In The Afterlight
Page 139
It was a sight I hadn’t seen in eight years: President Gray standing at a podium in front of the crest of the White House. He smiled so generously that dimples appeared on his cheeks. He waved—beckoned—to someone out of the camera’s frame and, this time, the room full of reporters and cameras in front of him burst into sound as a pale-haired woman stepped up beside him, dressed in an immaculate suit. Dr. Lillian Gray.
“I’ve never been one to bury the lede, have I?” President Gray laughed. The First Lady disappeared into the fevered flashing of the cameras; the furious clicking of camera shutters would have put any machine gun to shame.
“It’s good to be home in Washington again, to be back in this room with all of you, and with my beautiful wife. She’s alive and well, contrary to wild speculation.”
Nervous laughter in response.
“Her appearance here means that, at long last, I can tell you that our prayers have been answered and we now have a safe treatment that will rid American children of the psionic disorder forever,” he said.
More rumblings from the press, more camera flashes. The kids around me had been trained too well to react outwardly beyond startled gasps of their own, or quick, covert glances at each other. The majority of them just sat there in disbelief.
“For years, Lillian has stayed out of the public eye so as to conduct research on this exact subject. It has remained confidential only to avoid interference from the former terrorist group, the Children’s League, and other domestic enemies. While we are continuing to seek out the cause of this tragic affliction, please rest assured that all children will be able to undergo this life-saving operation. Detailed information about the procedure is being distributed to you now.”
A few reporters tried to leap in with questions, shouting Lillian’s name; trying, I guess, to coax her to the microphone. Instead, she found a patch of carpet to stare at. Whoever had dolled her up had also managed to vacuum the life out of her.
“As you’ll see from the footage and reports we’ve included, our own son, Clancy, was the first to receive this procedure.”
A wave of dizziness passed over me as another form was walked out onto the stage beside them by a man in a dark suit. His head had been shaved and covered with a baseball hat decorated with the presidential seal. He kept his face turned down and out of sight, denying the cameras in front of him a shot until the president leaned away from the microphone and said something to him. His shoulders hunched, Clancy finally lifted his head. He reminded me of a horse on the ground, leg broken under it; never able to stand again, let alone run.
With all of the terrible things he’d done, and all of the terrible things I had imagined doing to him, never had this come to mind. I was shocked by the swell of emotions that rose in me, all of them too close, too wild for me to distinguish one from another. I felt sick.
He trembled, looking smaller by the moment as his parents kept their smiles plastered on their faces, giving the reporters what they wanted: a family portrait. How perfectly, I thought, have these people drawn Clancy into his own worst nightmare.
“You’ll remember that he came out of the camp rehabilitation program several years ago. Unfortunately, like with any disease, there are relapses; and this is one of the reasons why we have not felt comfortable releasing the children from these camps. We needed a more permanent solution, and we believe we have found it. There will be more information to come in regards to a timeline of when the procedure will start being performed, and a likely end date for the camp rehabilitation program. I ask you, knowing already how much you’ve sacrificed and suffered these long years, for more patience. For understanding. For your belief in the future we’re about to enter—one that will see the reemergence of our prosperity and way of life. Thank you, and God bless the United States of America.”
Before the first avalanche of questions could sweep up and knock him off his feet, President Gray hooked his arm around Lillian’s shoulders, gave a friendly wave to the cameras, and guided her off the stage and out of the room before she could get a single word in.
The video ended, frozen on that last image. I felt trapped in that moment, too.
No, I thought. Remember why you came here. Now. Do it now.
Our PSF escort signaled for us to stand and begin re-forming our line to receive our meals, her face creased with impatience. The surprise video had put me off my original plan, but it was easy enough to pick up the pieces and reassemble them in working order. We were near the kitchen, shuffling forward, when I felt the eyes of the PSF on me.
I shoved Sam, knocking her to the ground. And if that wasn’t enough to dry up every small sound around us, me shouting, “Shut up! Just—shut up!” to her did. My voice whipped through the silence, landing like a blow across her confused face.
Play along, I begged, flashing her a look. Please.
A small nod. She understood. I lifted my arm, as if to strike her, ignoring the way Vanessa tried to catch my wrist to prevent it. The hardest thing was not reacting to our PSF as she came toward me, crossing the distance between us in furious strides. This was more than enough to get me punished.
More than enough to get me ejected from dinner.
The girls around us kept their heads down, but their fear and confusion polluted the air around me as the woman caught me by the collar and hauled me away. O’Ryan and the other camp controllers disassembling the projector and screen didn’t even look up at the scuffle.
I didn’t have to suggest anything to the PSF to get her to drag me into the kitchen. The Blue kids scrubbing the pots and pans under blistering water jumped. Several that were sorting the ingredients for the next day’s meals turned, momentarily distracted from their work. I searched the ceiling for the black cameras, counting them off as I went—two, three. One above the serving window; one near the large pantry; another over the long stainless-steel work table, where several of the kids were peeling the potatoes we’d only just pulled from the Garden.
