Its the Thought That Counts

It’s The Thought That Counts

By Jeffrey Kedrick

Maya heard the jackboots, clunking in unison on the sidewalk outside. She pulled back the frayed curtain a tiny nervous bit and peeked out. The Thought Crimes Unit (TCU) squad of six patrolled in a tight formation, left and right feet pounding the pavement together. Maya’s chest tightened as each footstep felt like a hammer between her shoulder blades. She shuddered, looking down at their all-black military uniforms and bright white kabuki masks.

She could see the patrol leader, tall and burly, his FOS device held out front like a lantern. He waved it left and right, in time with the marching. She could see a few of the box’s blinking red and blue lights and a small parabolic net on top that slowly rotated. The box looked innocent enough, so small that the patrol leader held it with one hand, but it was hunting.

Maya looked up at the All-See cameras on top of each building and noticed their bright red action lights. The cameras were everywhere. There were thirty on this crummy block alone. She heard a familiar sound, looked up and sure enough, saw two of the grey-black drones that permanently patrolled the area. Their five propellers made a familiar whirring sound while the solar batteries on top provided 24-hour-a-day power. She squinted and could just make out the small but lethal laser ports bristling from the drone’s undercarriage. Almost no one was crazy enough to commit a crime in this city.

“Get it together Maya!” she told herself urgently. Mesmerized by the TCU patrol, she had not started her blockers. She liked sports and after shaking her head to clear, closed her eyes and replayed the 1969 New York Mets season. She knew it had to be total concentration as the FOS device was ready for any deviation from approved doctrines. “The Mets are playing the Cincinnati Reds at Shea Stadium. Pete Rose is up to bat with his .335 league-leading batting average. The first pitch is a strike - -“.

She jumped, startled by a loud crash outside. Peeking again, she saw the TCU patrol leader pointing at a doorway while his men bashed in the door. That was Mrs. Towery’s apartment, the battering ram opening it up like a cheap cardboard box. Two men rushed inside and pulled the poor lady out, dressed only in her nightgown and fuzzy pink slippers. Hair curlers flew in all directions as she struggled. Mrs. Towery’s eyes were wide and her grey hair looked wild.

“I didn’t do anything! Let me go!” The squad was big, strong, and well-trained. Mrs. Towery’s struggled to no effect like fireflies in a sealed glass jar.

Maya knew the older lady was vulnerable, as all older people were. They had missed out on school indoctrinations, special think camps, assimilation groups, memorized pledges, and a lifetime of media messaging. Maya had attended all these and somehow, they had not stuck. Her mind wandered dangerously as she thought of her parents.

Dad was an accountant, paunchy, bald, with more brains than street smarts. He had put out an ill-advised social media message mildly questioning the latest government tax rise. Dad lost his job that morning, was picked up in the afternoon, and sent to a work camp in the desert outside town. Maya had never met a person who had come back from that.

Mom was a very social woman; an enthusiastic school teacher with a perpetual smile and a non-stop mouth. She had talked to her bunco group about the questionable nutritional value and ingredients of the government-provided manna-lite that was delivered each day to their doorstep. Mom was woken up from her sleep that night and taken away. Maya never knew where.

“Owwww!” came suddenly from the street.

Maya looked out to see the TCU patrol systematically punching Mrs. Towery in the stomach, shoulders, and back. The old woman went limp, and it looked like she was unconscious. With one guard’s arm under each shoulder, the patrol dragged her down the street in lockstep. The FOS device was in the air again and their leader moved it back and forth.

The Resistance Meeting was tonight and whatever she did, she could not think about that. “Pete Rose swings and misses at the second pitch…”

***

“Quiet down. Ssshhhh!!”

The urgent whisper bounced around the basement room and eight people fell silent. Sneaking down at midnight to her apartment’s basement, Maya sat in her accustomed spot. She faced the only entrance to the room, with the other people fanned out in a circle. Loud punk rock from the stereo continued to blast and beat their eardrums, a part of the security precautions.

Maya thought again that “The Resistance” was a bit of a grand title for this small ragtag group. A few teenagers and a couple of the oldsters who were somehow still alive. She drew her sweater tight around her body and looked around the cold room. She gave a wry smile at the walls, covered in aluminum foil, old slate chalkboards, four space blankets held up with blu-tac, and an inexplicable corner that was piled high with old Tupperware. Maya shook her head, doubting that any of this would keep the FOS device out of their midst. Still, they had to try.

