Gods Under The Dome

2.1

《Seeing Red》

¤

The intruders round the corner, the smoke parting like rolling mists. They stomp toward us, draped in mottled military fatigues and Kevlar. My breath hitches in my throat. I thought their uniforms were an on-purpose reddish-brown, but they're not. They've been stained with their labor, their vests studded with bullet holes and blood splatters.

Blood stains the crest of our country, the emboldened Dove, stitched on each uniform sleeve.

Breathing masks, fit snugly over their faces, serving a double purpose - to ensure anonymity while wringing unwanted toxins out of the air. It buzzed like white noise. Mini cattle prods hang from belt loops and grenade pins stick out of vest pockets.

I shiver. These people, whoever they were, came ready for war.

"Drop the gun," one of them wheezes. He nods to Tujo and trains his gun on the tender spot of flesh between the eyes. I get the feeling none of them would need a program like accuracy assist to help them make the shot.

I watch on with bated breath. A pool of liquid blossoms across Tujo's crotch as he lets the gun fall from his hands. I wince as it clatters on the ground. It doesn't go off, which means Tujo's had the safety on the entire time. Guess it was a good thing, given the current circumstance.

The man who's locked his sight on Nol, motions for him to step forward. I grab Nol's ankle and shake my head. "Don't go."

Sapped of my strength, my grasp does little to convince Nol to stay. He shakes off my touch and steps forward.

"Trust me," he mouths, as he moves toward the group of Militia imposters.

The man drops his gun at Nol's approach and motions to someone on his left. "This the Chemist?"

The other man nods.

Suddenly, the soldier's shoulders slump as he sighs in relief, causing his breathing apparatus to wheeze. Muttering something, he reaches up and peels off the mask.

A crop of sweat-soaked brown hair falls in front of his face. He flicks his head back, lets his hair settle over his ears and around his chin. No, excuse me. Not his chin. Her chin. Heat and exhaust color her cheeks and forehead and while her blunt hairstyle could be for either a male or female, there's no mistaking her gender.

Now that the mask has come off, she starts to take on a different shape. Her shoulders appear more slender than the others, and her waist more cinched. And while she's about as tall as everyone else, the fatigues don't fit her as well. They hang loose around her upper arms and thighs, and her pants sag on her hips and skirt along the tile.

Her expression hardens as she gives Nol a once over. "We're here to set you free," she says, motioning to her crew. "Praise Dove."

Nol nods but stays silent.

The woman shrugs and hands him a plastic bottle. Bluish liquid sloshes against the insides. "Take it," she says. "It'll deactivate the explosives in your blood."

"What explosives?" Quint shouts in my ear. "Have we been walking bombs the entire time?"

This news, while startling, shouldn't come as much of a surprise. The Council built us a school within a prison, why not weaponize our blood? It would help to keep us in line and stomp out any pesky notions before they manifested into something bigger, something dangerous.

Nol takes the bottle to his lips and sips. He never breaks eye contact with the woman in front of him. After his third gulp, he runs the sleeve of his uniform across his mouth and gives a refreshing sigh.