We move down a street that goes between two large buildings that are ten stories high. Men stand on the streets, gathered in clumps. These are the workers who no longer hold any value, according to my father, because their jobs were destroyed with the fire.
They do not move as we approach. Some who stand along the narrow sidewalk stare at us. The carriage slows and my father looks ahead at the street. Instead of moving out of the way, more men move into the center of the street, as if they want to block us. This is not good, not good at all.
“Do not stop.” Findley quickly evaluates the situation and speaks into the driver’s ear. The carriage chugs on and more men mill into the street. One pounds on the side of the carriage, then another. The tide slowly parts and they run alongside, yelling obscenities.
“Shiner whore!” I am shocked and sickened by the slur. How can they judge me when they know nothing about me? Yet they have been taught to hate me and blame my people for the fire that ravaged the dome. Before I have time to respond, something strikes my father in the shoulder and falls between us. More things fall, smelly and sticky things. They splash in my hair and down my side. I gag when I realize it is from a slop bucket. Someone from above tossed it out, and from the trash that follows I know it is deliberate. My father’s face is incredulous with disbelief. Findley jumps to his feet and leans over us, bracing his hands on the back of the seat between us to give us shelter from the stuff that rains down around us.
“Move it!” he yells at the driver. I peer around Findley’s body to see a scrum of men around the carriage, beating on it with their fists. One man dares to climb up the side. He grabs onto my hair and pulls. I scream in pain and wrap my hand in my hair to keep it from being torn out by the roots. The guard behind me smashes the butt of his rifle into my attacker’s face, and I hear a sickening crunch of bones as the man falls away.
The carriage cannot move. For every inch it creeps forward, it is pushed back by the steady tide of bodies. I hear the strain of the engine as it fights against impossible odds. The men pound on the side and then suddenly they become organized and push. The carriage stands so high that we are top heavy.
“For God’s sake shoot them before they tip us,” Findley yells. The carriage lurches to the right so hard that the guards grab onto the sides to keep from being pitched out into the mob. The madness of the crowd lets me know that if any of us fall out or are dragged off we will be brutally killed. I slide down in my seat until I am completely sheltered by Findley, who is doing his best to protect us. The angry screams from above make me fear for his safety as larger and harder objects now shoot down from the windows. He flinches in pain when an iron kettle hits his back and crashes to the floor of the carriage.
The guards right themselves and shoot. Screams of pain rise over the angry shouts of the mob.
“Run over them if you have to,” Findley yells. He decides that moving is of more importance than protecting my father and me. He opens his seat to reveal a cache of weapons. He grabs a thick club and swings it without mercy at those who are pushing on the carriage. Finally the carriage moves and moves quickly. A sickening lurch to one side informs me that we have, indeed, run over someone. More things are thrown at us as we chug hurriedly down the street.
“Send a squad to take care of that as soon as we return,” my father barks out as he brushes debris from his uniform.
“Yes, sir,” Findley replies as he sits down. He looks at me. “Are you hurt?”
I quickly give myself a mental inventory. I am shaken, but otherwise unharmed, except for my pride and the stench that surrounds us. “I am okay,” I say. Findley looks at me in confusion. “I’m unhurt,” I clarify with a half smile. I cannot help but notice that Findley is more concerned for my welfare than for my father’s; his face is flushed a deep red and his jaw stretched so tight that I fear his teeth may crack. He is angry and I fear his retribution will be swift and deadly.
Even though my life was at risk, I do not fault the men who attacked us. They are frustrated with their current lot, and my father’s tour was like rubbing salt in their wounds. How many more incidents like the one we just survived will have to happen before my father can be convinced that his way is no longer what is best? Will his pride keep him from doing what is right?
I think his pride will end all of us.
The carriage moves on. I feel the engine strain as the driver forces it to its limit. It doesn’t move nearly as fast as the steam cycles the Hatfields use. We move into an area of the dome that I am familiar with. These are the streets that I walked every morning after my shift. Except now, there is something different about them. One of the buildings is tilted and I realize we have to be near the hole caused by the explosion.
“Stop!” I say. My father huffs impatiently but I ignore him. I jump up and climb over the side of the carriage before anyone has time to react. I hear the carriage screech to a halt as I take off at a run. I know Findley is following me, but I don’t care. It is not as if I can get away. I just want to see. I need to see what is down below. A small part of me thinks that someone could still be alive down there and trying to escape.
Barriers are set around the boundaries of the large chasm. Everything around it has toppled into the hole. I approach the edge and peer down. The roaring of water fills my ears as it echoes strangely around the debris that forms a tottering tower.
“Do you think there were any people in the buildings when they collapsed?” I ask Findley as he jogs up to join me. I notice he is breathing hard and I can’t help but smile in satisfaction. My lungs are clean, or at least they were when I came inside. I had no trouble running at all. The benefits of living outside are now too numerous to mention.
“There were,” he says. “Some got out. Some didn’t.”
“Were you there?” He has to know I am talking about the bluecoats who came into the tunnels with their flamethrowers. “Were you a part of it?”
“Would it make a difference to you if I was?”
I turn to look at him. His face is as impassive as usual, but there is something in his eyes that I have never noticed before. A need? Doubt? I do not answer his question, instead I repeat. “Were you there?”
He looks down at the chasm. If there were people in the buildings, then they are still there, crushed among the brick, timber, and mortar that stand as a silent monument. How long before the river undermines it and it crumbles and falls? Will the remnants of the dome become part of the world beneath? Will it dam the water and create new tunnels? Or will it all crumble and fall in upon itself, obliterating both of our worlds?
Findley finally answers me. “I was not.” I am surprised to feel that his answer does make a difference. Relief washes over me. “I was actually outside when it happened.”
“Outside?” Now I am curious. “Doing what?”
He suddenly grabs my arm and jerks me about.
“What are you doing?” I try to wrench my arm away but his grip is strong.
“We wouldn’t want anyone to think we are getting too chummy now, would we?” I see the carriage now. It just turned the corner and my father is standing inside it, watching us. “You need a good washing.” Findley adds.