After the Revolution, page 26
Oscar.
He’d been beaten too, although not as badly as the soldier. He looked not so much frightened as bewildered, starving, and probably reeling from one or more head injuries.
“Dude,” Roland nudged Manny’s rib cage and whispered to him, “the fuck?”
Manny realized his mask had slipped. He’d let himself stare in horror rather than the excitement evident in everyone else’s face. No one else seemed to have noticed yet, they were all focused on the prisoners. But Manny forced a grim smile onto his face and tried to look, at least, like he was deeply satisfied.
An armed Martyr prodded Oscar and the SDF man in their backs with his rifle and ushered them up onto the stage. Dead silence reigned over the cafeteria. No one spoke. It took Manny a few seconds to realize that he was actually holding his breath. Once the captives were up on stage the armed Martyrs pushed them down onto their knees. Ditmar set his bag down, unzipped it, and pulled out a wooden rod, about two feet in length and as thick around as Manny’s forearm.
“Warriors of God,” the pastor intoned in a low whisper. Manny felt himself lean into the man’s words, even as dread pickled the pit of his stomach. “These men appointed themselves enemies of our Heavenly Kingdom; foes of God.” He raised a hand up to Ditmar. His hand shook, but not out of fear. He positively vibrated with excitement.
“Who among you will take up the rod and punish these men?”
The chair-scraping-floor sound of someone standing up very quickly rose up behind him. Manny glanced back and saw that one of the men from his cadet group had been the first to stand. He was tall, with broad, thick shoulders and chest muscles that spoke of a youth spent laboring in the field. He had thin, dirty blond hair, a thick jaw, and blue eyes that shone with excitement.
“What’s your name, Martyr?” the pastor asked.
“Eric Friedman, sir!” the young man cried back.
“Martyr Friedman,” Ditmar called out as he held the rod up, “come forward and do the Lord’s work.”
The young man walked forward, stepped up onto the stage, and took the rod from Ditmar’s hand. He glanced down at the captives. His eyes passed over Oscar and lingered on the battered Black soldier.
“Strike a blow for the Lord,” the pastor whispered. And Martyr Friedman obliged. His first swing was weak, unsure, and poorly aimed. It struck the soldier on his shoulder. He didn’t cry out. Martyr Friedman’s second strike was harder, surer. He hit the soldier right in the gash on his forehead and the man dropped with a muffled cry. Eric hit him again. And again. And again. Ditmar grabbed another rod from the bag and held it out.
“Step up, men of God,” the pastor’s voice rose again, to a pitch so high it was almost a shriek, “step up and be the hands of justice!”
Just for a moment, Oscar saw him. Surprise, then confusion, and then anger passed over the stringer’s face in the space of about a second. Manny didn’t want to think about what Oscar saw in his face.
And then men rushed the stage, and Oscar disappeared in the swarm of Martyrs-to-be rushing in to share in the beatings. Roland took the opportunity provided by the chaos to lean back and whisper a question to Manny.
“What’s going on, guy?”
“I know that guy, the one on the left,” Manny whispered back. “He’s one of my stringers—he works for me. I…he’s my friend.”
Roland nodded, and then stood up and rushed up to the stage. By the time he reached it, a dozen other Martyrs had joined Eric in beating the two captives. There was blood on the floor, blood on the sticks, and blood spattering the Martyr’s new uniforms. Oscar cried out from each blow. It sounded like his mouth was full of blood.
And then Roland took a rod from Ditmar’s hand and, in the space of a second, brought it down on both men’s skulls with dull, meaty thuds. The soldiers went still. The screaming stopped, and every eye in the room turned to Roland. The chromed man looked out at the crowd. There was an agonizing moment of silence. And then Manny knew what he had to do.
“Praise God!” he screamed out. The room joined in, and soon a chorus of cheers filled the cafeteria.
After that, Roland was everyone’s favorite Martyr. Once the men’s bodies were dragged off the stage and dinner began, the Martyrs could barely contain their admiration for his strength.
