Throb of the rotors vibrated the world like he was enclosed
in a metal box, painting the whole landscape mechanical. Three of the gunships hovered
without movement. Sad sweeps of light tenderly poked through the trees. The
girl next to him still had dirt behind her ears. Puss leaked from her nose
where the tubes had been removed. Others of the God’s Children were scattered
around the trees. Any movement they made and they would be revealed. To be
revealed is to be obliterated. A blood mist mixed with tree chips. Slurry to
pollute the streams. He had seen it many times before.
A babble of voices streamed through the trees. Strung up
loud speakers were giving lectures from the mayor. His ever-changing book in
newer and newer editions. All God’s Children were taught to hate the book. Now you
could really tell what it was saying. He liked some of the sentences. It was
always broadcast in pleasing male and female but sometimes it didn’t seem that
different from Papa’s speech. Lots anger and confusion mixed with simplistic
life lessons. Then the baby screaming and crying could be heard. The sound
trucks were cruising up the road blaring that blather. You could not think for
the sound, the sound. Fingers itched at triggers. One bullet or rocket would
place them. To be place was to be gone. Urine. The girl next to him had soiled
herself. Tinny shrieking, rotor throb, pleasant babble, urine.
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