The Oasis of Filth Read Free Page A

rather young, pretty, perhaps a dozen people ahead of me in line. She wore a basic white synthetic t-shirt and matching skirt. In another time, she might have looked like she was dressed for a round of tennis at the country club. Here, her basic outfit was mirrored by several other women. Clothing options were fairly limited, but somehow she stood out. Having done the dance of the government ration line with the same neighbors for nearly 10 years, a new face was incredibly unexpected. Although rare, we still had cases of RL2013 inside the city, and they always involved elements of mystery, like new faces or unknown places. I have to admit, my first thoughts were fear and distrust, but they were mixed with a strange interest. How on Earth did someone new get here, and why ? Did we need to be careful around her? Movement around the city was controlled. The government assigned jobs, housing, places to get food. But beyond that there was the self-imposed, self-regulating control of the people. No one wanted anything new, anyone new, because that was change, and change felt dangerous. We were a tremendously paranoid society. I noticed other eyes watching her. She was an outsider. She could be infected. Even 10 years after the outbreak, the disease spread. It was slower now, but it happened. And here she was, where we got our food. What was she doing taking it from us? If the government transferred her here, it said something about their stranglehold on information that they wouldn’t even tell us why.
     
    My rational mind tried to turn the tide. There could be any number of good reasons why she was here. It didn’t happen often, but people did relocate. We all still had to do our jobs, to keep the small wheels of our confined society spinning and to earn a living. Producing food, making and distributing medicine, policing for outbreaks, maintaining the walls, keeping up the government’s elaborate bureaucracy — it was all necessary. If for nothing else than to keep the people’s minds off things like revolt. But sometimes those jobs disappeared.
     
    As I shuffled along in line and got my ration box, I considered these options, but generally tried to retreat into myself, the way we all did so well. Then I heard the muffled sounds of trouble. Looking toward the commotion, I saw the strange young woman surrounded by several angry-looking men. They had their hands on her ration box and were saying something she didn’t like. She hissed back that she just wanted to be left alone, trying to stay as quiet as possible. I could tell this was going to get very bad very quickly. I looked toward the government guards, clad in their pristine navy-blue uniforms, holding their shiny black firearms. No one ever wanted to attract the guards’ interest. It wasn’t good for your long-term health.
     
    Immediately, I rushed over, cutting between the woman and one of the men. “What’s the problem here?” I said.
     
    “Keep out of it, or you’ll regret it,” one man said — a guy I had seen in the FDC probably once a month for many years. He was maybe 15 years my junior, stronger and taller, with a pointed nose and a close-cropped haircut. He squinted at me, recognizing me, but now distrusting my sudden interest in what he was doing.
     
    “They’re trying to take my ration,” the woman interjected.
     
    “Be quiet,” another of the men said, this one a decade or more younger than me, with the same bullethead look as his partner. He closed ranks so that his black-shirted torso blocked some of the guards’ view. I noticed he had a number of homemade tattoos. That told me a lot. A needle could be a very dangerous, dirty thing. There were no formal tattoo parlors anymore, but certain types of people kept up the practice in secret. It was a private little rebellion that made their usually very small minds feel superior. I had to be careful around these two.
     
    But even 10 years into this new world, I guess I retained some sense