“That was incredible,” Eric said. “I can’t wait to go into battle with you!”
“What did you do before?” a young man with a thick Oklahoma twang asked. “From the way you cracked those skulls I’d have guessed you’ve been doing that for years.”
Roland gave short, noncommittal responses. His taciturn attitude didn’t stop the other Martyrs from talking ABOUT him with supreme glee. Their words sickened Manny, but their focus on Roland gave him a chance to breathe and mourn and avoid looking over at the stage while Ditmar’s men dragged Oscar’s body away. By the time the excitement had subsided and dinner had ended, Manny felt like he could just barely make it to his bunk without breaking down. He lagged behind Roland and the others as they all filed into the barracks.
Manny was grateful for Roland’s ability to draw attention until, during the walk, that young Black Martyr sidled up to Manny and introduced himself.
“I’m Jonathan,” he said, “and I’m honored to meet you.”
“Why?” Manny asked.
“I think you and I were the only ones who weren’t cheering during…that.”
“Ah,” Manny said with a nod. He took a careful look at Jonathan’s face. The other man’s chubby cheeks and soft smile seemed almost calculated to make him look guileless. Whatever he says, he’s one of them. Be careful.
“I understand why it was necessary,” Manny said, “but I don’t have to like it.”
“Neither do I,” Jonathan said. “We have to fight them. We’re fighting for God here, after all. But we don’t have to become monsters.”
Manny nodded. He didn’t say anything. Jonathan took that as an invitation to say more.
“I think we’re going to have a harder time here than the others,” he said, and gestured to the very caucasian crowd ahead of them. “We’ve got a lot to overcome here. But I think that just means God will shower more glory on us for the effort.”
Manny was proud that, in his sorrowful and half-panicked state, he managed to avoid shouting “WHAT THE FUCK?” at Jonathan. Instead he matched the Martyr’s smile and just said, “Praise God.”
Their next morning started with an hour of calisthenics. The work-out was strenuous, but Manny actually enjoyed it. The speed with which they were dragged outside and forced into motion kept him from picturing Oscar’s face for a while. After the work-out, they dove into the real meat of the day: a trip to the gun range.
It had been set up on what had once been a marching band’s practice field. Dozens of vaguely human-shaped targets had been cut out of sheet metal and set up at varying intervals behind a crude sandbag line. Their group of about two-dozen new recruits were each issued weapons of varying quality. Manny received a janky old Kalashnikov that rattled like a maraca. Roland was given an almost-new G36 assault rifle.
The range instructor was a one-legged old Martyr with a prodigious belly and an equally overgrown white beard. He walked them through the basics of how to operate a variety of different assault rifles (“You can’t know what weapon you’ll end up needing to use.”) and then set them up on the sandbag line and told them to start firing. Manny took aim at a target around a hundred feet in front of him. It was hard to tell if he hit it or not; several other men had aimed at the same target. Again, Manny got the feeling that the purpose of this training was not to make them marksmen. Basic familiarity was all the Heavenly Kingdom had time to provide.
Roland, of course, proved a fabulous shot. He stitched a smiley-face in bullet holes across four of the metal targets and earned genuine praise from the instructor.
“By God, son. You’ve got a gift.”
This only increased Roland’s social cachet with the Martyrs. They crowded around him during the walk to the next activity of the day: lunch, and a lecture on assault tactics. This was held in a little concrete amphitheater, something that had presumably once served the school’s drama department. Manny tried to sit down next to Roland, but Eric and a gaggle of his friends settled around the post-human first. They babbled excitedly to him. Manny wasn’t sure what they were saying, but every time he glanced back Roland looked absolutely miserable.
Manny wound up in the back, seated next to Jonathan. The young Martyr patted his leg. “Don’t worry, brother,” he said. “It’s gonna be rough for us to earn their respect, but once we’re all out in the field together they’ll stop caring about your skin.”
“You sure about that?” Manny asked, happy he was never going to wind up in “the field” with any of these people.
