Free Filtered by G.K. Lamb Page B

staining, dark filth. The world feels different now and the exposed skin on my legs and neck begin to itch and burn.
    “Now this is the moment I want you to take with you the rest of your lives,” the Authoritarian says. “Inspector Aldridge, remove the cloth.”
    Aldridge obeys dutifully. Pulling the cloth off sends another cloud of ash into the air. When the ash settles, the box is plain to see. Made of glass, the cube contains a small orange cat.
    “Now witness what happens when you throw away all good advice and breathe in the air.”
    The Authoritarian turns, stepping past trembling Victoriana, and walks around the table. Standing behind the box, he leans forward placing his hands flat on either side of the box.
    “Cinnamon? What are you doing with my cat? Why are you doing this?”
    Victoriana’s words are distant and weak. They have no effect on the Authoritarian. Yesterday’s same remorse erupts inside me and threatens to topple me. With awesome speed he lifts up the box. Immediately the cat begins to cry, a terrible wail the likes of which I’ve never heard and never wish to hear again. Breaking into convulsions the poor cat begins to flop about violently. The assembly wavers and the soft whimpering cry of a hundred students fills the field. Victoriana falls to her knees. With her head in her hands she begins to wail.
    “Cinnamon! No! Stop this! I’m sorry for whatever I did, I’m sorry, just please don’t kill Cinnamon.”
    Victoriana’s pleas fall deafly on the Authoritarian’s unsympathetic ears. Cinnamon’s eyes begin to bulge. Bloody foam comes from her mouth with each ever-more-shallow breath. I can’t believe my eyes. I did this to her, I killed Victoriana’s cat. All because I couldn’t accept that the air outside really is dangerous and there is good reason to wear our masks. It doesn’t matter that I saw Delia without her mask. I should take the cat’s place in that box.
    I wish I could take the beatings and bruises Victoriana received and transfer them to myself. How could I have done this? Because of what Delia said? Because she piqued my curiosity? I have blood on my hands. Unable to look any longer, I turn my head away and stare off into the roots of the towering buildings all around us. Parked next to a diner across the road from the field, and shimmering an eerie silver in a city of black and grey, a large truck rumbles to life. Brushing off the lenses of my mask I look again to make sure I’m not seeing things.
    The truck appears to be a large canister. From the distance it’s impossible to determine the symbol on its side but it looks similar to the warning labels on the back of the cockroach poison Mother keeps under the kitchen sink. Walking out of the diner, I see the unmistakable profile of a Peace Officer. Carrying what must be leftovers in his hand he hops into the idling truck. As it drives quickly away, I’m left with a horrible sense of unease. I know what I just saw. There is no denying that Cinnamon is dead. But why beat Victoriana? Isn’t killing her pet enough? They’ve had us for eleven years and only now do they feel it’s necessary to give a demonstration? And for that matter why have they never done something like this on the news? You could get the whole city at once, not just a single twelfth-year class at a private school. The Authoritarian’s words echo painfully in my thoughts. “A mind that sees lies when staring at the truth can never be satisfied.” Is that me? Someone so convinced that what she sees isn’t real that she tries to justify it to herself even when she’s staring the gurgling, horrible truth in the eye? No, it doesn’t add up. That truck, the field, the news reports without photos. Something else is going on. I can see the soot, I understand that. But soot doesn’t cause a cat to flat-line in seconds. It doesn’t necessitate beatings if you question its lethality. My heart aches for Victoriana and Cinnamon, and if I could trade