The voice from the loudspeaker sounds as emotionless and cold as a computer. Hell, for all I know it could actually be one. After all, I can’t really see a microphone or anyone speaking the words. Just these drab green cones attached to every tenth telephone pole, a thin black wire stringing them together and disappearing somewhere into the distance.
Soldiers stroll up and down the sidewalks, machine guns slung over their shoulders as their eyes scan the crowd for even the slightest ripple of discontent. A few look scared, as if they’re afraid the assemblage will suddenly fall upon them and rip the weapons from their hands before they’ve even managed to squeeze off a shot; but most of them all wear the same solemn, tight lipped expression of neutrality.
I’ve been standing in line for nearly an hour now and have only moved forward a block or so. My kidneys feel as if someone is plunging knives into them and my bladder is demanding relief as I curse myself for not having the foresight to take a leak before leaving the house.
By now I know the spiel well enough that I could recite it word for word, pausing in all the right places for just the right amount of time. Which is really no mean feat: it’s basically the same message, after all, repeated over and over as we shuffle forward.
Protecting. That’s a good one. It feels more like they’re herding us. It’s all too easy to imagine that this long string of people are nothing more than livestock. That once we round the corner we’ll have little tags affixed to our ears and be loaded into cattle cars. Shipped off to slaughterhouses and processed for consumption.
Christ Almighty, I should have gotten more sleep last night. Everything looks grainy and my eyes feel as if I’ve got little pieces of grit trapped in them. Grit that scratches and itches and burns.
It’s Polly’s fault, really. She kept me talking in the kitchen, kept asking all those questions about what I thought, how I felt, what my opinion was on this or that: and every so often she’d drop her cigarette and bend over to pick it up. The neckline of her shirt would sag and I could see nipples like little pencil erasers on these firm, round breasts. The first time it happened I thought maybe it was just an accident, that she’d simply grown comfortable enough around me to not realize how she was exposing herself; the second time, however, I began to wonder if maybe she were doing it on purpose. If she
I ended up with around two hours of sleep, I’d say. Not nearly enough. I feel like every muscle in my body is wound up as tightly as a spring; I’m tired, cranky, and I really, really have to piss. But, as I’m so often reminded, I’m not allowed to ask the soldiers if there’s any way I can use the bathroom. I’m not even allowed to step outside the damn yellow line.
Yeah, yeah, I know: the use of deadly force has been authorized. But to be perfectly honest I would almost be willing to take a bullet right now as long as it pierced my bladder and relieved some of this fucking pressure. Next time, Cody comes for the supplies. Let that little weasel deal with this shit while I stay home, all snug and secure with a bathroom only feet away.
By the time I’d made it to the little tent with the desk beneath, it was too late. I simply couldn’t hold out any longer. Warmth spread across the crotch of my jeans and trickled down my thighs as the sharp stench of urine filled the air like a pungent cloud. Luckily, I’d worn dark jeans so it wasn’t obvious where the source of the smell was coming from. It could have been the old man in front of me. Or the lady who kept stepping on the heel of my shoe every time we managed to take a few steps forward.
“Ration card and identification.”
I handed the soldier the requested documents and noticed that his nose wrinkled slightly, as if the smell of my piss stung his nostrils. Good. Served the bastard right.
He glanced from my ID to my face and then back to the ID again.
“Richard W. Hall?”
I’d nodded my head, unclear as to whether answering his questions would be considered making contact with one of the soldiers protecting me.
He sighed as if he had been through this same routine a thousand times and in that fraction of a second I realized that this man hated his job. And, for some reason, I gleaned a bit of satisfaction from that realization; as if this somehow knocked him down to the same level as me and the long line of people stretching back and around the corner.
“You’re going to have to speak to answer my questions. It’s okay, understand? It’s okay to talk to
Amazing. Even when things are literally falling apart around you, the bureaucracy rolls on and on.
After verifying all of my information to the man’s satisfaction, another soldier pulled a large box from the back of a truck and dropped it into my arms. The thing felt as heavy as a small child and I was assured that there was enough inside to last a full week if we doled it out wisely; another officer would be around in the future to issue a new ration card and I, or someone else residing in my household, could come back next week at the same time and location to claim further supplies.
As I staggered along the streets, I began to feel eyes upon me. I could sense the other people looking at my box of food and necessities, could almost feel their desire to possess it like a beam of warmth penetrating my skull. Even though my back ached from carting this huge box around, I tried to rise to my full height, to puff my chest out in the hopes that it might be mistaken for muscle. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t think I could be considered in any way, shape, or form to be weak. A little out of shape maybe. Forty hours of pushing a mouse around every week for the last seven years will do that to a man. Your belly ends up getting a little rounder and you lose some of the tone that used to make your biceps as taut as piano wires. But out here on the streets, where violence could break out as easily as you might sneeze, every little advantage helped. So if there was any way I could make it seem like there might be an easier target then, by God, I was going to take it.
Still, I didn’t like being out in the open. I kept thinking that I heard someone’s footsteps running up behind me, imaging someone’s breath on the back of my neck, mistaking my own shadow for someone else’s. Every few seconds I stole a glance over my shoulder and felt a little of the tension in my shoulders release when I realized that the other people were still just standing on the sidewalk or were ducking into their own houses and apartments. So I continued walking. But within a few minutes I wondered: is that the echo of my own footsteps bouncing off the buildings? Or someone else’s? Someone trying to mirror my pace, to disguise the sound of their approach beneath my own little noises? And then the entire scene would replay itself like a bad loop film.
So that’s why I’m standing here now, glancing back and forth from the street ahead to the little alley to my left. The street has the advantage of being patrolled by police and soldiers; but there’s still no guarantee that I won’t be attacked. When the violence flares, the people taking part in it are like a packs of wild dogs. They pounce upon the victim with speed and cunning, their ferocity and the element of surprise helping to isolate their prey even further. I’ve seen this time and time again on news broadcasts and reality cop shows. One moment it’s just like any other day. Everything is quiet, life goes on as it always has. Next thing you know, a mob of people explode in a flurry of aggression, flailing with fists and feet and teeth and nails. If it’s not put down quickly, it grows like a force
