The Protectors (2 page)

*******

Mother and I work the rest of the afternoon in the sewing room on her weekly quota after sharing a potato and a few leeks for lunch. The quota left little room for relaxation, though neither of us complain. We know we are better off than most others. Making and repairing the clothing was always difficult even with adequate materials; however, what the scavengers returned with lately was nothing more than old moldy curtains or rotting automobile seat covers. Even that would run out soon. Mother had told our Block Foreman that we would need to build looms and learn how to produce cloth and thread soon. That particular Old One is a coward though, too afraid to bring this information to the Protectors' attention.

We d
on't talk much, mother never one for conversation. I can tell the steady familiar tasks comfort her. After a few hours she tells me to take a break and then to go to my Afternoon Shift.

"I don't need a break," I sa
y. "I can keep working a little while longer."

Her sad eyes regard me kindly, "Everyone needs breaks and rest.
Especially young girls." She reaches out and touches my hand surprising me. Looking at her own offending hand she pulls it back as if embarrassed. "Go on now, Teal. I'll be able to finish up before dinner."

Not really needing
an afternoon break, I leave and walk slowly, careful to make sure none of the Protectors see me. They would resent my casual nature. On the other hand, it is also dangerous to report for duty early. Things like that made them suspicious and draw attention. I had learned from a young age to be as unobserved as possible.

T
he work schedule had me tending the goats on the south edge of town. This was an easy chore and my favorite duty. Much better than looking after the chickens, sheep, or cows. It also allowed me to pet the herding dogs and steal a few drinks of goat milk. Sometimes I could even fill one of the old plastic bottles with milk to take home if no one was watching too closely. No such luck today, Jonesy protected us. He was only a few years older than me and not one of the original Shriekers, only a Prospect, although he was one of the few who had advanced to the ranks of Protector. It was not that the young Protector was any more diligent in his guarding than others, quite the contrary, but he seemed to have a special interest in me lately. Maybe he wanted me to Take the Chit from him too, I think. I have a wild urge to tell him about Reaper's offer. Maybe I could get the two fighting over me. With any luck they would kill each other. I push the useless thought aside and walk into the field.

"
You're a little early today," says Jonesy with a smirk that only shows a single gap. "You must have missed me."

Realizing I
have arrived early despite my care, I look away, the best response I know. Making my way towards the milling herd of goats in the field, several of the dogs bark in greeting. They are a hodgepodge group of canines who take their duties seriously and had shown they were willing to die to protect their charge. Just last year Becky, one of my favorites, had died after fighting off a huge bobcat.

Rodney, the large Doberman
, runs up to me and I ruffle his head before I grab two pails. It is my responsibility, along with several other girls, to milk the goats and then lock them away in their pens for the night. Someone else would let them out to graze the next morning. The dogs would find their own way as they always did.

Three other girls
are there too. No one speaks. We simply divide the herd evenly as if by telepathy. That was one of grandfather's strange words, one I particularly like. Maybe that is how we are learning to communicate, I think. Sending and receiving messages without conscious awareness, like the flocks of birds that all turn in unison.

Simeon, the old dam
is giving me trouble. It's hard to milk the old goat when she's rubbing affectionately against me and trying to lick my face. I often find it odd that it is okay to get physical affection from an animal, but not humans. The Protectors would say that touch makes people love and love is forbidden. It was love that killed all of Newton's men they tell us.

"Hurr
y up girls," yells Jonesy.

I
peek in his direction and see that he is leaning back against a tree. No need to rush. I have time to finish milking and walk the full pails to the hand cart. Finishing the last two goats in my section, I trudge over and load the pails in beside the others and we cover them with old pieces of plastic sheeting to keep out the flies.

Jonesy
flicks his whip more for emphasis than effect, and I grab one of the front handles of the cart. Sarah, a girl who lives in the Dormitory takes the handle to my right. The remaining two girls will put the goats in their pen and then fall in behind us. We begin pulling the cart into town and Jonesy stays with us, probably believing his greater responsibility lies in making sure we don't sneak a drink of any of the goat milk.

"May we sing?" asks Sarah. Singing is normally frowned upon unless it is part of working.

Jonesy considers for a long moment and then nods. "Okay. Just knock it off when I say."

We begin to pull and after a minute Sarah launches into
a song we all know well with a beautiful tenor. I join her doing my best to provide harmony.

There was a Golden Age,

Many
a long year ago,

A
ll our life a stage,

A
nd the nights a 'lectric glow.

Our hearts were full to burst,

And we knew no loss or fear,

But then the earth was cursed,

And our lot was dirty tears.

The Plague took our life,

And destroyed all we'd built,

Men took up the knife,

And fought 'til blood was spilt.

Long were the dark dark years,

Where hunger stalked its own,

Then death was always near,

And we reaped as we'd sown.

But life is sweet and good,

And we are the lucky few,

Those left when all have stood,

And the old has turned to new.

Jonesy notices other workers coming our way down the road. He turns to tell us to "shut up", but before he can get the words out Sarah's voice rises in a loud clear anthem,

For we are alive, alive,

And he is alive, alive,

And she is alive, alive,

I am alive, alive!

"Hush," hisses
Jonesy slapping his whip across the back of the cart. "You damn girls don't say 'boo' until you get the chance to sing and then it's damn near enough to bring down what roofs are left."

