War/Peace. Matthew Vandenberg
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a southerner,' Lorelei says. 'Can't Shelly give a speech?'
'No,' Adrian says. 'You didn't see what happened to me when I was on my way here; I was chased, abused, hit with stones; my Harley fell – like – 100 metres from the door, and I was lucky to make it to the guards before the southerners could catch me.'
'But she “is” a southerner,' Lorelei says.
'They'll still throw stones,' I say. 'Because she's inside the house. They'll treat her as though she's one of us.'
'I'll do it,' Adrian says. 'I can do it. Give me the loudspeaker.'
'No,' I say, standing up. 'I think I know what I want to say.' - I take the loudspeaker from Shaun and walk over to the spiral staircase. It's narrow, smooth and long, like a double helix. Maybe it's the DNA of the house: where the expression takes place, and I'm a gene for free speech. Then I take to the flight. I run to the top of the stairs. Then with my left hand I push the sunroof open.
I can feel the cool southern air on my skin. I climb up onto the roof.
At first I see no one. Fog rests on the trees and rooftops around the bunker. Then I notice, on the street behind the bunker, a couple south-siders. They're watching the bunker, as though waiting for it to move, waiting for it to breath, or stand up, or simply glare back at them with its windows, opening its curtains so that the folk can see into the bunker's soul. They're whispering to one another, speculating, wondering out loud what the inhabitants are up to, as though this bunker is the home of an exclusive brethren.
'Hello,' I say, speaking into the loudspeaker. 'You're welcome to come inside.'
'We would never go in there! You're satanists, you lot!'
'There's a war going on,' I proclaim. 'This is a bunker. It's open to north-siders and south-siders. Have you got homes to go to?'
'We couldn't fit into the church. We've gotta find another one.'
'You were kicked out?' I ask.
'It's not like that,' one woman says. 'There were too many inside. We had to move on.'
'What about your homes?'
'We lived in the church. That's where everyone's living.'
'Please, come into the house,' I say. 'It's safe in here.'
'You're a north-sider!'
'I've got a south-sider here,' I say. 'I'll get her.' - I take the speaker from my mouth – 'Shelly! They're not hostile.'
Shelly climbs up onto the roof and I hand the speaker to her.
'Hello,' Shelly says. 'Listen: this is a safe-house. It doesn't matter which side you're from. It's a Big Brother house. The Americans, the British, they're watching our every move. We're on television in the states and in several other countries. They're watching over us. I am a south-sider and I came here because I used to live in the north. I have friends who are north-siders. I know that they're not as bad as the pastor's are saying. In here, all we do is speak to one another, and to the public. We want the war to end.'
'Does your pastor know you're here?' the other woman asks. 'He must be worried.'
'No,' Shelly says. 'He gave me permission to travel back into the north but he does not know I'm here. But I can assure you that this house is safe. All the people here are my friends. There's another south-sider also.'
I put out my hand and Shelly hands the speaker back: 'We have exercise equipment,' I say. 'Um . . . it may seem silly but perhaps the best thing anyone can do right now is exercise in the safety of a house like this. Build our muscles, so that we can run when we need to. It could spell the difference between life and death. Did you see the bomb fall just before?'
'Of course we did! It's you lot – you Americans! You dropped the bomb.'
'Well, it wasn't me,' I say. 'The extremists, not me.'
'Why are you using the loudspeaker?' Shelly says. 'There's no need.'
I nod and hand the loudspeaker back to Shelly.
'You'll . . . you'll protect us?' the first woman asks, strolling towards the house. 'From the north-siders, the bad ones?'
'Of course,' I say. 'This is a safe-house.'
'We're only 17,' the second woman states. 'We can't fight. We're not as strong as the men.'
'I can't fight either,' I say. 'We don't fight. That's why this safe-house exists.'
'How can any side hope to win the war if no one fights?'
'That's what we're trying to figure out!' I say. 'Please, come inside. The people of America will love you. Here we can teach you how to hone your skills, and to forget about the war. Please. Because you both deserve a home, you deserve to be safe. They have chucked you out onto the streets as though you are worth nothing, left you to wander through the war-torn southern plains. How can they just not care? If you stay out here you might die. Please. Your lives are worth something. Let us show you that.'
The girls look at one another, then up at Shelly and I.
'How many are inside?' the first one asks.
'You'll make it eight,' Shelly says. 'Half south, half north.'
They nod and make their way towards the front of the bunker.
******
References
1 Recapturing The Vibe – Hilltop Hoods
2 Arndt, J., Schimel, J., & Goldenberg, J. L. (2003). Death Can Be Good for Your Health: Fitness Intentions as a Proximal and Distal Defense Against Mortality Salience. Journal of Applied Social Psychology, 33, 1726-1746.
AMIEL DeANGELO - 12:00pm - December 12 - 2011
'Look how dark it is!' I yell. I stand up on the front seat. 'This is bat country. We in Baker or something?'
'We ain't in America,' Elise says. 'And you ain't seein' bats like Thompson.'
'But it's midday and the sky is almost black,' I say. 'What the fuck is going on!?'
Elise turns the steering wheel left a little, then right. I fall back into the seat. We're in a cream convertible, more than 350 kilometres west of the Sydney CBD. We're probably through, probably in the southern district. But we can't be sure. The streetlights are down, the sky is almost black: dead, seemingly devoid of atmosphere. We ride - like - 90 or 95 but on the desert streets we might as well be cruisin' at the pace of a snail: so weak, like we're stray cats wandering dead streets, and all we can hear is the car's feet as they drag along the ground.
'Turn the volume up!' I say. 'The speakers are dope and we ain't gettin' high!'
'The guards, though.'
'Do you see any guards?' I ask. 'I don't see any! We're miles from the CBD. The war's still raw, they ain't had time to put a fuckin' Berlin wall up yet. So we're in the south, we're safe, we might as well turn up the volume.'
Elise looks left and then right. She shakes her head and turns the volume dial.
'It's cool,' I say. 'We're dressed for the part. We look like we've walked straight out of a Catholic convent. We can even wear the hijabs if you want, pretend we're Muslims.'
'Maybe,' Elise says. 'If it's a cool night. But isn't there a way they can tell? Surely they'll know we're north-siders: they'll hear what we're playing for one thing.'
'We obviously not gonna be singing along to Britney Spears when they find us,' I say. 'But for now: "I'm not a girl! not yet a woman! All I need is time, and more than that is mine . . ." '
Elise laughs: 'Bitch, you can't sing!'
' "You will see it in my eyes. This girl will always find her way." '
' "I'm not a girl." '
' "I'm not a girl, don't tell me what to believe." '