Liberi Reader

One day, the adults came home early.

Mother and the other women of the house whispered in a corner. The men smoked in silence, until the entire room was filled with that acrid scent.

In between coughs, I ran around the living room, pretending to be a surveyor looking for new veins in a fog-filled valley.

Dad grabbed me by the collar and put me to bed.

I woke up earlier than usual the next day. I think I was trying to grab a can of soda while nobody was watching.

Grandma was sitting in the living room next to her luggage, She said she was going on a journey.

I pestered her to let me go with her. She could never say no to me. She said I could come a short way with her, then I had to go back home.

We saw a salt lake in the distance. It was a shallow one that only appeared in the rainy season, but it rained a lot that year. We couldn't see the other side of the lake.

Grandma told me that was as far as I could go. I said alright. She made me promise, like when she made me promise I would be a good boy when I first went to school.

But I wasn't a good boy anymore. I quietly followed her, hiding behind a bush when she got to the lakeside.

Grandma got onto a boat with a few people on it. They all had strange stones growing out of their bodies, and one of them was wrapped up in a blanket. The boatman turned on the engine.

I watched from the shore as the boat disappeared into the fog.

I was confused. Grandma didn't say anything to me on our way; it was like an ordinary picnic trip.

I was about to turn around, thinking about where I would have breakfast before going home, then I heard a sound like crystal shattering.

I turned around and saw Originium dust sprayed into the air, mixing with the fog, reflecting an eerie glow in the sun.

It was like a dream.

It was the best I ever did in school.

The sounds of the forest stopped. The flickering light shining through the shadows of the trees no longer moved.

Then, came the sound of lament and painful moaning.

Red's hands never stop, even as he complains, cutting away the bothersome vines.

We approach their position and see their flickering shadows through the sparse bushes.

Soldiers lie on the ground in exhaustion, hopelessly burying their heads amongst the falling leaves. The sergeant sits down on a rock, silently polishing his sword, the only weapon he has left.

'Stand Together.' Pretty words.

Of course we had to stand together. What other choice did we have?

But are the words 'stand together' so simple that we fail to appreciate their true meaning?

Oripathy changed all our lives equally, robbed us of our futures equally.

But is what is taken from a farmer who has to pay his taxes out of seeds stored for next year's planting equal to what is taken from a wealthy merchant with a safe full of pure gold?

When what we had to begin with was not equal, neither are the choices that survive deprivation.

Who are we really standing together with, then?

Talulah looks down at the pot she is stirring, serving bowl after bowl of hot porridge.

The steam from the pot obscures her vision.

I take the bowl of porridge from Talulah. She's very pale.

The young man gazes hungrily at the pot, his hand grabbing his own uniform tightly, perhaps out of nervousness, or trying to straighten it out to look more presentable.

Talulah puts a bowl of porridge before him.

I take the lighter and grab the hand trying to rip the buttons off.

He practically pours the food down his throat.

The soldier hurries to leave, grabbing the side of the pot with his one good hand and supporting the bottom with the limp arm, grimacing at the heat.

I reach into my pocket and dig out what I just got from the doctor.

I go up to him and put the vial of medicine in his pocket.

I stare at Talulah, who hardly reacts to my words. Her eyes are calm, unusually so.

Her soul is too weary, having seen too much. What has become of the woman who was once our leader?

Or had she uttered the same words before, and seen what came of them?

Of course it isn't.

Rhodes Island is a paradise of idealists. Me? A man who could only see what stands right in front of me.

The gain and loss right in front of me...

I heard the veteran guerilla fighters talk about the old days of the Reunion in the tundra, the ideals that everyone held.

'A city of the Infected, our home.'

Some of them thought it was just within reach. It was almost realized at Chernobog, but fell short in the end.

But I know the city of our dreams is still far, far away.

And how could a single city be enough?

What could a single city do?

There's an unsettling smell in the air.

The instruments show a high level of Active Originium. Not a good sign.

Was that a man under the tree?

No, it's a Victorian uniform, ripped almost beyond recognition, but somehow familiar. A sergeant's badge lies on the ground next to it.

A tiny music box sits a short distance away, covered in Originium dust, but still barely playing.

Percival walks slowly, humming along with the scattered music.