“Course I am,” Jonathan said. “I grew up in Atlanta, y’know. I knew it was gonna be rough coming out here. But that’s the sacrifice we make for God. I know He’s gonna bring this nation back together. Tell you the truth, I’m honored to be a part of that.”
Jonathan’s eyes shone when he spoke. He’s a true believer, Manny realized, there’s not a doubt in his mind that he’s doing the right thing. That was scary. And things got scarier still when their next instructor stepped into the amphitheater. This man was old and grizzled too. He had both of his legs, but his right arm was missing below the elbow, and a jagged scar ran up the left side of his face. The skin on most of his forehead was bald and mottled, as if he’d been badly burned.
“Afternoon, boys, and God bless you. I’m Martyr Carruthers. Today you’re going to learn how to assault a fortified position.”
Most of the strategies he walked them through began and ended with the application of shoulder-fired rockets and incendiary grenades. Manny couldn’t help but notice that no time was spent talking about how to avoid civilian casualties. He wasn’t even sure Specialist Carruthers knew how to pronounce the word “civilian.”
“Remember what it says in the book of Samuel, boys,” the older man drawled: “‘Now go and strike, and devote to destruction all that you have. Do not spare them, but kill both man and woman, child and infant, ox and sheep, camel and donkey.’” He laughed, which made a few of the young Martyrs comfortable enough to laugh too.
“I don’t expect you’ll run into any camels or donkeys out in Austin. But there’ll be men, women, children, and infants. If they stand in your way, they all equally deserve to be purged.”
Manny didn’t like the eagerness he saw on the faces of his fellow “students.” The pit in his stomach grew throughout the day, while Martyr Carruthers explained how to use the various heavy munitions they might be called upon to deploy. There weren’t enough rockets or mortars for them to actually train on any of those things. Manny wasn’t sure how good a gist anyone really got. He wondered how much that would matter when these men took to the field.
He ate ravenously at dinner. Thankfully, there were no executions that day. But Martyr Ditmar did take the stage again and announced that the buses were ready to take any interested recruits down to the main drag for a couple of hours of what passed for R&R. One of the older Martyrs handed everyone ration cards and explained they were good for either a cup of coffee or tea, or a small amount of food from one of the few stores that had opened back up.
“Fuckin’ tea,” Roland grumbled into Manny’s ear as they headed out for the buses. “That’s what these jumped-up puritans consider a recreational beverage. This garbage country…”
Manny had noticed the post-human growing increasingly jittery and irritable throughout the day. He’d seen Roland cautiously cough up another small bag of pills right before lunch. That had sated him for a while, but considering his post-human metabolism, Manny thought he had to be pretty close to sober.
“I am so fucking lucid I can’t stand it,” Roland muttered.
“What is it with you people and being high all the time?” Manny whispered back. “Can’t you stand being sober for a few days?”
“Not if I can help it,” Roland said. He pointed to his head. “There’s just too much going on in here, too much input. It’s like my whole body itches, but I can’t scratch.”
“Ah,” Manny said, since he wasn’t sure what else to say.
The bus hit downtown Plano after twenty minutes or so. It wasn’t an impressive sight. There were maybe a dozen little shops and one cafe open, plus a pretty sad looking farmers’ market. He could see no signs of any bars, any clubs, anything that even vaguely resembled night life. The main drag was crowded with people, throngs of soldiers and young women in long dresses, and new immigrants to the Heavenly Kingdom.
“Where should we go first?” Manny asked, as soon as they’d filed off the bus.
“Well,” Roland grunted, “unless you’re in the mood for shitty coffee or some root vegetables, I say we check out that gallows.”
Manny had avoided looking too long at the gallows. It was empty now. But just staring at it made him feel sick. There was something sinister and unsettling about the ground beneath it. It was as if he could feel the death radiating outwards.
“What could we possibly learn there?” Manny asked.
The big man shrugged, “Not much. But if they wind up hanging anyone tonight I might be able to sniff out where they’re keeping their prisoners. That’d be useful data.”
