So they were quiet and careful in the early aura. To stay strong they had no choice but to emerge at this precise time each day and perform the rites and exercise that Collins had shown them. It was their most vulnerable time.
That said, Collins knew that they were strong and sensitive in ways that the townsfolk weren’t. All their senses were clear and sharp. They had intuition that could warn of many things, not merely danger. As dark as it was when they first stood among the monolithic outlines of ruined buildings, Collins could ‘see’ all of them by the auric signature that their bodies exuded.
On this morning Collins felt something that had been growing in him for some time. He felt not so much an individual or a leader but rather that all his followers were connected. It was a physical sensation like magnetism in the blood. When they walked together he felt their movements like a force in his guts – approaching, a little push against him: departing, a little pull – and the connection was never broken. The more they breathed together and swallowed light, the stronger the sensation became.
It led him to believe that not only were they stronger as individuals but that as a group their power was exponentially greater.
They stood facing east where a dusty grey light sprouted. Collins stood at their head. Together they drew in the dawn and when the sun cleared the dirty horizon, they were filled with warmth. As one they concentrated the light in their bellies.
Collins had never seen himself as a general. He didn’t want to fight. Fighting would bring bloodshed and death. It was wrong to use the forces he was trying to eschew in order to defeat those same forces. However, he knew there was no other way. In the silence of the morning they charged themselves.
Soon after sunrise, they slipped back underground, each taking a concentrated gutful of sunlight with them, their muscles and sinews tightened and invigorated by the exercise.
In the dark, John Collins plotted and each of his followers grew stronger.
Seventeen
Richard Shanti’s father had been a stockman too. He’d worked on the chain in the days before Magnus took control of the plant and the Chosen. Back then the Welfare had more control over the way meat was provided. Visits by the Grand Bishop and Parsons to the plant had been frequent and the air of sanctity around the rearing and slaughter of the Chosen was far greater. These days it seemed as though Magnus left the religious doctrines out of his working practices, merely paying lip service to them whilst trading ritual practices for higher chain speeds. It had become a production line.
Parson Mary Simonson doubted the correct prayers were spoken at the moment of stunning and exsanguination. In Shanti’s father’s time, those prayers were every stockman’s mantra from clocking on to knocking off. She wondered if the pious-seeming Richard Shanti remembered his prayers at work. Welfare inspections of MMP practices happened so rarely these days it was impossible to tell.
She rifled through the cards that recorded Albert Shanti’s life. Like his son he’d been an exemplary stunner – caring, efficient and quick. Still, back then the chain speeds had rarely reached ninety per hour. So much had changed in just a generation. She checked for irregularities in his behaviour, interventions by Welfare at any time and found that there was a file showing some Welfare involvement. She checked the dates. It was around the time of Elizabeth Shanti’s second tragic pregnancy that the Welfare had visited. Reports of screaming and fighting in the Shanti house – a property nearer the town centre where neighbours could listen in.
It could have been a grudge – someone making trouble for Shanti by telling tales and bringing the suspicion of the Welfare down on him. She couldn’t rule that out. Or it might have been genuine unpleasantness between a childless couple with no more chances.
Further reports to the Welfare were made by the plant when Albert Shanti’s stun performance dipped. No visit was made, as it was the province of the then Meat Baron, Greg Santos, to deal with employees in his own way. But other reports were made – not by Albert’s superiors but by other workers in the plant – of inappropriate behaviour. It was stated in the records that he had been seen spending his lunch hours watching cows nurse their newborn calves. Parson Mary Simonson’s heart went out to the man as she imagined what it must have been like to lose two children and see so much life being brought into the world where he worked.
And then there was a final report.
At least there was space for another report, a dated card divider with an incident number, but there was nothing in the file. No actual record of whatever it was Albert Shanti had done. The incident number was coded with a ‘C’ which meant whatever it described had occurred in the plant and was related to the Chosen. The Parson shook her head in disbelief. Someone had tampered with Welfare files. She’d never come across such a thing. Never even heard of it.
It had to be a mistake. Likely hers. She hadn’t been concentrating and had either dropped or moved the file along with the others. She checked through every entry in Albert Shanti’s record box then checked it again. Then she checked each inserted card to be sure there weren’t two sticking together. The more she looked the more it became clear that something was amiss. Interfering with Welfare files was suicidal. Utter madness. She stood back and got her breathing under control. It wasn’t possible. She had to be wrong.
A final check turned up nothing.
‘Whittaker!’
The old man arrived with surprising speed, churning up dust devils in his wake and not seeming to notice at first.
‘Yes, Parson?’
‘Look at this file box, would you? Find me the report C:127:42.’
She handed him the box and leaned against a bank of shelves as she watched his ratlike fingers scurry through the cards. The pain in her stomach swelled like a sphere of teeth. She clutched herself.
Whittaker made a tiny mew of disappointment and flicked through the record box again. The Parson’s legs weakened beneath her, the muscles in her thighs quivered and she began to sink down.
‘It’s not here,’ announced Whittaker. ‘But that can’t b–’
She looked up at him from the dirty floor, her head leaning to one side and saliva dribbling onto her shoulder. She wanted to move, to talk to him, but her body wouldn’t obey.
‘Parson? Whatever’s the matter?’
Whittaker closed the box and placed the file carefully back in its place on its shelf. She noticed how reverently he handled the records and felt bad for ever having been unkind to him. Only when the box was in position did he kneel beside her and try to help her up. He looked genuinely worried. None of his pulling or hauling did any good for her. She could neither move nor speak.
‘Rawlins,’ he shouted. ‘Get some help for the Parson. Get Doctor Fellows.’
It was only then, as he waited with her, that the old man’s body remembered its allergy. He began to sneeze.
Shanti awoke in blackness long before dawn. It was too early to practise gathering the light but he felt agitated and enlivened. Maya was deep in slumber beside him, turned away as had become her habit. Silently, he rose and dressed, put on his long coat and walked out to the darkness through the back door. The wind had changed again. Instead of blowing the evils of the MMP plant towards the town, now the smells drifted out into the wasteland where there was no one to smell anything. He breathed deeply, grateful for the clarity of the air. Something pulled at him. Hard to define the feeling – a faint tugging in his stomach, an urge to move. He had nothing else to worry about, no work to go to, at least for today. Normally he would run, today walking would be the alternative.