Free Breaking Point by Kristen Simmons Page B

the fallen cities who’d come here for help or pity. They huddled together against the gusting wind to conserve energy. The last time I’d been here, Sean had been inciting a riot, but now the place was as somber as a funeral. With the MM’s lockdown on rations, there was little to do but starve.
    I glanced back, but the soldiers weren’t following. We passed the abandoned shops filled with squatters. Passed the large painted sign over an empty store that read: SEVEN P.M. WORSHIP SERVICE—MANDATORY. I remembered the church I’d made us go to back home after we’d received an Article 1 citation for failure to observe the national religion. While I gave our names to the church recorder, my mother would steal cookies from the welcome table.
    The way cleared for Chase; no one looked at us twice.
    I turned left, focusing on Chase’s heels. On the sidewalk before me a group crowded around a rain barrel, fishing out the cloudy liquid with a peeling, tin cup, fastened to the wood by a metal chain. Most bore the signs of malnourishment. Hollowed cheeks. Ashy skin. In contrast, their bodies looked bloated, loaded by layer upon layer of clothing. Trust ran thin these days; any possession left unattended was fair game.
    A skin-and-bones tenant broke from the pack and approached me, sunken eyes searching hungrily over my disguise. A girl’s summer dress fringed out beneath his holey sweater, and for a fleeting moment I thought of the Statutes that had been hammered into my brain at the Girls’ Reformatory. Wearing clothes inappropriate for your gender could mean an Article 7 violation.
    I prepared myself for recognition, panicked that the unveiling would not occur on our terms.
    “You got any food, Sister? It’s been two days.…”
    He didn’t know who I was. I found myself both relieved and disappointed.
    When my escort backtracked, the man slumped and scurried back into the anonymity of the makeshift shelters. I wiped my sweating palms on my pleated navy skirt, then squeezed a single finger along the tight collar of my button-up blouse.
    “Not yet,” Chase said under his breath. He tilted his head toward a unit of soldiers standing outside a cleared area contained by yellow caution tape. The cement within that circle was stained red and black. The table where the soldiers had signed people up for the draft was broken in the center, and painted a sticky burgundy that attracted particles of dust and leaves. The MM had left it there in defiance of what had happened, as if daring a civilian to celebrate the death of a soldier.
    Behind it, against the side of a building were three single lines grouped together, painted in the same neon green as the Save Us Sniper sign.
    A bell resounded from the back of the Square, startling me. Though most people had given up on breakfast, it seemed there were to be some rations after all. With renewed energy, the starving sprang from the bricks, and stampeded toward the soup kitchen lines.
    I ducked out of the way of a sprinting family, and aimed for a silver bus in the opposite direction, where volunteers could donate blood in exchange for rations vouchers. It was parked sideways between two buildings, marking the entrance of Tent City, just as Sean had said. A CLOSED sign hung low enough to have been spat upon multiple times.
    We followed the length of the bus to a large Dumpster, overflowing with the last bits of trash that people couldn’t use for shelter or warmth: broken glass, damp paper, and food too long gone to provide any nutrition. It smelled rank, like mold and vomit. My nose scrunched up involuntarily.
    Hidden in a nook between the bus, the building, and the trash was the rendezvous point, and a quick scan told me that we were the first to arrive.
    “Sean should be here by now.” My heels tapped impatiently. Chase’s gaze darkened, and I followed it to the bus window where five printouts had been posted.
    John Naser, aka John Wright. Robert Firth. Dr. Aiden Dewitt. Patel