“I don’t think that’s the wisest course of action.” Out of the crowd stepped an old black man wearing a moth-eaten tweed jacket and thick glasses. Before the pandemic, he’d been a respected professor of philosophy at a university in the Midwest; he was used to being heard and respected. “Violence only begets violence. Chaos leads to chaos. Only with harmony and understanding can we find long-term solutions. I’m sure if we take this matter up with the reverend and explain the situation, he’ll punish the guilty and make sure this doesn’t happen again. Or we can apply passive resistance, Gandhi-style. But armed resistance won’t solve the problem.”
There was a flurry of reactions for and against. Everyone talked at once.
Mendoza quieted everyone down and continued. “Professor Bansted, you’re one of the most levelheaded people in the ghetto, but this isn’t that college where you taught. This isn’t a student demonstration demanding better food in the cafeteria. It’s not even the same fucking world. We’re talking about saving our lives.”
“Our lives are valuable to the people on the other side of the Wall,” Bansted said, undeterred. “They need us to forage food, fuel, clothing, and medicine. They can’t survive without us!” The ancient professor crossed his arms.
A murmur of approval followed the old man’s words.
“That’s only half true, Professor,” Mendoza said. “First of all, not everyone in the ghetto goes out on reconnaissance. Children, the sick and the elderly—like you—are expendable in Greene’s eyes.” Bansted flinched. “Have you ever gone on a raid outside the walls? No. To them, you’re one more useless mouth to feed, like a lot of us. At any one time, Gulfport only needs about five hundred of us for the raids. A couple of thousand would be plenty. And more manageable.”
More arguments broke out.
“That’s just your opinion,” Bansted answered, stubbornly. “I lived through race riots in the sixties. If we’d taken up arms back then, the consequences would’ve been dire.”
“In those race riots, did they take hundreds of black people on a train somewhere and they never came back ever?” Mendoza asked bitterly.
The old professor paused, looked down, and then answered with a nearly inaudible “No.”
“We’re being exterminated, like the Jews during the Holocaust. That’s a fact, whether you like it or not.” There was dead silence. “We can do one of two things: go meekly to the slaughter or stand up and fight for our lives. The worst that can happen is we get killed. Either way, we’ll die.”
Many people nodded gloomily as their doubts evaporated.
“The Hour of the Just has come!” Mendoza thundered. “It’s time for justice and freedom to triumph over tyranny and oppression! It’s time to take control of our lives! It’s now or never, friends. Grab your weapons and let’s take the damn wall! Let’s burn Gulfport down! Let’s teach those fat, lazy white people a lesson they’ll never forget! Let’s fight for our freedom! Together!”
The people cheered and raised their fists in a wild, mad fever. Even the college professor was swept up in the excitement. Some jabbed the air with their knives, picturing the Green Guards they’d kill.
Over the cheers, a slow, mocking applause rang out. Every head turned toward the sound and fell silent. Standing next to the wall, Viktor Pritchenko clapped and smiled bitterly.
“Bravo!” he said, his voice dripping with irony, as he kept clapping. “That was one helluva speech. You surprised me. I didn’t think a two-bit thug like you had what it takes to lead a revolt. If you hadn’t nearly killed me a few hours ago, I’d even respect you. I’m impressed.”
“Got something to say, güero?” Mendoza replied, visibly upset.
“A couple of things.” Prit climbed up on the table with Mendoza. “First, you’re one hundred percent correct. Those racist pigs on the other side of the Wall want to kill you. And they’ll do it too. Second, your little revolution is doomed before it begins.”
“Whaddaya mean?” a woman demanded in a thick Southern accent. “We outnumber ’em, and we’re not afraid to die.”
“Actually, you don’t outnumber them,” the Ukrainian replied slowly. “There’s a lot more people on the other side of the Wall. They’re better fed, healthier, and, above all, better armed. Are you gonna attack the Green Guards and the militia with knives?”
“We’ve got guns.” Mendoza stuck out his chin, challenging Prit. “And there’re only about three hundred militiamen and Green Guards.”
“True,” said Prit, “but I’ll bet Greene could arm a couple thousand men the minute you attack. I was on the other side. I know what I’m talking about.”
An uncomfortable murmur spread through the room as the Ukrainian continued. “What weapons do you have? The Green Guards take your guns after a raid, right?”
“We’ve stolen some weapons,” said the tall Latino. “We find guns out on raids and sneak them back in the ghetto hidden among the supplies. I got a list.” He handed Prit a few handwritten pages.
Pritchenko flipped through the papers and let out a sarcastic laugh. “Just what I thought. You have a couple dozen assault rifles, some hunting rifles, even some antiques.” He stopped at one of the lines on the paper and looked in disbelief. “A tommy gun? Really? That’s what gangsters used back in the Roaring Twenties. Where the hell’d you get that? I gotta see it.”
“They kill, same as modern guns.” The man stood his ground.
“They don’t kill the same. Take my word for it.” He handed back the list, shaking his head. “On top of that, you don’t have enough ammunition for this hodgepodge. Ten minutes into the battle, you’ll be out.” He smiled wryly. “You gonna spit on them? Throw rocks? Very few of you have military training, including your leaders.” He turned to Mendoza, who was red with anger. “No offense, Gato.”
“We have the element of surprise,” Mendoza muttered angrily, ignoring Pritchenko’s taunts. “And we can seize ammunition from the Greens we kill.”
“Helluva plan,” Prit replied. “Now tell me how you plan to attack that concrete wall and the machine guns in those towers. You’re forgetting one important thing: Greene has control of the Cladoxpan. If your plan doesn’t work, he’ll cut off your supply and, in a couple of days, you’ll all turn into Undead. Truth is, he’s got you by the balls.”
“Not quite,” said a deep voice from the back of the room in very proper English.
Viktor Pritchenko stared, speechless, as Gunnar Strangärd walked through the crowd, waterlogged and frowning.
33
“What the hell…?” the Ukrainian stammered. “What’re you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” said the Swede and nodded politely to Lucia. “I’m glad to see you’re in one piece, my friend.”
“Not exactly in one piece,” Prit growled, pointing to his black eye and broken nose.
“A lot of people are worse off, believe me.” The Swede made his way through the crowd, waving to friends. He was clearly a familiar presence.
“Hello, Gunnar.” Alejandra planted a kiss on his cheek. “How’re you?”
“Hello, Ale. I’m glad to see you.” Strangärd sounded relieved. “What a nightmare!”
“Tell me about it,” the woman replied. “What’s happening on the other side of the Wall?”
“They’re getting ready to ship them off. We don’t have much time.” The Swede turned to Lucia and Prit with a grim look on his face. “I’m afraid I have very bad news. They’ve got your friend.”