The Mammoth Book of Apocalyptic SF - Mike Ashley [146]
"In your company, sir ... "
"Yes?"
"Who didn't receive the vaccine?"
An assistant leaned close, whispering a few words.
The advice was waved off. "No, I want to answer this." The witness leaned close to his own microphone. "I've asked myself that same question, sir. I have. But my company has almost vanished. I insisted that my people were first to receive the vaccine, and that included our contractors. Most of us are already dead. That I'm alive is a small miracle. I can't count all of the suicides ... of friends and colleagues ... yet in all good conscience, I can't tell you that a few people haven't managed to slip away in the chaos ..."
The Senator considered his next question.
But the dying woman beside him rose to her feet. With a ragged, ugly voice, she asked, "But why? Even if it's as you claim, a small group trying to save the world —?"
"I didn't claim anything, madam. I'm just speculating."
Behind me, our mayor jumped to his feet, his squeaky voice ordering the television to be turned off.
"I don't care about the reasons," the Senator continued. "Reasons are excuses. This is a cruel, vicious assault on humanity, and believe me, whoever's responsible is taking great pleasure from our misery and terror."
The television went black.
I turned. Mom was standing beside the mayor. The crying was finished, replaced with the old steel mask that I knew by heart.
To the class, the mayor said, "Obviously, this is a very painful subject."
But we weren't crying. This was ten times easier than watching shaking people fighting over poison pills. My mother whispered something to the mayor, and he nodded and came forward, unfolding one of the green sacks leftover from the old grocery. The DVD was removed from the player. Then Mom helped collect every other disk, and while she carried the full sack out into the parking lot, the mayor explained that these items were going to be burned. The oldest kids were surprised, and our teacher seemed puzzled, even hurt. But to give the action purpose, he explained, "Yes, people did play a role in what happened. But what is important - what you need to remember, children - is that only the hand of God can move this world. No other force has such power or majesty. A judgment as enormous as the one we have lived through demands Our Father, and we should be thankful. He has given us the gift, this new Eden, and we are more blessed than any people to ever walk the earth."
With that, he retreated.
We soon smelled smoke, ugly black and probably toxic.
My teacher wandered to the front of the class, offering clumsy words of support for this disagreeable policy. Most of the students got busy making paper gliders and passing notes about small, fun nonsense. But I remained busy: closing my eyes while holding my breath, I wished that my mother would breathe in those fumes, grow sick and die.
Winston stands in the cold bright sunshine, hands at his side, eyes down and his mouth clamped shut, chewing hard at nothing. He isn't as red as I imagined, but it doesn't take any special skill to see the anger under his skin. Passersby want to talk to this newcomer, but they see his face and steer clear. Even a couple children approach and then think again, retreating past me, one asking the other, "What demon is in his heart?"
I put myself in front of Winston, and I wait.
He doesn't react.
Nobody else is close, just him and me standing in the open. I don't know what to say, but once I start talking, my mouth finds words and logic. I say, "Families," with easy scorn. I tell him, "Families aren't easy." Then I offer up a few curse words, laying the groundwork before admitting, "My mother was an extraordinary bitch."
He blinks, eyes focusing on me.
I wait.
He starts to turn away.
"What about your grandmother?"
I want him to look at me again, reacting to my open-ended question. But he avoids my eyes and the topic, big legs carrying him