Page 12 of The Quiet
A bubbling joy bloomed through her, and something about her reaction seemed to make the group smile.
Von, drink in hand, stood from the group where he’d nested. Pointing to the wall of names, he shouted, “Kiddo!”
Baker snapped into a rigid rod as the entirety of the cave groaned in protest. A couple of people snickered nearby.
“Don’t do it!” someone said.
“She needs to know!” Von announced, throwing a finger up into the air. Someone demanded he sit down and a few others cheered him on.
“Kiddo, Kiddo, Kiddo,” he repeated to her, though he was looking at the rest of the crowd. “I’m in good spirits, and this gentleman over here,” he pointed an accusing finger to a man he’d been sitting beside, “apparently needs a history lesson.”
Von faced the crowd with a wide sweep of his leg, a natural performer as he moved a hand across the sky and said, “The original nine ROSE came down from the North.” He approached Baker and offered her his wrists before passing by, “scars from shackles on their wrists, burns across their bodies, starvation, infection,” he drew a slow line across his chest, “one, they say, survived being split from top to bottom.”
Baker was staring now, oblivious to anything else in the room, completely captured in the story. Some people still spoke casually throughout the room, a clue perhaps that Von had rehearsed this speech before.
“They were well past the point of death, splitting up to spread the news about what had happened in the North and passed on three warnings about what would soon come after them.” He grew still, lowered his hands as he looked out at everyone and whispered solemnly, “First,” he said, lifting a single finger, “the survivors warned us about the coming Madness that would break our world.” He lifted a second finger. “Next,” he said, “theywarned about its human hosts, the Strike. Among them, their wretched prophet, Strike Peter.” He lifted a third finger. “Last, they predicted the war he would start. It would be the war for the soul of humanity.”
The entire room was silent. Baker felt chills as a strange and powerful energy seemed to fill the space between them.
Von’s voice quieted reverently but his tone remained firm. “The nine survivors of the unspeakable devastation in the North evangelized the next generation of ROSE, predicting that our victory would be built on generations of bodies.”
Von walked around the room, handing off his drink as he sauntered to the mouth of the cave and waited there, looking out. Recited or rehearsed, his words had power. Baker noticed a natural echo in the cave that had been hidden by clamor before.
“We acted with what knowledge we had, gathering the best—the musicians, the artists, the scientists, the historians, the children, trying to preserve what it was to be human so we might one day have a road map back to ourselves. We tattooed the names of the people we swore to protect onto our skin. But Strike Peter and his like hunted them down, one by one, killing them off in an attempt to spread their Strike virus and destroy any identity we had apart from them. Many ROSE died during the hunts, and we who remain still wear the burden of those names.”
Von turned back to the room, gesturing to the tattoos, a list of names on his arm, before walking along the walls. Baker noticed now how everyone in the room had those same tattoos.
Valentine had shared stories of the hunts. They had been more than just battles between ROSE and Strike. Books, art, recordsand all evidence of a world not defined by the Strike’s presence had been lost. Strike had demonstrated their power in fearsome ways, and many human beings had accepted their leadership in the end, ultimately exiling the ROSE as a cult.
“The Spirits guide us – Happiness, Sadness, Joy, Fear, all the things we have that the Strike have to eat from us in order to feel human again. The Spirits are our guiding lights, but blood is our legacy and sacrifice is our birthright. Even in the silence,” he said.
“The lamb speaks,” they all replied in unison, the collective voice startling Baker from her trance.
Von walked over to Nate, arrested his shoulder in a strong hand, and leaning down in front of the entire audience, he said, “We took people to safety, thousands to sanctuaries to the east. We are the Riders of Saint East, and the blood that founded this country is tattooed on our arms. As long as we’re alive, the Strike will have to answer to it, and we have killed more Strike—more of those ruthless, hungry, unbeatable,” he said the last word mockingly, “creatures than any group in history.” He squeezed Nate’s shoulder again. “That.” He pointed to Baker and to the first man he’d addressed, “That is who we are. The world’s last chance. In the silence,”
“The lamb speaks,” they all repeated.
“The lamb speaks,” he said, winking to Baker before returning back to the original group that welcomed him with laughter as he bowed theatrically. In seconds, the chatter of the cave returned, Baker still wrapped up in Von’s tale until Khalid spoke into the silence of their small group.
“Von makes it all seem so romantic,” she said with an amused smile, “what a fanatic. He’s still riding the Spillblood’s high.” She exhaled as if removing a weight from her chest.
“ROSE have always been more a symbol of sacrifice than glory,” Nate whispered as if hoping he wouldn’t be overheard. “We talk so much about remembering what’s been lost, but then we’re the ones that invented Amnesia.”
“Amnesia is one of the biggest tragedies of our time,” Khalid said, “but we knew that when we made it. We can keep our minds from wandering back to memories of the Strike, but we can’t train everyone to do that. Desperate times call for desperate measures. We know how and when to make the wrong decisions. That’s why we’re alive. That’s why humanity will survive.”
“I still like to fantasize about glory,” Bird added, “I’d take Von’s romance over the truth any day.”
“If that were true, you probably wouldn’t be here,” Khalid replied, “or you’d be a Spillblood just like him.”
Nate seemed to notice Baker’s interest and elaborated, “Spillbloods are those of us on the frontlines that make the kill.” He said, “We set up traps for Strike, design restraints, develop strategy, and they go in for the kill. Highest risk position in a ROSE team, so you need someone like him that’s a bit of an adrenaline addict to do it.”
“And they’re all just like him,” Bird said, “with egos so big, they don’t think they can die.”
“I’ll tell him you said that,” Nate chuckled.
“I tell him all the time, and I think he takes it as a compliment. They don’t hear anything but compliments,” Bird replied, “I’m convinced it’s a magical power.”
“They need their egos. It helps with the burden,” Khalid said. Nate shook his head with some secret agreement. Bird said nothing, and as if having noticed the awe on Baker’s face, Khalid held her eyes soberly and continued, “They wear glory, but it’s not a glorious job,” Khalid shared as if in warning of the admiration that seemed to linger on Baker’s face. “Not only were Strike human once, but they still look human. They can act human–vulnerable, beg for mercy. For a fighting force built on the mission to protect human beings, it takes a specific type of person not only to risk their lives to kill Strike–we all do that, but it’s to come face to face with something that can look into your soul, see every sensitivity and loss you have, and craft an attack when you’re the most vulnerable. If they know they might die, they’ll do anything to be remembered–die in ways that will traumatize you, make you feel guilt and terror, and they’ll live inside your head long after they’re dead. This means that Spillbloods have to be a little dangerous, and not just to the Strike.”
