The Tag Bearer

Chapter 10 - The Secret Rebellion

The West Wing turned out to be a tiny dusty room to the East of the shabby building. Somehow it had remained intact during the war; a sole survivor of what the world once was. The stairs I was pushed up were chipped and covered in crunchy late Autumn leaves, the kind that reminded me of the sun in spring. 

The room itself was dark and terribly cold like a ghost was hanging around in the room blowing a cold draft behind it whenever it moved. The room emitted a dreadful damp musty smell which made me cough. A sliver of light filtered into the area through the boarded-up window; dust becoming attracted to its bluish beam and swirling a dance across it.

I shivered as the chill began to creep into my marrow. They hadn't bothered to untie me. Maybe they feared I would run if I could? But if that was the case, why was a Drone hovering by the entrance to the room's only door?

A small part of me was curious to find out why they required me. I thought it was strange that they needed a girl of all people - I was no one special. Worst of all, I knew I shouldn't be curious, I should be terrified, but I was tired of not knowing. 

I sat cross-legged in the mounting dust of the empty room and listened to the sounds of the world beyond the tiny wooden prison cell. The shouts of uniformed militia filled my ears. Trucks whirred in and out, their engines like beasts breathing down your throat as they carried vital supplies to the bases of cities involved in the clean-up operation. The whole procedure was in full swing here.

I noticed foreign flags had replaced the American flags on the rooftop of the building like grand soldiers guarding a castle. I knew that flag too well. It was a solid part of me, but lately I didn't believe in the revolution movement - how could I when they'd resorted to killing innocent people? 

I scowled, the deep red not symbolising our will to fight, but the Rebels will to shed blood at all costs. The single black design on it was frightening, but when the propaganda first started being plastered over the streets, everyone believed a revolt was possible. The President, Philip Williams, thought he had the election in the bag, but of course he'd made the mistake of promising things that would never become fruitful. Now the lone skull with a pair of angel wings either side meant everything to those who started this whole mess in the first place.

This wasn't a civilisation; this was a mockery of what could have been a great country. 

"Better education," I muttered to myself, watching a piece of dust fall to the floor and be swept back up again. "Pfft! What a promise that had been."

In fact, they'd effectively abolished education all together. Now what did the Rebels have? A bunch of kids with nowhere to put them for eighteen years of their lives. 

I scoffed. The President was in dire need of keeping the country together by that point in the civil war, but he was losing fast. The war drained everything from them, and an economic slump didn't help him, instead the Rebels promised more in that field. 

I laughed to myself, remembering that fateful day when the war finally succeeded. Still undecided which side I wanted to follow to the death, I stood in the rain thundering down like a pissed off child on my head. We all knew what that symbol stood for back then. It was a symbol of freedom and peace to the people. A symbol of hope. 

The day the Secret Rebellion made a final ditch effort to overthrow the failing government system. They had sprayed the exteriors of buildings with the stencilled skull and watched as streaks of black paint ran from the designs onto the yellowed grass.

I sneaked through the city, soaking up the rain that streaked the paint, desperate to avoid any unwanted attention. My hood was cast over my face as my pace quickened and my clothes grabbed at me like a squishing hug I couldn't get out of. I turned a corner and froze. A faint sound like bacon frying in a pan reached my ears. Planes. I began to run, not caring if I was seen.