I push the top aside slowly, holding my breath. Beneath the
revealed seam, I can see the book's pickled leather binding, gold letters that have turned mostly brown or been scratched off. The book itself isn't pretty or ornate. It's old. Heavily used.
"Many people have paid the ultimate price to keep this book safe, Harper," Lazarus whispers.
"I'll be careful."
"Go ahead."
I reach in carefully and lift out the precious cargo as if it were a newborn. It's as thick as my balled-up fist. Fifty or sixty years old, its spine is bent with age. It sits askance on my flat palms, revealing a diagonal row of finger-size holes cut into the long side. I look down at the title, then up at Lazarus.
"This isn't
The Book of Noah
."
"
The Book of Noah
was never its real name."
I let it slide gently off the slope of my fingers and onto the table. It yawns upon impact, its spine twisting and stretching, happy to be out of its box. "I don't understand." I try not to sound disappointed. It's a textbook. Hardly the key to our survival or the mythic book I'd heard so much about in Monitoring.
"Samuel Johnson completed the first English dictionary in 1755. Noah Webster adapted that version in 1828 to better reflect American usage of the English language. Somewhere along the way, people began calling it
Noah's Book
. And then,
The Book of Noah
."
I turn it open with a finger. "How many are there?"
"Words? The first edition contained forty-two thousand. Later versions, a half million."
A half million.
Five hundred thousand words, and so many things to know about each one. Language of origin. Definition. Variations of usage. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as I begin to understand. I can look words up. Know them. Talk to others who've done the same. It's a way of passing along the contents of not just the world and the way
we experience it, but maybe of our souls. How we feel about God. How and where we find him. Most important, this book is how, together, we can show our fellow citizens all the freedoms they've been missing. Things, and words, taken away by the Confederation.
Lazarus pats me on the shoulder. "That's the greatest power in the world, young lady. Your history, your weapons of mass destruction, your cures. They're all there. You read that book, cover to cover, and I won't have to teach you a thing."
I read the title out loud. "
Webster's Unabridged Dictionary. Third Edition
."
"This is the last known dictionary in the country. The testable, visible, incontrovertible proof of a freedom citizens of the Confederation of the Willing haven't had for decades."
I slide the book back in the box. Ceremonially, two of our council members wrap it in a dark green piece of velvet, taking synchronized turns around the table. They move until the box has disappeared, then bind it with a dull, tan cord, one end left loose to serve as a handle.
I take hold of the tasseled rope and lift. It's heavy. Maybe twenty pounds, and bulky. I position the book at my waist, elbows bent, wrists locked, the handle wrapped over both palms to divide the load. Proceed third in line out of the library and down the corridor to the main hall.
The room is filled far past capacity. The tables have been put up and people are standing shoulder to shoulder. They have short-billed hats pulled down low to cover their eyes and wear clothes the same as mine. They in no way resemble the travelers from last night. This morning they're quiet and attentive. All eyes on the head of the room.
"Coming through!" someone shouts as Ezra leads us in.
I watch the others as we go. Some of the crowd, like Elsbeth and Charles, disapprove of Ezra as anything other than a whore. They dismiss her with turned heads. Let their eyes float away. She has crawled free of their pigeonhole and they
refuse to bear her out. They've deemed her one thing and can't afford to let her be another.
Mary, Ben's widow, has her shirt untucked, the last two buttons undone to make room for their child. Our eyes meet but she doesn't see me. She hasn't yet come up from the depths of her grief. Standing next to her is Rita, her skin still colored with excitement or anxiety. She comes out from beneath long bangs as we pass, looks at me briefly. Stares at Ezra. It's understandable. In her uniform with three stripes on each sleeve and no makeup, Ezra looks formidable. With no black lines drawn around her eyes or silver flecks in her lashes, no lipstick, and no red sash, she looks normal, like the rest of us.
We march down a forming center aisle, Ezra at our head. She steps onto the stage that, last night, was used for stories and singing. The rest of us fan out on either side and fill up the front row.
