god.
The volume is notably higher than that of the other leaders as it projects across the city like a siren.
His voice has a pleasurable purr, like that of a cat talking to its prey.
There is a taunting tone, but maybe that is only my opinion, since the thousands of men who stand before his projection cheer at his reveal.
I can only be glad I cannot see his face as I hear his words.
“They tried to defeat us. They failed. They tried to break your spirit. They failed. They tried to take our women. They failed.” Each sentence is punctuated with a chorus of brief cheers, expressing the men’s agreement.
“Remain vigilant. Remain focused. Remain strong. America needs you to remain united. No man or nation will stop America from ensuring your freedom. Every day is another victory. From one humble American to another, thank you for your service. Thank you to the United State of America.”
The cheers continue after Beckett’s final words, slowly fizzling to a few claps, to mutters, and then silence. My heart pounds into my palm, and with a resigned sigh, I turn and step through the second door, into the bar.
A dark figure stands there, and I scream, throwing my container at him to free my hand for the alarm in my pocket.