An Honest Coward
Unstable Self
Nobody knew why they picked us. Sector Three wasn’t something we ever thought militia’d be interested in. No resources. No food. No sign of wealth or prosperity for miles. Just a bunch of crowded, barely-there flats lined up in crooked buildings with wheezing doors. Everyone got so cramped up, illness spread like wildfire. One person got sick, and by the end of the week, so was the whole neighborhood. Couldn’t even call it that. Sector 3 had been dwindled down to three buildings for shelter, a small version of the government-funded Liberty Market, and a Jacques Financial Center. Not that any of us used the bank. None of us had any goddamn money to put in it. Those of us who did any business did it in the night time by the dumpsters. Wasn’t the kind of business you could go speaking about. Nobody discussed it come morning, anyway.
Strangers didn’t exist in Sector Three, especially in the past three months. More and more people started disappearing… getting loaded onto trucks and taken to “new homes.” Leaving here for somewhere better. Never really believed the part about “a new home,” but the something better part… anything was better than here. Militia kept taking them away like cattle in train cars, ‘till their old flats held up vacant signs. 3,000 people gone, and the ones who hadn’t chosen to leave were the ones that starved or couldn’t afford doctors, leavin’ nothing behind but buildings that the rats and roaches took over. Old shops closed down. Sector Three was a ghost town by the first armed insurgency.
Three days. That was what I heard. Two guards laughed a little too loudly that night, and anyone living in the flat nearby knew they planned to clear the neighborhood out in three days. Then, they’d leave. Anyone who managed to survive wasn’t their problem. They’d reached their quota already, anyway.
What they didn’t plan on was that our flat building was old, real old. The League spent all their money building cities that hovered in the sky but didn’t bother checking what they left behind on the ground. The guy that built our flat, whoever he was, must’ve been a real conspiracy theorist. Either that, or he saw the third world war coming before it started, and he was ready. A hatch hidden below the carpeting on the first floor opened up to a concrete fallout shelter.
We stocked it for about two days, and we carefully spread the word to trusted friends. We could fit about sixty, rather uncomfortably, but we told everyone who couldn’t fit to check their buildings, too. Other than the food and water supply, the shelter already had four two-foot wide bunks. The two top bunks could fold out of the way if we weren’t using them, which freed up a lot of space. You could open the bottom two to store things like food and gear, both of which we’d smuggled in. It even had a small kitchen, a sink, and a composting toilet. A ladder was the only way in or out, save an emergency exit at the rear.
On the evening before their final day, we gathered below the floor and huddled up together. My whole building crammed themselves together. I sat packed between my girlfriend, Lizzy, and my younger brother, Michael, who at two years my junior was only 20.
Through a tiny window at the very top of the wall, blue turned into orange and eventually, almost black. Voices fell with the sun, and with the stars came the noisy rumbling of tanks rolling down the main road, accompanied by an infinite wave of marching feet. A clap of wet thunder shrieked through the air, followed by a moment of silence so thick you could cut it. One hand clutched the handle of my bat. The other clung to Lizzy’s. Michael squeezed my shoulder just before a bang shook the walls. Bits of the ceiling crumbled and scattered around our feet. The woman from down the hall began to whimper and tear up as the window glowed orange. The man beside her put his arm over her shoulders and covered her mouth with his hand.
Glass cracked somewhere far away. A duller bang echoed. Screams poured out of windows and doors as survivors took the streets. Their frantic feet pounded overhead, and their cries broke through the concrete. A couple of the smaller children who hadn’t already fallen asleep clung to their parents. The rest of tried to keep our heads down. I kept even my breath quiet. A lot rode on our silence. If we were heard, we were dead.
Shots rang out in the symphony of shrieks, pierced by curdled cries of the newly fallen right before they hit the ground. The stampede of footsteps grew softer and softer. One dull thump above marked it’s end. I swallowed and put my forehead on the end of my bat. The main entrance to the building creaked open, and Lizzy’s hand squeezed mine.
“Check for bunkers,” a deep voice said.
Footsteps spread across the length of the ceiling. A chain rattled. Something panted excited, thumping clawed feet against the floor. My palms were sweating. The bat grew slick in my grasp. Fifty-nine sets of eyes watched the hatch. Mine followed the approaching feet as they marched above us. I hoped the dog couldn’t sniff us out. I hoped the soldier checking the floor wouldn’t notice the subtle cuts in the carpet around the hatch.
His feet travelled past the entrance, then paced back. They stopped over my head.
“Ain’t nothin’ here, Lieutenant,” another voice shouted.
“You sure, private?”
“Affirmative, sir!”