"Listen up!" she shouts. "Everyone, listen up! We head out in twenty minutes. Look under your right sleeve. Whatever color you see there is the group you've been assigned to. Under your left sleeve is your identification patch. Take a moment. Read what it says. If your information is wrong, hold up a hand."
Inside my right sleeve I find a dull yellow band of cloth, the color of old butter. I roll back my left sleeve until a label slips into view. It's attached by a few easy-to-break stitches, should I fall or be caught and need to remove it quickly. If I yank too hard, it will come off in my hand, so I hold it lightly apart from my shirt. Read what they've deemed as my critical information.
Harper Abigail Adams, Monitor, Field Dispatch #89, one daughter--Veracity Adams. Tracking Advisory Board, Head of
. And,
Reacquisition of Language, Advisor
. Once at the capital, I'll be in charge of dismembering the Monitoring Department and burying its remains so deep, no one will be able to resuscitate such informational sabotage ever again. In addition, I'll be
helping people learn the difference between opinion and fact. Currently, they have no idea what's one and what's the other. I'll be assisting as an Instructor and Advisor, teaching and developing courses such as Critical Thinking and Informed Participation in Government. I've already created an outline for each.
"Now listen up!" Ezra steps onto a chair someone's brought in from the library. She's too short to be seen in full without it. "The person heading up your platoon is called a point guard. Green and blue, you'll be subdivided into squads once we take the field. Yellow, your point guard is Aaron. Aaron, hold up your hand."
Our point guard is the tallest man in the room. He's young, with dark hair shaved close around his scalp.
Ezra claps to get our attention. "If your point guard holds up an arm, that means get down immediately! Drop to your bellies. Not your knees. Got it?"
We are divided. The blue group is sent off to stand in front of a tall woman with a heavy brow and deeply recessed eyes named Kerry. I can tell by the people heading toward her waving arm that this is the industrious group. People possessing strength, courage, and agile minds who'll be good at scouting and setting up perimeters. Those with a green patch are directed to stand with a red-haired, round-bellied man named Mercer. This group is older, less dexterous, and the largest number of us by far.
Those of us with a swatch of yellow up our sleeves are the dignitaries. We're to make up the new administration. Ezra explains that we'll have the most guards. The most guns. Will walk sandwiched between the other groups.
"Yes, people!" Ezra shouts. "I said
walking
. You were called up early for a reason. Some of you know why, some don't."
A few people fall out of their lines and wander into neighboring groups.
Lazarus whistles and puts up both hands. "Attention! Attention!"
The lines reform. Voices dim.
Lazarus steps onto the platform. He waits for the room to still before providing the explanation. "The satellite program we know of as SKEYE was initiated early yesterday morning. That was why all of you had to be brought here so quickly. It also means we no longer have a motorized way to reach our former broadcast site."
Protests go up. Loud, rebellious roars of indignation stipple the room. Even though it was a logical conclusion given the quick exodus from outlying bunkers to ours, we weren't prepared for this.
Walking into war?
It is a collective cry.
And walking to where? Bond?
Lazarus has to shout. "Listen to me!
Listen to me!
" Ezra jumps down from the podium and starts yanking people back into place as he continues. "Once we get to Bond, our operatives in Wernthal should have taken the main conduit for all media dissemination in the Confederation, a portal to every television in the country called the Hub. Then we'll be free to broadcast our message. We've moved our broadcast location from Antioch to Bond so we won't have far to walk . . ."
"
Walking,
Lazarus?" Elsbeth shouts from her group. She's a part of the blue team. Will be one of those going out first. "There's no cover from here to Bond! It's suicide!"
Her husband, Charles, chimes in. "It's extermination! . . .
Walking across the prairie
. And to a shit-hole town like Bond! You think
Bond
is going to communicate
freedom
? You're telling us the world's gonna see that little pissant square, and us, a bunch of ragtag people lined up around it, and think to themselves, 'Gee, I'd better put on my walking shoes! This is a resistance I want to join!'"
"We don't have the slates down, Lazarus!" Elsbeth jumps back in. "And Charles is right! If the Confederation's first look at freedom is a run-down town like that,
no one
will join us!"
