The Rising Dawn

Chapter Twenty - The Fiella Sisters

The March of Seven took place in April, two years after the sudden demise of millions of people and the ruler’s unexpected yet meteoric rise to power. It was beautiful, romantic, dramatic, full of conviction. It was a grave mistake.

 People had had enough of the cruel punishments, the medieval living, the harsh rules and restrictions placed upon their lives. No electricity, less food, no phones, no cars, no anything. Rules and laws at every turn.

  Perhaps it wasn’t so much the rules but the way they were enforced. Everybody agreed, on some level at least, that it was the brutal execution of a thirteen-year-old girl named Iris that kick-started it.

 Iris was a pretty girl, not too smart but nice enough to have around. She had a wide circle of friends and a boyfriend who walked her home from school. She also had a phone. She hadn’t handed it in, keeping it because she couldn’t bear to be without it.

  Addicted. That was the word people always used. She was addicted.

So she kept it quiet and hidden, only using it when absolutely alone. But her boyfriend found it hidden in her underwear and it turned out that he was an informer and suddenly Iris was arrested, dragged away, kicking and screaming and always crying.

 She was publically executed as an example. They electrocuted her. It was the last recorded use of electricity, at least amongst the weaker segments. They strapped her down and forced people to watch as they increased the dosage.

  Eventually, her screams stopped. Eventually, her heart stopped. It was such an unnecessary, such a violently cruel way to kill anyone, let alone a child, a girl, that people began to mutter. The mutters grew louder until people were talking confidently, if not openly.

  It didn’t rise into shouts and riots. It simply rose and then simmered and bubbled, a scarcely-controlled passion. Somebody said a few words. Somebody else said some more. The word spread: join us for freedom.

  Seven-hundred-thousand soldiers marched on the ruler’s palace that day. That was how it was officially told. Seven-hundred-thousand soldiers.

 In reality, there were seven-hundred-thousand ordinary people, men and women, children as young as seven years old, girls and boys alike. City people, country people, angry people. They all marched, armed, silently raging.

 They weren’t soldiers. Soldiers implies good weapons, uniforms, training, strategy. They were just angry people who had had enough. They were going to fight for freedom.

  Every single one was killed. From the oldest man – ninety-three – to the youngest girl – six – and everyone in between. They all died on the streets that day and blood ran down the gutters.

  The Seventh Segment was attacked not from bombs and guns and violent things but from the same chemical that had previously killed off so much of the world’s human population. Every citizen of Seventh died and the area became known as the Silent Streets.

  That was the March of Seven. A furious, scarcely-controlled, nonsensical attack that never stood a chance. It was obliterated, destroyed, hopelessly crushed. The memory of it was a weight around the necks of the survivors.

  Nika had sworn to herself, to Aono, to Luo, to everyone who had ever asked her, that she would not end up leading another March of Seven. But she was helplessly afraid that it was coming whether she liked it or not.

Nika woke up breathing hard, eyes flying wide. The nightmare vanished from her mind, leaving behind only the fear and none of the comprehension. She gulped in the darkness for a while, trying to steady her frantic heart.