Black Mould - Thirty-Seven - The Price of Protest
“What happened?” I asked.
My mom ran over to me, grabbed me by the shoulders, then hugged me.
I loved her. She was a good mother. A bit of a nag, sometimes, and she had some bite to her, but she cared. She was never too physically affectionate though. The hug was hard, almost painful. I hugged back and pretended not to hear the tears in her voice. “I need to go,” she said.
“The factory,” she said. “Your father’s. There was… he joined the protests. I told him not to, but he did.” She choked on nothing, and I pulled her in closer.
“Okay,” I said. “Was he arrested?”
“I don’t know. I just heard they were being shot, rounded up.”
My blood went cold. “Where is it?” I asked.
She hesitated, searching for an answer, then she found her spine. I watched her eyes harden and her back straighten. “I think I know where they’ll be,” she said.
I followed after her. There was a moment where she insisted that I stay home, but I wasn’t about to just stay back. If she left without me, I’d just follow her in a minute, and there was nothing she could do about it. She gave up quickly enough.
I’d never gone to my dad’s workplace. I knew he was a mechanic, that he worked to maintain some big machines. He bragged about his work often, about how hard it was and how few mechanics there were who could do what he could. I always wondered why he didn’t earn more, if his position was so hard to fill.
Mom knew exactly where to go. I followed her up a few levels, then across the slums. We headed towards the Gutter, then veered off before hitting that big road that followed next to the river. The slums gave way to equally dirty factories. Hundreds of them pressed in close to each other, with only the occasional warehouse between them.
Everything was a bit of a blur. We were moving fast, not taking in the sights.
I wanted to know how Mom had learned that something was going on. She wasn’t usually home so early. There were lots of people out on the streets, and I thought that maybe that had something to do with it. Had other factories closed early?
Most of the people out on the streets were milling around on the edges. Men, women, children, all of them in raggedy dresses and overalls, with enough soot and coal dust on them to warm a house for a year.
I jogged after Mom, keeping up as she started to walk faster.
The road ahead was blocked.
Two carts and an actual car, turned so as to make it impossible to cross. Bullies were swarming around the place, batons in hand, faces grim. The rightful source is novel⦿fire.net
Mom walked right up to one of them who was directing people away. “My husband’s over there,” she said.
“This area’s blocked off,” he said.
“But my husband, Roger, he’s that way, please,” she said.
“I said, area’s blocked off.”
I slipped up next to Mom and caught the officer’s eye. “Is Dada hurt?” I asked.
His grim, no-nonsense face cracked for a moment. “Who’s your husband?
Mom stepped up to him, hands worrying together. “His name’s Roger. He works for Caza Textiles, Factory Seventy-Two.”
The Bully rubbed at his chin, then with a sigh, he pointed off to the side. “I heard some Union Rats were pulling the wounded over to a warehouse one block over. Just the wounded and some women to tend to them. A few of Galen’s folk too. Officer in charge told us to leave well enough alone.”
“Thank you, thank you,” Mom said. She pinched my hand in hers and we shot off to the side. The factories might have been squeezed in close to each other, but most had alleyways, and Mom seemed surprisingly adept at navigating across the busy yards.
I didn’t have time to notice much before we found the place the Bully had mentioned.
The warehouse was a dingy old thing, tin walls that had gone to rust along the base, with more than a few layers of paint that had all peeled off in the sun. The warehouse was guarded. A few women stood on the outer corners, looking mean and welding pans.
Mom and I moved towards the entrance. I could hear moaning, the deep voices of men in pain. Someone screamed and then someone else pulled the warehouse’s door closed from within.
Our path was blocked as a young woman stepped up before us. “Who’re you?” she asked.
My mom was breathing faster than our jog merited. “My husband, Roger, he worked at Caza’s.”
Understanding flashed in the young woman’s eyes. “What did you say his name was?” she asked.
“Roger. He’s tall. Red hair.”
The woman nodded. “Alright. Might want to leave the child outside.”
“I’m coming,” I said.
I think the lack of give in my voice was clear enough. She didn’t protest, but the look she gave me said ‘it’s on you’ without using so many words. A knock on the warehouse door later and we were let in.
The place didn’t have electrical lighting. Instead, kerosene lamps were hanging off pillars or just laying on the floor. They filled the room with flickering yellow-white light and that familiar burning smell. It was better than the scent of shit and blood that was working to overpower my nose.
People were placed on the ground in rows with half a pace between them. Someone had found enough blankets so that they weren’t just on the cracked cement ground, but it wasn’t much. At least the blankets were soaking up the blood.
I had the advantage of being a twenty-first century person. I’d seen movies and games and actual war footage. I had seen more horror than anyone in this world would see in three lifetimes, but it had all been detached, from afar and through a screen.
The movies didn’t have the smell. The screams didn’t sound this unneringly real.
I clung to my mom’s hand, feeling my age for the first time in a while.
“Roger?” Mom started. She walked along the rows. A pair of men were moving some people over and tossing them onto a pile in the corner. The dead. There were lots of them.
What the fuck had happened?
Was Dad in that pile?
I noticed a pair of nurses moving from person to person. They had tags that they’d tie to the legs of the injured. A few women without the uniforms were pressing bandages and wet cloth against seeping wounds.
There were maybe a dozen of them for the five-dozen injured. Why weren’t there more people helping? Where were the doctors, the EMTs?
Some of the injured weren’t being helped at all. They all had black tags. I saw a man cough, gurgle, then stop. By the time we walked past the two men were at the body, picking it up.
Red tags for people that could be helped, green for those that were able to help themselves. Black for the rest. It was simple. It was awful.
We found Dad near the end of the room.
He had a black tag around his leg. His only leg.
The other ended below the knee. There was a belt—not his own—pulled far tighter than was sensible around his thigh.
“Roger!” Mom wailed. She fell onto him, touching his face, his chest.
He was pale. His eyes searched the ceiling, then fell onto Mom. He smiled. His hand reached out and he touched her face. She grabbed it.
The leg wasn’t the only injury. Only the one arm was moving. He was sweaty, shirt clinging to his chest.
I fell next to Mom. My knees hurt, but I forgot that. The squish against my overalls as they became wet with Dada’s… no.
He blinked, his attention wavered, then he looked at me. His smile turned sad. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wanted what was right. I wanted it to be fair. For you. Both of you.”
“Dada? What happened? Are you okay?”
Stupid. Stupid questions. I knew.
He jerked his arm. I think he wanted to reach to me, but Mom was clinging onto him. She was crying in an ugly way.
Another body was moved by us. Someone cursed. Someone else whimpered, like a dog that’d been kicked.
“I love you,” he said to Mom. “My blue-eyed Tessa.”
“No,” Mom said. “No no, don’t, Roger. Don’t.”
I knelt there. I’m not sure if I could see. Not until the two men came and stood awkwardly nearby.
One of them touched the other. “There’s other bodies, we can come back for this one,” he said.
Something in me twitched, stretched, then broke.
I clung to my mom and screamed.