Saint Reilly (shutterbugged) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-08-13 18:24:00 |
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The city was choking on its own morass of dead. The rolling black-outs blotted out buildings at night, left the debris of a dying island in daylight, the blank eyes of a thousand offices untouched as the waves of the sick crested against the quarantine centers. He was a small figure in the center of the road, cars backed up, some abandoned in the middle of lanes for others to weave around and dodge, and he walked on the edge of the line at the side of the road where the dust lapped at the bubbled-dark tarmac. The zoo rose to the right, and the national guard stood soldier-to-soldier and shoulder-to-shoulder, papery masks and hard, stoic expressions as they blocked the right of way. He walked by the line, staying in the lines was important, he knew, but he'd forgotten exactly why. He'd forgotten a number of things, turned out pockets and a leather wallet, much creased, safety-pinned to his shoulder where it felt like a weight - a medal perhaps, or an anchor. He'd forgotten his name, but it didn't worry him much. The people trailing him, the long papery shadow at his heels, that bothered him but he stayed inside the line and they couldn't kill him. His hands were slick, blood from hands upward and he couldn't remember why, either. (The blood dripped, a gash opened from wrist to elbow, like someone turning into a slashed blade might get from holding up an arm to shield themselves: it was viscous, oily-dark) The men lined at the small boxy point had no faces, just eyes. This was, Saint supposed, useful if a spy. No face meant no face to remember and you couldn't be seen, but they bristled with guns, a wavering of hard summer sunlight around the waxy-stiff stance. "Check-point," one stepped forward in beaten army-boots, a spatter of what looked like gore across the toe. The nameless man blinked in wordless confusion: a point could not be checked, a king could, but not a queen and a knight was useless all along. "Name?" The other disappeared, materialized at his elbow: the man who'd lost his name scrubbed his eyes with the knuckles of one bloodied hand, blearily. A gloved hand spread against his sternum, as if the spy could crack his ribs, fish out what was left of his innards and squeeze. "He's got a wallet," one said to the other, fingering the medal pinned to his chest. Perhaps he'd been brave? There was no one to tell him, just ghosts and thieves, spies with guns and heartless hands. He stood, waiting for the bullet to the head or the punch to the stomach, fourteen and waiting for gym class to end. "Name?" The faceless spy said to the nameless man and his tongue was dry, thick like caked sand in his mouth and he hadn't an answer, so he shrugged. |