Free The Occupation of Emerald City: The Worker by Ken Brosky Page B

and men
wearing gray slacks and heavy gray coats are taking away the rubble, tossing
everything into massive red pickup trucks.
    They’re foreigners.
    That doesn’t make sense. The Unity government has strict laws
against hiring foreigners. They’re not liked. Workers don’t want to compete
with the cheap labor from Asia. So what are they doing here?
    “They’re putting up a wall,” Joshua mutters.
    “To keep themselves in or to keep people out?” I ask. I don’t
expect an answer.
    The soldier gives a wave to the guards stationed behind the
concrete barrier at the intersection of 13 th and A Street. They wave
back, keeping the massive mounted machine gun lowered as we pass. The soldier
stops at the intersection.
    “Be careful of stray bullets,” he says, and turns away.
    “Stray bullets?” Joshua asks.
    We cross the first street and suddenly the white concrete
wall of the building on the corner explodes into powder and the pop-pop of
machine gun fire penetrates my ears and rumbles through my chest. I drop onto
the street along with Joshua and Blue Eye, scraping both hands on the concrete.
    The gunfire stops. I look at the building and see fist-sized
chunks torn out, lying on the sidewalk. There are a couple dozen holes and the
wide green-tinted window on the first floor is broken in one corner. I turn
back to the soldiers. They’re standing behind the sandbags, laughing. Hot smoke
pours out of the barrel of their machine gun.
    “Fuck you!” Joshua screams, getting up on his knees. “Fuck
you!”
    He stands and for just a brief moment, he looks like he’s
going to walk back across the street, toward the soldiers. They’re still
laughing. I grab Joshua by the arm and turn him around, pulling him onto the
sidewalk.
    “Fuck you!” he screams again, pulling hard on my arm. “You
could have fucking killed someone in that building!”
    I tighten my grip, pulling him forward. Blue Eye follows, humming
quietly, looking at the sidewalk.
    “Are you insane?” I ask Joshua. “What makes you think they
won’t just lock us right back up? Or worse?”
    “They’re playing with us,” Joshua says. His face is red.
“They’re having fun. Haven’t we been through enough?”
    “Suffering is an honor,” Blue Eye says.
    I let go of Joshua’s arm and the three of us walk down the
sidewalk. It’s littered with brown leaves and brown pieces of paper. There’s a
lot of garbage next to the curb: soda bottles, food wrappers whose colors have
faded. There’s snow near the trunks of the trees lining the sidewalk but it’s
all melting fast.
    “I was hoping god boy would be a good luck charm,” I say to
Joshua.
    Joshua grunts, half-smiling. It’s a start.
    “We only need God,” Blue Eye says. “No luck is necessary
anymore.”
    “I wish I had your faith,” I tell him.
    “You can!” he says. “Oh, you can. Come to our church on C
Street. It’s a Christian neighborhood now, so you’ll be safe from the
insurgency. Michael Werth is our pastor and he has food and clothing. You need
that, don’t you?”
    “I don’t know,” I say. I glance back at the guards, hunkered
behind the chest-high barrier, the older of the two clutching the handles of a
machine gun that looks like it could cut down a tank. I turn back to Blue Eye.
The center of the eye patch has begun to soak through. Red blood seeps into the
tiny openings of the gauze, spreading like an oil spill over the white surface.
    “This isn’t the world you left.”
    His words send a shiver down my spine. I look down the empty
street ahead. There’s a massive pothole in the concrete, like a crater on the
moon. The trees running along the boulevard are nearly bare. The sidewalks are
cracked in places.
    “The Muslims will try to take over the new government,” Blue
Eye says. “They’re taking over neighborhoods. They’re murdering people. You’re
not safe alone.”
    “Maybe there’s something of the old world left,” I say.
    “Then come find us when