I glance over at Sarah and I catch the barest hint of a smile.
Impressed at her daring I nod at her. It is a minor thing to do something we know the Protectors do not want, and gains little if anything, but it is a small victory.

And
it proves that we are capable of resisting, should we choose to do so.

T
hat we are indeed alive.

*******

The night is our only time of real freedom. The Shriekers used to check on us. Before the Treaty they even broke into homes at night. Now they leave us alone. We can hear the loud music and garish laughter in the distance if we listen. We consciously ignore it. None of us would ever laugh that way and wouldn't even want to. It was too overdone, almost a dare for something terrible to happen. We didn't need any dares for that.

Dinner
is the typical large kudzu salad topped with goat cheese and whatever nuts, berries, and home pressed oils we are able to find or make. It is the one meal where everyone typically gets to eat until they are full. The Protectors sneer at kudzu salad, but it is sweet and Grandpa says it's filled with nutrients. It also helps the little ones to sleep at night if their bellies are nicely satiated.

Most of the dark room is
filled with teenagers, small children and women, more than a hundred in all. The Chit Girls are serving duty at the Shrieker House, so we watch after the children of their unions. It is men that are noticeably absent. Those present are either old or maimed like Grandpa, allowed to live as an example. It makes me wonder again about my father was and if it really was Clay as some have whispered. Either that, or he was killed by the Shriekers like all the other men after the Rebellion. Most of me doubts this. Still, sometimes I cannot help it. I dream that he was a good man. True and wise and strong. Like Grandpa, but younger and not so sad.

There are
some adolescent boys around. When girls came Of Age they can Take the Chit. Boys have no choice, they are taken into the Shriekers as Prospects. Most end up working for them doing minor tasks. Some even make it to the level of Protectors eventually like Jonsey. A few are never seen again once they enter the Shrieker House.

Broily st
ands and we all fall quiet. It has been less than a year since the old man's right hand was chopped off by Clay. Broily had dared to write letters and arrange for them to be smuggled out of town by the few traders through Newton heading east. Grandpa said Broily was a fool to have written the letters at all. Everyone knew the Knights of the Watch were a myth, and even if they weren't, they would be unlikely to help the people of Newton.

"Tonight I will talk about
Before," Broily says dramatically as if this wasn't what he talked about every night at Remembering Time.

Unlike the other kids, I do
n't groan. The stories from Before are fascinating to me. Although it is always difficult to believe most of what the Sad Ones say about those times.

Broily
glares out over the dim tightly packed room and it becomes still. The old man commands respect because he is one of the few left who can read and write, although I'm pretty sure Grandpa can even if he won't admit it. The Sad Ones would have us believe that there was a time when nearly everyone could read. We know that can't be true.

"At
the End," says Broily, "we didn't know it was the End. This was before the plagues and the famine and the chaos. We had food to eat whenever we wanted and walked around without fear of someone whipping or killing us. It was an age of wonder. It was also an illusion."

Many of the Sad Ones nod. All of them had withdrawn into themselves
I see.

"Back the
n it was all about making money. Money is something you accumulate so you can buy other things you want," Broily explains.

"But you said you had all the food you wanted," sa
ys Ginny, a little girl in pigtails seated near Broily's feet.

He frowns
. "We did at that, but it was the money that allowed us to get the food. The point is we were able to get more than we needed, more food, more of anything. It was unbearable for us to consider we couldn't instantly have whatever it was we wanted. But it wasn't just us, it was everything. Money was the ends, not the means. This is what caused the Great Plague."

Some of the Sad Ones cough
reflexively at the memory.

"We had seasonal sicknesses every year,
pandemics. Little plagues if you will. They would sweep the globe and set off a panic for a few months before some big pharmaceutical company miraculously produced the perfect immunization or cure. The cure always worked, and it was always expensive. A little plague would vanish from the earth and we would have a reprieve until the next winter."

"Because they were making the plagues," yell
s out Little Eaton who has probably heard the story a dozen times already.

Broily sh
akes his head. "We didn't know that. It wasn't until the Great Plague that governments were able to prove this crime. By the time they shut everything down, it was too late." The old man remains silent for a moment, his jaw tight. "They called it T-path. Some scientists think it was a synthesis of Spanish Influenza and measles. Like Spanish Flu it took the strongest and left the young, old, and weak alone, something about using the body's immune system against itself. 'A work of art' one scientist described it on television before they knew the cure didn't work. I think they were even proud of T-path. Those brilliant minds in those laboratories were drunk on the power of creating and taking lives. There was no one to stop or even watch them, just as long as the profit margin remained in the black. Competition was growing fierce among the pharmas, sometimes we had two or three little plagues a year. We'd buy the cure they produced in their laboratories and go on back to our oblivious lives."

"But the cure didn't work on T
-path," I whisper surprising myself.

"They waited too long," continue
s Broily not hearing me. "I'm sure there was some sort of marketing formula for the best time to release the cure for highest profits. Typically it was at the point of maximum worldwide press coverage to optimize the publicity of the cure. Usually that meant several million dead, but T-path was different. By the time the cure was introduced, the original contagion had mutated, the cure didn't work. The irony is that those who caught the original T-path, and received the immunization, had immunity to the T-path 4, Red T-path, and Cromel's mutations. The problem was that the T-path mutations inherited the originally designed T-path long gestation period. This was in order to spread the contagion to as many people as possible before that person became obviously sick, and thus increase exposure and subsequent profits."