Ezra marches over and pushes the two apart, back into their groups. Greens and blues.
"Listen to me!" Lazarus commands, and the room calms. "This country lives and breathes technology. So much so, they've forgotten anything else. It is their vulnerability and why we chose the wastelands for our base. We've rerouted our sister and brother units to Bond from any location within a hundred-and-fifty-mile radius. When we reach the square at Bond, there will be more than ten thousand troops waiting for us. Your knowledge regarding the scope of this movement has been limited, and for good reason. I realize our great numbers may come as a shock to you, but it should reveal the strength of our resistance and the reason we needed to mobilize so quickly. Already, the capital you know of as Wernthal has passed into the hands of our sisters and brothers. Already, President and his Ministry are being held until we can bring them to a legal, honorable justice. Once we take the square at Bond, we plan to broadcast our message to the people of this nation. Once armed with truth, we are confident they'll accept our invitation to be a part of this new nation."
Elsbeth juts out her chin. "How do we know we haven't been compromised?"
"We don't. And we won't know until we're either dead or have made it to the square. There are no guarantees, Elsbeth. There never were." Lazarus sighs and looks out over the crowd. "My friends. My family. Last night, SKEYE went live and we moved a few hundred thousand troops into our nation's lost capital. Many lost their lives to secure for us a seat of power. Now it's our turn to rise to this challenge. The gauntlet has been thrown. There is no more waiting. This war happens now or it doesn't happen at all."
"What about the main redactor?" Elsbeth asks in her coarse, venomous voice.
The question makes the blood rise in my cheeks and draws all eyes to where I stand.
But Lazrarus doesn't miss a beat. "We'll have it down by the time we broadcast." He says this as if he truly believes it, which makes me all the more nervous.
My heart skips a beat and the room tilts some. I have to steady myself against Noam.
Ezra steps back onto the stage, providing me cover with her instructions. "Making it to the square is paramount. When those cameras roll, every face counts. Every expression counts. Got it?"
We're told that our new country depends on not just making it, but making it on time. And as many of us getting there as possible. It's quantity as well as quality, which means,
Nobody fall down. Nobody get hurt.
The crowd wags their heads in agreement. It's a good plan.
Walk. Follow orders. Don't get killed.
Ezra talks for another few minutes. Mostly about us, the yellow group that, among others, includes Lazarus, Ezra, Noam, and Lilly. We'll be surrounded by eight guards, half of them with weapons, half without. We're transporting
Noah
. She nods my way and I step forward. Lift up our most precious possession.
"Security for the yellow squad takes precedence over all others."
Should anything happen to compromise our group, should any of our guards be shot, key members of the others will be called upon to replace them.
"It's currently 6:02 a.m.," Ezra barks. "We're to be at the square and ready to broadcast by seven."
The captains of each group take a moment. Bend over their wristwatches and fiddle with the knobs. Ezra takes the pause to lean over and whisper in my ear, "You see anyone you think looks off, in any way, you give me the sign." She holds up the first two fingers and thumb of one hand. Points. "Got it?"
"Do you have anyone in mind?"
Ezra turns and looks out over the crowd. "No."
On the stage, Lazarus holds up his hands. "Take a moment and say your good-byes. As of the last person out, this bunker's officially closed."
Some people bow their heads and study their coupled hands, praying. Most stare straight ahead. There are no good-byes to be said. These people would rather die walking toward their freedom than live another moment down here.
"Move out," Ezra says, and the whole room pushes forward.
We sweep along as one body. Move in formation to the front of the room, then up the stairs, where we bow our way out of the pantry. The pale blue of an overcast sky is on the kitchen boards. Sadly, there's no sun to greet us. Someone yanks down the old curtain covering the living room window and the place is bleached white. We wait until our eyes adjust. For most of us, the first thing we see is the squalor of Lilly's front room and the dead gray air beyond. A few people start to cry. It isn't pretty. Not the decaying couch or the crumbling porch or the flatland we see through the door. It isn't at all pretty, and we needed it to be beautiful.