St. George St. (Blogophilia 14.18)

 

The windows were blacked out, but it didn't matter. No one could see in the new darkness anyway. The bosses called it the Scorpio Project and the details were nonexistent.  10:45 PM we took off over the water. Thirty minutes in, the plane banked sharply and then descended. When I got off, another suit handed me a tablet and put me in the back of a van. No words were spoken until I was let out on St. George Street and given the tablet to log corpses.

I trip on cobblestones in the dim light but manage to keep my feet. Passing closed shops with their made in China trinkets, I note the displays designed to snare the tourist. Give them something to remember the trip with while lining the pockets of some far away factory owner.  

At least they used to.

Beggars were lined up for alms, burnt out from too much sun and too much booze. Only they were dead. with a press of a button, the program recorded the coordinates of each victim. The authorities deployed sanitation teams to clean them out. 

I couldn't shake the ghosts of the streets, though. 

A family huddled in the bushes. The mother strips wet clothes from a child's glowing olive skin. She breaks free and runs down the cobblestones heading toward me, laughter echoing off stucco walls.  With a two-step shuffle, I corral the spirit back into her mother's arms. and with a smile, I continue on my way. As they walk away, I couldn't help noticing the mother's jean wrapped butt, just the right size. I hope her husband appreciated her. I press the button and soldiers hustle them off.

Outside the ornate mission church, another family with another daughter. She was the polar opposite of the other girl, blond curls framing a tear stained face, skin dull and translucent. The expression wasn't grief, but frustration and possibly hunger. A woman was admonishing her to shush, lest the soldiers come.

Two sides of the same coin.

I slip into the church to catch my breath. It's surprisingly cool. Recorded Gregorian chants drift along the ceiling. It's supposed to be a place of contemplation, but it still is a tourist trap, with a gift shop to the right of the altar.

I step into the nave and see a victim in the aisle. They are taken away. The marble statues' tears flow in the mourning of this world.  

I walk around the parking lot to get to the alley. As I go around a stone wall, I see the tank barreling down toward me. Suddenly I am lifted up and thrown into the dumpster next to the wall, landing on a pile of rotten meat. I know to stay still until the rumbling subsides.

Afterward, I look over the empty parking lot. 

The purge was over.