“Well, I’m gonna be useless for that,” Manny said. “What should I do?”
“I dunno man. Grab some coffee?”
“What?”
Roland locked eyes with him. He didn’t do that often. His gaze was normally as shifty and jittery as the rest of him.
“Look, kid, you’ve done a great job. Above and beyond the call of, I dunno, duty or whatever. You’re good company too. But I’ve got a half-dozen satellite’s worth of sensory equipment in my brain and hundreds of wee-bitty microscopic robots floating around the air feeding me news. There’s really not much for you to do here. Chill out. Find whatever passes for relaxation here and do it. I’ll get you when it’s time to go.”
Manny started to protest. But then he thought, What the hell? He’s right. I’m useless. I’ve earned a cup of flavorless gringo coffee. So he thanked Roland and headed off in the direction of one of the strip’s functioning coffee houses, the Cafe Clement. It looked like it was less crowded than the others. As he reached for the door, someone slammed into him.
She was a young blonde. Younger than Manny, at any rate. She wore baggy surgical scrubs. Her jaw was tight and clenched. Her brown eyes were wide with fear and there were deep bags under them.
“Oh– oh my,” she said. “I’m so sorry, sir. Please let me–”
“It’s OK,” Manny said. “No damage done. Are you alright? You look terrified.”
“I’m just… Just. Trying to avoid someone. It’s nothing serious.”
Manny wasn’t sure why, but he pulled the ration cards he’d been given out of his pocket and offered one to the stranger.
“Here. If you want, we can grab a table together and I’ll sit with my back to the door. You’re not big. I can block you.”
She looked surprised, and a little hesitant. But after a few blinks she nodded and said, “I’d actually appreciate that a lot. Thank God for you, sir.”
“Uh, yeah,” Manny agreed. “Praise him.”
They sat and ordered coffee. The young woman kept craning her neck around Manny to peek at the door behind them.
“Look, I’m not gonna ask what’s up with you. But can I get your name, at least? That might make this less awkward. I’m Mann– uh, Emmanuel. Manny for short.”
“Sasha,” she said. “I, uh, I just got here a few days ago. You?”
“This is my second day.”
She looked surprised.
“I wouldn’t have guessed, what with the uniform.”
He laughed. “It turns out they just hand these to anyone who’ll hold a gun. I didn’t even really have a choice.”
“Well, if that’s where you wound up I’m sure it’s where the Lord wants you. Praise God for that.”
She didn’t seem like she was joking. But there was something about her tone and the way her jaw never unclenched that made Manny suspect she was a little less than convinced about her own words. For the next few minutes they talked in between sips of mediocre coffee. He learned she was from the American Federation, and enough of a true believer that she’d smuggled herself into the Heavenly Kingdom. She didn’t seem like a zealot, though. More than anything she seemed scared.
“How do you like it here?” he finally asked. “Is it what you’d expected?”
She didn’t respond for quite a while. Instead, she stared into his eyes. Manny stared back. It was a strange feeling. She must have been trying to search out whether he was trustworthy or trying to trick her into revealing her disloyalty. He maintained eye contact and tried not to seem like a member of whatever the Heavenly Kingdom called their secret police. Apparently it worked.
“Of course I’m happy here in God’s Kingdom,” she smiled an empty smile. “I’ve been blessed to meet so many dedicated people. But, um…I’ve also met some people who, um…I, um, well…” She coughed. “Not everyone here seems to have the Lord in their heart.”
Manny almost laughed at the irony in her admitting that to him. But he kept his mouth shut and just nodded. Sasha took a long sip of her coffee. He felt a little bad for staring. She was very pretty. But she was also pretty young. And of course she’d volunteered to join a theocratic murder-state. That was probably another reason he shouldn’t get too attached.
“So, anyway,” Sasha explained, “I’ve run into some men I don’t like very much. And they keep finding me when I get off from my shift at the hospital. I’m sure they’re waiting outside the House of…where I’m staying, right now. I don’t want to deal with that yet.”
