So my travels with Ben back then were bleak and depressing. Nowhere within the borders were people free or genuinely happy. I still felt the impetus to do something, to act against the oppression the way my father did.
But what the hell could one small woman do, even accompanied by her dependable muscle?
One afternoon we were driving toward another village in the east, cresting a hill that looked down at the small settlement. As we got closer, something felt wrong.
I didn’t know what. We couldn’t see clearly enough to see details in the village.
But my instincts were clanging loud, so I reached over to put a hand on Ben’s arm. “Slow down.”
He glanced over, applying brakes immediately.
“I don’t know,” I said, answering his silent question. “Something is wrong down there.”
By then, Ben had become my best friend, and I trusted him implicitly. And one of the best things about him from the very beginning was that he also trusted me. Without questioning further, he drove us close enough to get a view into this side of the village. Then he pulled off the road where some trees could provide cover and parked there.
We got out, and he scanned the view with his binoculars.
“Village check,” he said, passing the binoculars over to me.
I peered through the lenses and could see the Central Cities guards on the streets, going house to house in what was supposed to be a harmless, routine review of structures.
These village checks were always lauded as a good thing. The government would make note of houses and buildings that needed repairs or improvement and provide supplies to fix or upgrade them.
The reality was far more intrusive and predatory than that. They were used to root out troublemakers. Everyone I’ve ever known dreaded the periodic village checks, even if they never broke a single law.
“Shit,” I said after looking for a few minutes. My heart was started to hammer even though we weren’t even close to what was happening down there.
I passed the binoculars back so Ben could see a few guards dragging two people out of one of the cottages on the outskirts of the village.
It was a woman and a man, and they were fighting back. The woman was strong, and it took three guards to hold her down.
When Ben gave me back the binoculars, the guards had the woman pinned on the ground, and they were actively beating the man.
“What the fuck is going on?” I muttered. “This is right out in the open.” Villagers were starting to gather. Watching. Clearly in distress. But none of them dared to move against the guards, even to protect their neighbors.
“They only do this when people fight back. It was probably a small offense, but those folks resisted.”
I focused on the woman’s face. She looked like she might be around forty. A plain, broad face and short hair. Strong body like she worked manual labor. I couldn’t hear anything, but it looked like she was shouting as she flailed against the guards holding her down.
It was terrible.
Terrible.
That this was our world. And that there was nothing to be done. The injustice of it—and the despairing helplessness—surged through me in tense waves.
I felt exactly like that woman down there. With a bone-deep need to act, to fight back, but trapped by forces stronger than me.x
“We can’t do anything, Annabelle.” Ben’s voice was low and slightly rough. “Let’s go back and circle around the village so we don’t encounter any perimeter guards.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry. I am. I hate it too. But what the fuck can we do? We’re two, and there are two units down there. A dozen guards.”
He was right. Of course he was right. Any sense woulddictate the need to get away from what was happening down there.
But I couldn’t.
Every impulse in my body was fighting retreat.
