A Scrap of Prose

I'm feeling extremely overwhelmed today. Life just seems to be a bit too much at the moment. I'm not really at a point where I can process all the emotions properly. I had intended to write about fear, something I have struggled with in various forms and to various degrees all my life, and which is coming back again, but I don't really want to. I'm just too emotionally drained. So, instead, since I have more or less promised a blog a week, I'm going to post a piece of fiction that I've started. I just started it. Like, brand new, completely un-worked through, no revision or editing, just an idea. It's barely a story. It's almost an introduction. It's not much of anything. But I'm curious what you think, and hope you'll comment. And really, thanks for the ONE comment on my last post. :-P

Mel shoved one hand deep into her trench coat pocket, and with the other, pulled the black curtain an inch aside so she could peer out the tiny door window. Outside, it was gray and drizzly. The privileged few who had been given cars from the government drove oblivious through the rain. The rest ducked their heads under hoods and umbrellas.

             

Mel was thankful for rainy days, particularly in the summer. It meant that she could go outside. If she wore the trench coat on a hot summer day, she would draw too much attention to herself. And she had to wear the trench coat, to cover the fact that she didn’t have the chip embedded in her hand. And even though it still wasn’t very cold, the trench coat was at least justifiable in this weather.

            

 She did not go out the door she peered through. Instead, she double-checked the lockwent down a short flight of stairs, and knocked fifteen times, five beats of three, on what looked like a solid wall.

             

“Who is it?” Mel recognized Grant’s voice.

“Mel.” She had to speak up. The wall was a foot thick.

“What was the name of your first dog?” 

“Rusty.” 

“I need salt. Do you have some?”

“Salt to preserve and light to guide.”

            

 Mel heard a series of clicks, an electronic whir, and the wall slid from its invisible seam to let her pass into the safe house. Grant was passing back to the table, where the Bible and papers were strewn about. He was deep in his studies.

             

“So what’s the weather like?” he asked her, picking up his pen which had rolled onto the floor.

“Perfect.” She grinned at him.

“Finally. I might have to go get myself some fresh air. But not yet. I’m too involved in this right now.” He gestured at the papers.

“Is there anything I can do? I want to go out.”

           

Grant looked around the safe house. It wasn’t very big, but so far, it had been the best place they had found. The Zion Group had found it for the Houston Church, of which Grant and Mel were a part. It was designated Safe House 2, or SH2, and was one of fifteen safe houses in the Houston metropolitan area. Ten other people lived in the  basement of the abandoned apartment complex, a four-roomed area with two carpeted sleeping rooms (enough beds for the two elderly women and the young couple; everyone else made do with sleeping bags), the “family room” that included a propane camping stove and a microwave for cooking, a couple ratty couches, and a large dining room table—all dumpster finds. The tiny bathroom was the biggest challenge—one shower and one toilet for twelve people, but they were grateful for it. They had heard stories of some of the other safe houses around the country: no sewage, no electricity—some groups were literally forced to camp in remote areas of the woods. Zion Group was working hard to change that for the Bride at large.

             

“Here.” Grant picked up the Spy Backpack. One of the kids in the safe house, Jeremy, had fondly given it that name,  but the Houston Church wasn’t in the business of spying on people; its hidden pockets made it perfect for carrying contraband materials and black market ration tickets. “The middle pocket holds a sermon I transcribed for Barney, from SH6. He’ll be using it to teach his safe house from on Friday. He said he’d be on the corner of [street] and [street] all day today, selling, you know, and I’d told him one of us would bring it by. In exchange, he’s promised us some ration tickets for milk.”

             

“Milk!” Mel nearly dropped the backpack in excitement. They hadn’t had milk for almost six months.

“The kids really need it,” Grant explained, and Mel’s heart sank. She knew they did. They were constantly worried about malnutrition with Jeremy and Kylie. But milk…

“Anyway, can you do that?”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

"Great. You know, it’ll work out perfect because I didn’t really want to leave this work, but I promised Barney. Here. Let me pray for you first.”

Mel bowed her head as Grant, a man close the age her father would’ve been, prayed for her safety and the safety of the others in the Safe House. It was a habit now, when one of them would venture outside, to pray. They knew it wasn’t a magic formula—they’d had enough losses to know that God would have His way, one way or the other, but if nothing else, it gave them a measure of confidence when they went out into the city. Grant finished, kissed her on the forehead, and Mel slung the backpack over her shoulder.

“Don’t forget the code,” he told her as she made her way to the door.

             

Mel nodded and hoped she wouldn’t. Much of the free time in the SH2 was spent drilling each other on the various codes they used to converse with fellow believers. It was a lot of information to memorize and remember, but it often proved crucial to their survival.

            

 Mel slipped surreptitiously out the door, checked quickly around her for uniformed police (though that didn’t mean a plainclothes officer wasn’t around), and made her way towards Barney’s fruit stand.

            [more about Barney]

             

Barney was a middle-aged man, portly, with a rosy face that matched his warm disposition. A flash of recognition came briefly to his eyes as Mel approached, but that wouldn’t last long. For now, they would be strangers.

            

 “Good afternoon,” he said to her as she browsed the fruit with other shoppers. She could see the bright red scars on their hands that indicated the location of their chips. By law, sellers could only accept cash from people with the chips. “The peaches are especially ripe right now,” he said. She tried to appear indifferent, like the other shoppers, who could have fruit on a daily basis if they wanted. She, on the other hand was allowed one piece of fruit a month with their black market rations, so in actuality, her mouth watered over Barney’s wares.

“I’m actually looking for mangoes,” she said, switching casually to code. “You have any?”

“I do, but I haven’t put them out yet. They aren’t ripe. Would you like one anyway?”

 “Yes.”

 “Give me a moment, I need to go to my truck. You keep track of all this for me?” he said to his teenage son, whom Mel didn’t know and wasn’t sure was part of the Church. Mel avoided meeting his gaze. This was Mel’s cue to wait a few moments, pretend she was frustrated with the wait, and go to a secluded alley where Barney would be waiting for her.

Sure enough, after the all the right theatrics, Mel met Barney where he was waiting. In the silt on the ground, Mel drew a curved line with her finger. She stood, and Barney bent down, and drew his own curved line, completing the symbol that thousands of years ago had been used by the early persecuted Church. It was the last of the code. They could now speak freely.