The Oasis of Filth Read Free Page B

of right and wrong. Some need for justice and propriety. “She’s with me,” I said.
     
    “What’re you talking about?” the first man scoffed. “She’s never been in here with you before.”
     
    “I’m telling you, she’s with me. Cousin of mine. Lost her job across town and got transferred. She’s staying in my uncle’s old apartment.” In the back of my mind, I was amazed at how easy the lies came.
     
    “Like hell,” he frowned, making another tug at her rations. Behind him, I saw one of the guards tilting his head, looking in our direction. I leaned in to talk quietly.
     
    “Listen. In about 30 seconds, that guard is going to decide he doesn’t like the look of this, and all of us are going to end up nothing more than a bad memory. Either you let go of the box and she and I walk out without trouble, or I make sure we all go down together.”
     
    He leaned back, eyes widening. “Are you threatening me?” He was taken aback by my boldness. He balled his hands into fists. It looked like a common practice for him. That was another sure sign that he wasn’t bright: The infected were violent. Most sane people avoided any semblance of violence, for fear of a one-way ticket to government confinement.
     
    “You’ve got about 20 seconds to decide,” I said. The guard was definitely staring in our direction. The man started to turn around to see if I was telling the truth. “Ah, ah — you turn around and he’ll know we don’t want him over here. That’ll be the end.”
     
    He paused. His fingers loosened as the tiny wheels in his mind spun. “Fine. But get the hell out of here. Now.” He shoved the box back into the young woman’s hands and faded into the crowd coming out of the building. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the guard had turned his head away — someone else had done something that distracted him.
     
    “Let’s go, before this gets worse.” The young woman just nodded and followed me.
     
    * * *
     
    “My name is Rosalinda,” she said as we walked hurriedly away from the building. I grunted a response. She continued walking beside me, then after a pause said, “Thank you.”
     
    Rounding a corner and putting the FDC out of view, I turned to her. “What are you really doing here?”
     
    “Huh?” She was surprised at the blunt question. “I... uh...”
     
    I stopped. “Who are you? Why are you here? The trouble doesn’t end just because I helped you out back there. People don’t like strangers.”
     
    “Don’t you think I know that?” she said. “Don’t you think I feel the same? I had to come here. It’s my mom.”
     
    “What about your mom? Is she someone from the neighborhood? What’s her name?”
     
    “Sonya Menendez. 12th and D.”
     
    “Don’t know the name,” I said. “What does she look like?”
     
    “You wouldn’t have seen her for a long time. She’s been housebound, barely surviving on handouts from a couple of kind neighbors. But now she’s dying.”
     
    I stepped back without thinking. “Oh shit .” What had I gotten myself into?
     
    “It’s not that!” Rosalinda looked panicked, and angry, too. “She doesn’t have the disease. She’s just old. I lived in Northwest ever since the walls closed. Seemed close enough to mom so that we could both live our own lives. I didn’t know how bad off she was until a friend at work passed along the message from a coworker who lives here on the Hill. So I had to come. To help her. I applied for transfer and my office accepted. I do medical research.”
     
    I knew there was a small lab in the area, but I was skeptical. Rosalinda pleaded silently at me with her eyes. I looked her up and down, trying to assess her trustworthiness. That’s when I noticed her bracelet. Little tiny bits of colored fabric woven together, red, yellow, blue, green. Just wisps. I assumed she did it by hand. I tried to think if other people wore similar things, and came up with nothing. It was simple, but