The Dead Lands

Last week’s minutes—about the creation of a water committee and the proposed construction of a new well—are read and approved. Not that Thomas believes there is more water to be found, but they need to look like they are trying. Rain is the real answer, but they can’t make a motion to sequester clouds.

 

The blinds are closed, the room dark except for the candles sparking above them. Water glasses are staggered around the table, along with two sweating pitchers. Thomas fills his glass to the very top and takes a small sip and pops his lips. “New business for today’s agenda?”

 

Pimpton raises a hand. It wavers in the air a long moment before Thomas acknowledges him. “What news is there of Jon Colter?”

 

“What news?” Thomas says. “What do you mean? What news could there possibly be?”

 

“I don’t really know. That’s why I’m inquiring.”

 

“I took him out of one cell and I put him in another. One much vaster. He’s probably already dead. Just like they’re undoubtedly all already dead.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Pimpton says and quivers his lips, “help an old man understand. Why did you send Colter at all?”

 

“Because we needed to do something. It was a symbolic act. To make everyone fearful. You run away from me and I’ll send a monster after you. There’s always the chance he might find them. Maybe. And do me the favor of killing them. Maybe. And bring back their bodies. Again, maybe. In which case, I’d have some lovely ornaments to decorate the city with.”

 

“You would think,” Pimpton says, “our mayor would be wise enough to not end a sentence with a preposition.”

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Let me try again.” He clears his throat. “In which case, I’d have some lovely ornaments to decorate the city with, you walking corpse.”

 

The old man pretends not to hear. “I propose we concentrate on actuals instead of hypotheticals. We need water. Let’s figure out how to get our people some water. Let’s be the leaders we promised to be.”

 

“I’m being the leader I promised to be. A realist, not a soothsayer.”

 

“I don’t understand anything that comes out of your mouth.”

 

“Maybe that’s because you’re a thousand years old and can’t hear.”

 

Pimpton scrunches up his face and waves a hand, dismissing him.

 

The secretary, a shrew-faced man with an inkpot and a pile of paper, scratches down everything said at the meeting so far. For a moment his writing is the only sound. Thomas says to him, “You don’t need to record any of this. I’m just going to talk for a minute. I’m going to say a few things. Is that all right with everyone?” Maybe it is the opiates—the bleary warmth that makes him feel capable of anything—but he doesn’t want to hold back today. He doesn’t see the point of coddling this alliance of fools. “I had a friend. He was a good friend, but an idiot father. Married to a woman who turned out to be an idiot mother. They ruined their children. They let them breastfeed until they were nine. They let them share their bed until they were twelve. The children were never spanked or scolded. The parents talked things out. ‘Why do you think you hit Sally? Why do you think you pissed on John?’ Which only taught the children how to manipulate. And so the children grew up to be weak and precious, unable to function. Children are no different than puppies. They must be broken. They must be taught to heel and to roll over, or they’ll spend the rest of their lives gnawing on the furniture and shitting on the rugs and waking you in the night for a treat. I am not a parent. I do not wish to be a parent. But if I was a parent, I know exactly how I would raise my children. Fear and love. Those are the fundamentals of leadership. You need people to fear you and love you.”

 

Thomas takes another drink of water. One of the candles spits. A tongue of melted wax plops to the table and hardens into a white shell.

 

“Excuse me.” A voice, Pimpton’s.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Who loves you? Who are these people who love you?”

 

His eyes flit to Slade and then to Pimpton. “You don’t love me?”

 

“I most certainly do not.”

 

“That hurts my feelings.”

 

The old man lifts his beard and neatens it across his chest.

 

Thomas says, “I wonder…”

 

“Do you?”

 

“I wonder if you would love me if I tied you down? If I took a long needle, heated by fire until it glowed orange, and slid it into your urethra? Would you love me then? If I held it there until you said so?”

 

The old man looks at him with his mouth agape.

 

“I bet you would.” He gives a small smile. “Of course you would.”

 

“A question for the table,” Pimpton says. “It has come to my attention you closed down a church?”

 

“I did.”

 

“Without consulting us.”

 

“I did. The minister was speaking out against me, calling for civil disobedience.”

 

“To close down a church.” His tongue moves audibly inside his mouth, clicking and popping. “They’re saying it’s un-American.”

 

“I don’t believe in America. America is a myth.”

 

There is a collective intake of air. Several lean forward and grip the arms of their chairs, as if to stand, then reconsider.

 

Thomas’s ear feels so hot and his tongue feels so loose. The words tumble so easily off it. “People believe in America, but America is a myth. It has been since 1776. People believed in the country’s greatness because it promised them greatness. Hold a gold coin just out of reach and say, ‘This could be yours.’ One percent of the population controls everything. One percent. That’s how it is here. That’s how it was all over the world. That’s how it has always been throughout human history. America sponsored the appearance of freedom. I do not. They say I’m a liar? America was a liar. I’m a truth teller.”

 

“But…” This from a woman named Packer, dressed in purple with an acorn-cap haircut. At his gaze she pinches her mouth.

 

Thomas fondles the damaged tip of his ear. “I’m making a motion.”

 

Pimpton lays his hands flat on the table. “What now?”

 

“We’re going to reduce the water rations again.”

 

“We can’t.”

 

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