Read Online This Is the Night by Jonah C. Sirott - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonah C. Sirott
Ads: Link
was clear the authorities had no leads on anything.
“You guys think Homeland Indigenous are tossing bombs around?” Lorrie asked a Reggie. “That’s a new one.” She shook her head and headed inside.
The meeting did not go well. With the Registry having snapped up almost all the male membership, the remaining men made it clear they felt outnumbered and voiceless, though their feelings of estrangement were by no means exclusive. Divisions in the group fell less along the lines of sex and far more across the monstered lake of thoughts and feelings. Shouts and scuffles broke out repeatedly. Believers in the explanatory logic of Fareon as the clear answer to the prime minister’s advanced age were baffled by the accusations of insufficient evidence, each speaker more frustrated than the next that their comrades could not see the hidden forces operating just beneath the surface. On the opposing side, the anti-Fareon contingent sat with arms folded, incredulous that an inability to end the war had now transmogrified into fanciful tales of all-powerful forces operating under shadowy rules that subverted the laws of nature and reason. There’s so much more to actually fight against, things that are real, they argued.
What could be more real than a substance that won’t let you die? came the retort.
In a shaky voice, the vice president of the organization read from a speech that one of the few female legislators, a Coyote, had given on the parliament floor. This particular legislator had spent years raging against the war. Members of Lorrie’s group rolled their eyes. None of these people needed a civics lesson; all of them had witnessed the unfolding of what was now their hellish present. Upon completion of his second six-year term, the prime minister had run again, this time as deputy prime minister, second in command. The years that followed saw the timid man supposedly in charge push that fateful word “consecutive” into the Constitution, and soon, the prime minister was eligible to run yet again. Which he did. Repeatedly. As the prime minister’s political structure hardened, antiwar legislators became increasingly rare. Now, after twenty-two years of banging on podiums, the name had stuck. Coyotes they were called. Because they may as well have been howling at the moon.
Over the jeers and hoots of the audience, the vice president of the organization continued to read the legislator’s speech. Though the group couldn’t even manage to get along well enough to keep serving breakfast to a few hungry vets, Lorrie still hoped to unify the factions.
“Check me one more time,” Lorrie had said before the meeting. “Just once more.”
Even though he knew there would be nothing to find, Lance still recognized that this nothing was feasting on the last scraps of the woman he loved. He looked some more.
Nothing. Lorrie and her scabs left for the meeting. The moment she closed the door, Lance called the exterminators.
“This really isn’t standard operating procedure,” the first exterminator said. The men in front of him were dressed in dark work overalls and leather utility belts stocked with tools Lance didn’t recognize. Both men were too old for the Registry, had probably served during the much tamer early years of the current conflict. One of the men had his coveralls zipped all the way to his neck, while the other had allowed his zipper to fall to the middle of his chest, revealing the coffee stains of his white undershirt. Behind them stood a much younger woman, also in dark coveralls, a notepad and pen in her hand.
“Our intern,” said Unzipped, cricking his neck in her direction. “Not enough fellas like yourself to do the job these days.”
“But back to this one,” said Zipped-Up. “We don’t do fakes. We’re real. We kill termites. We run your carpet beetles out of the house. We zap your pests, and for a much more reasonable price than our competitors.” The intern wrinkled her
“You guys think Homeland Indigenous are tossing bombs around?” Lorrie asked a Reggie. “That’s a new one.” She shook her head and headed inside.
The meeting did not go well. With the Registry having snapped up almost all the male membership, the remaining men made it clear they felt outnumbered and voiceless, though their feelings of estrangement were by no means exclusive. Divisions in the group fell less along the lines of sex and far more across the monstered lake of thoughts and feelings. Shouts and scuffles broke out repeatedly. Believers in the explanatory logic of Fareon as the clear answer to the prime minister’s advanced age were baffled by the accusations of insufficient evidence, each speaker more frustrated than the next that their comrades could not see the hidden forces operating just beneath the surface. On the opposing side, the anti-Fareon contingent sat with arms folded, incredulous that an inability to end the war had now transmogrified into fanciful tales of all-powerful forces operating under shadowy rules that subverted the laws of nature and reason. There’s so much more to actually fight against, things that are real, they argued.
What could be more real than a substance that won’t let you die? came the retort.
In a shaky voice, the vice president of the organization read from a speech that one of the few female legislators, a Coyote, had given on the parliament floor. This particular legislator had spent years raging against the war. Members of Lorrie’s group rolled their eyes. None of these people needed a civics lesson; all of them had witnessed the unfolding of what was now their hellish present. Upon completion of his second six-year term, the prime minister had run again, this time as deputy prime minister, second in command. The years that followed saw the timid man supposedly in charge push that fateful word “consecutive” into the Constitution, and soon, the prime minister was eligible to run yet again. Which he did. Repeatedly. As the prime minister’s political structure hardened, antiwar legislators became increasingly rare. Now, after twenty-two years of banging on podiums, the name had stuck. Coyotes they were called. Because they may as well have been howling at the moon.
Over the jeers and hoots of the audience, the vice president of the organization continued to read the legislator’s speech. Though the group couldn’t even manage to get along well enough to keep serving breakfast to a few hungry vets, Lorrie still hoped to unify the factions.
“Check me one more time,” Lorrie had said before the meeting. “Just once more.”
Even though he knew there would be nothing to find, Lance still recognized that this nothing was feasting on the last scraps of the woman he loved. He looked some more.
Nothing. Lorrie and her scabs left for the meeting. The moment she closed the door, Lance called the exterminators.
“This really isn’t standard operating procedure,” the first exterminator said. The men in front of him were dressed in dark work overalls and leather utility belts stocked with tools Lance didn’t recognize. Both men were too old for the Registry, had probably served during the much tamer early years of the current conflict. One of the men had his coveralls zipped all the way to his neck, while the other had allowed his zipper to fall to the middle of his chest, revealing the coffee stains of his white undershirt. Behind them stood a much younger woman, also in dark coveralls, a notepad and pen in her hand.
“Our intern,” said Unzipped, cricking his neck in her direction. “Not enough fellas like yourself to do the job these days.”
“But back to this one,” said Zipped-Up. “We don’t do fakes. We’re real. We kill termites. We run your carpet beetles out of the house. We zap your pests, and for a much more reasonable price than our competitors.” The intern wrinkled her
Similar Books
