The dirty white bus with
the black bold letters that spell out INFIDELS, waits at the curb as it does
every week day, to drive us across town to neighborhoods like the ones in which
we used to live, to take us to school. You’d think the Deities would practice
segregation to keep us away from their children and those of their precious
Disciples and Priests, but with us all under the same roof, they think it
easier to convert us. Brainwash, more like it. They’ve not had a great success
rate yet.
We climb on the bus
with all the other children of Infidels and head to W1-6 HS, which stands for
the West Zone, Sector 1, Division 6, High School. Mary takes two packs of tin
foil out of her messenger bag, more than likely leftovers from the previous
night’s dinner. She opens the window as we cross the Incendia Bridge, and tosses
the packages over.
I peer down to watch the scrambling of the
Radicals, those who not only oppose the Deities, but insist on continuing to
worship their old gods, be them Christian, Hindu, Muslim, whatever. They’ve
banded together to stay alive. Committing treason in the eyes of the Deities, if
they’re caught it’s punishable by death. As citizens of the new theocracy, or
theocrazy as I like to call it, we are bound to report any sighting of Radicals,
but we don’t. The idea of being persecuted for believing in something is
archaic. I don’t blame them for sticking to their ideologies, I’m sure it
offers them some kind of hope for the future.
We pull up to the curb
of the school and file out like lemmings to their death, which is what it feels
like when you have physical education first period. If anything should be outlawed, it should be
forcing us to do jumping jacks and climb ropes at seven o’clock in the morning.
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