“OK, any new business?” asked Sean, or Sean the Greek as he was called, the erstwhile leader of The Resistance. He had a beatnik vibe; black comfortable pajama-looking clothes, spotty van dyke goatee, and a beret at a cocky angle. His eyes were a piercing black that looked through each of them.

“Mrs. Towery was taken this morning at around 10:30 AM,” said Maya.

“That’s bad. A nice woman and the best chocolate chip cookies I ever tasted,” said Sean as the room fell silent for a beat. It was partly in remembrance of Mrs. Towery and partly thinking of long-lost chocolate chip cookies. The manna-lite was all they ate and it was bland no matter what you did. They were all sick of it.

“How many of the TCU patrol went inside her house?” asked Sean.

“Only two, the crashers.”

“Damn…Sergeant at Arms, weapons report,” barked Sean the Greek.

“Um…well I guess…um…same, yeah,” said a thin pimply teenager. “Two hand grenades and a Glock with 5 rounds.”

“It’s not much Sean, we have to do something. There’ll be none of us left,” said Maya.

“Tomorrow afternoon. We go.”

***

The following day at 2 PM, the TCU patrol was back on Maya’s street and The Resistance was ready. The patrol  looked sharp, pants creased and shiny boots slapping the pavement in unison. Their leader waved the FOS in front of him, left…right…left… The FOS lights started blinking and the leader’s pulse quickened.

“Here, to the right!” he barked, pointing at Maya’s apartment.

It had not been hard. Maya simply forgot about baseball and thought about her father and mother. She thought about her life and her city where thoughts were the only crime left. It felt right, this unleashing of thoughts long suppressed. Freedom, she thought. Her Mom and Dad taken from her and the city closeted in fear. This was not a life for anyone. Despite her circumstance, her shoulders lowered from around her ears and her eyes softened, the premature lines on her forehead easing.

The leader pointed and two of the men, the breakers, rammed the front door. The other four TCU squad members and the leader stayed outside. The breakers easily shattered the door away from its moorings, splintering into Maya’s apartment. In a well-choreographed move, the breakers stood back while two more men came forward. These were the team’s crashers, two black-suited kabuki masked men, who ran into the apartment, ridged clubs drawn, ready to make the arrest. This was routine. This was what put food on the table for their families.

The routine ended quickly. The crashers had taken three steps into the apartment when the lights went out, leaving them in darkness. Three large dressers, previously raised above the entryway, crashed down, blocking the exit.

Maya had never used a grenade before and was unaccustomed to throwing. Her P.E. classes in school consisted mainly of marching in unison and singing patriotic songs. A softball or a shotput was not a part of the approved curriculum. Still, the grenade felt pretty good in her hand. She sat on the cold kitchen floor and looked down at its ridges, knowing she was late already. The sounds from the living room were that of the men breaking apart the dressers. Soon they would be back outside.

She pulled the pin and calmly set it beside her. One…two…three…four…and then made the short toss around the wall and into the living room. Maya closed her eyes, covered her ears, and pulled her knees up to her chest. The explosion rocked the small apartment and she trembled, eyes still closed. “Move Maya,” she said out loud.

As per Sean the Greek’s plan, she jumped out the open kitchen window. She could never come back here and would never be safe again. The Resistance had some vague notions of where she could stay, in perpetual hiding. She would be a hero, even if no one ever sang songs or even thought about her.

Maya landed on the pavement of her back alley after the short jump. The leader of the patrol was there waiting, and brought his club down on the back of her head. She crumpled to the ground like a falling tree, the pain bringing spots and stars to her eyes.

The leader knelt and grabbed her with his left hand by the back of the neck. Her eyes cleared slightly to find that the FOS device was just in front of her, grasped by his right hand. She had never seen one this close. There were dots after each letter, making it “F.O.S.”. Underneath was the caption “Freedom of Speech.” She reached out and in a jerking motion, twisted off the webbed antennae and crunched it in her hand.

Maya was smiling when she felt a second impact on the back of her head. The world went dark.