“I’ve never been one to bury the lede, have I?” President Gray laughed. The First Lady disappeared into the fevered flashing of the cameras; the furious clicking of camera shutters would have put any machine gun to shame.
“It’s good to be home in Washington again, to be back in this room with all of you, and with my beautiful wife. She’s alive and well, contrary to wild speculation.”
Nervous laughter in response.
“Her appearance here means that, at long last, I can tell you that our prayers have been answered and we now have a safe treatment that will rid American children of the psionic disorder forever,” he said.
More rumblings from the press, more camera flashes. The kids around me had been trained too well to react outwardly beyond startled gasps of their own, or quick, covert glances at each other. The majority of them just sat there in disbelief.
“For years, Lillian has stayed out of the public eye so as to conduct research on this exact subject. It has remained confidential only to avoid interference from the former terrorist group, the Children’s League, and other domestic enemies. While we are continuing to seek out the cause of this tragic affliction, please rest assured that all children will be able to undergo this life-saving operation. Detailed information about the procedure is being distributed to you now.”
A few reporters tried to leap in with questions, shouting Lillian’s name; trying, I guess, to coax her to the microphone. Instead, she found a patch of carpet to stare at. Whoever had dolled her up had also managed to vacuum the life out of her.
“As you’ll see from the footage and reports we’ve included, our own son, Clancy, was the first to receive this procedure.”
A wave of dizziness passed over me as another form was walked out onto the stage beside them by a man in a dark suit. His head had been shaved and covered with a baseball hat decorated with the presidential seal. He kept his face turned down and out of sight, denying the cameras in front of him a shot until the president leaned away from the microphone and said something to him. His shoulders hunched, Clancy finally lifted his head. He reminded me of a horse on the ground, leg broken under it; never able to stand again, let alone run.
With all of the terrible things he’d done, and all of the terrible things I had imagined doing to him, never had this come to mind. I was shocked by the swell of emotions that rose in me, all of them too close, too wild for me to distinguish one from another. I felt sick.
He trembled, looking smaller by the moment as his parents kept their smiles plastered on their faces, giving the reporters what they wanted: a family portrait. How perfectly, I thought, have these people drawn Clancy into his own worst nightmare.
“You’ll remember that he came out of the camp rehabilitation program several years ago. Unfortunately, like with any disease, there are relapses; and this is one of the reasons why we have not felt comfortable releasing the children from these camps. We needed a more permanent solution, and we believe we have found it. There will be more information to come in regards to a timeline of when the procedure will start being performed, and a likely end date for the camp rehabilitation program. I ask you, knowing already how much you’ve sacrificed and suffered these long years, for more patience. For understanding. For your belief in the future we’re about to enter—one that will see the reemergence of our prosperity and way of life. Thank you, and God bless the United States of America.”
Before the first avalanche of questions could sweep up and knock him off his feet, President Gray hooked his arm around Lillian’s shoulders, gave a friendly wave to the cameras, and guided her off the stage and out of the room before she could get a single word in.
The video ended, frozen on that last image. I felt trapped in that moment, too.
No, I thought. Remember why you came here. Now. Do it now.
Our PSF escort signaled for us to stand and begin re-forming our line to receive our meals, her face creased with impatience. The surprise video had put me off my original plan, but it was easy enough to pick up the pieces and reassemble them in working order. We were near the kitchen, shuffling forward, when I felt the eyes of the PSF on me.
I shoved Sam, knocking her to the ground. And if that wasn’t enough to dry up every small sound around us, me shouting, “Shut up! Just—shut up!” to her did. My voice whipped through the silence, landing like a blow across her confused face.
Play along, I begged, flashing her a look. Please.
A small nod. She understood. I lifted my arm, as if to strike her, ignoring the way Vanessa tried to catch my wrist to prevent it. The hardest thing was not reacting to our PSF as she came toward me, crossing the distance between us in furious strides. This was more than enough to get me punished.
More than enough to get me ejected from dinner.
The girls around us kept their heads down, but their fear and confusion polluted the air around me as the woman caught me by the collar and hauled me away. O’Ryan and the other camp controllers disassembling the projector and screen didn’t even look up at the scuffle.
I didn’t have to suggest anything to the PSF to get her to drag me into the kitchen. The Blue kids scrubbing the pots and pans under blistering water jumped. Several that were sorting the ingredients for the next day’s meals turned, momentarily distracted from their work. I searched the ceiling for the black cameras, counting them off as I went—two, three. One above the serving window; one near the large pantry; another over the long stainless-steel work table, where several of the kids were peeling the potatoes we’d only just pulled from the Garden.