A pause. Some feet shifted overhead. “Alright, boys,” the lieutenant said. “Let’s move out. Leave this shit hole to the mice.”
They were gone long before morning. We emerged with the sun, hoping to find some peace of mind, but all we found were bodies collapsed along the main road, flowing down like a river of death and dirt. Nobody came out of the other buildings.
We spent a week digging a grave out by the dried up lake. Spent another day piling the bodies in and covering up the memories of what happened here.
Strangers didn’t exist in Sector Three, especially in the past three months. More and more people started disappearing… getting loaded onto trucks and taken to “new homes.” Leaving here for somewhere better. Never really believed the part about “a new home,” but the something better part… anything was better than here. Militia kept taking them away like cattle in train cars, ‘till their old flats held up vacant signs. 3,000 people gone, and the ones who hadn’t chosen to leave were the ones that starved or couldn’t afford doctors, leavin’ nothing behind but buildings that the rats and roaches took over. Old shops closed down. Sector Three was a ghost town by the first armed insurgency.
Three days. That was what I heard. Two guards laughed a little too loudly that night, and anyone living in the flat nearby knew they planned to clear the neighborhood out in three days. Then, they’d leave. Anyone who managed to survive wasn’t their problem. They’d reached their quota already, anyway.
What they didn’t plan on was that our flat building was old, real old. The League spent all their money building cities that hovered in the sky but didn’t bother checking what they left behind on the ground. The guy that built our flat, whoever he was, must’ve been a real conspiracy theorist. Either that, or he saw the third world war coming before it started, and he was ready. A hatch hidden below the carpeting on the first floor opened up to a concrete fallout shelter.
We stocked it for about two days, and we carefully spread the word to trusted friends. We could fit about sixty, rather uncomfortably, but we told everyone who couldn’t fit to check their buildings, too. Other than the food and water supply, the shelter already had four two-foot wide bunks. The two top bunks could fold out of the way if we weren’t using them, which freed up a lot of space. You could open the bottom two to store things like food and gear, both of which we’d smuggled in. It even had a small kitchen, a sink, and a composting toilet. A ladder was the only way in or out, save an emergency exit at the rear.
On the evening before their final day, we gathered below the floor and huddled up together. My whole building crammed themselves together. I sat packed between my girlfriend, Lizzy, and my younger brother, Michael, who at two years my junior was only 20.
Through a tiny window at the very top of the wall, blue turned into orange and eventually, almost black. Voices fell with the sun, and with the stars came the noisy rumbling of tanks rolling down the main road, accompanied by an infinite wave of marching feet. A clap of wet thunder shrieked through the air, followed by a moment of silence so thick you could cut it. One hand clutched the handle of my bat. The other clung to Lizzy’s. Michael squeezed my shoulder just before a bang shook the walls. Bits of the ceiling crumbled and scattered around our feet. The woman from down the hall began to whimper and tear up as the window glowed orange. The man beside her put his arm over her shoulders and covered her mouth with his hand.
Glass cracked somewhere far away. A duller bang echoed. Screams poured out of windows and doors as survivors took the streets. Their frantic feet pounded overhead, and their cries broke through the concrete. A couple of the smaller children who hadn’t already fallen asleep clung to their parents. The rest of tried to keep our heads down. I kept even my breath quiet. A lot rode on our silence. If we were heard, we were dead.
Shots rang out in the symphony of shrieks, pierced by curdled cries of the newly fallen right before they hit the ground. The stampede of footsteps grew softer and softer. One dull thump above marked it’s end. I swallowed and put my forehead on the end of my bat. The main entrance to the building creaked open, and Lizzy’s hand squeezed mine.
“Check for bunkers,” a deep voice said.
Footsteps spread across the length of the ceiling. A chain rattled. Something panted excited, thumping clawed feet against the floor. My palms were sweating. The bat grew slick in my grasp. Fifty-nine sets of eyes watched the hatch. Mine followed the approaching feet as they marched above us. I hoped the dog couldn’t sniff us out. I hoped the soldier checking the floor wouldn’t notice the subtle cuts in the carpet around the hatch.
His feet travelled past the entrance, then paced back. They stopped over my head.
“Ain’t nothin’ here, Lieutenant,” another voice shouted.
“You sure, private?”
“Affirmative, sir!”
A pause. Some feet shifted overhead. “Alright, boys,” the lieutenant said. “Let’s move out. Leave this shit hole to the mice.”
They were gone long before morning. We emerged with the sun, hoping to find some peace of mind, but all we found were bodies collapsed along the main road, flowing down like a river of death and dirt. Nobody came out of the other buildings.
We spent a week digging a grave out by the dried up lake. Spent another day piling the bodies in and covering up the memories of what happened here.