Authors: Lillian Bowman
Anathema
ANATHEMA
By Lillian Bowman
Sixty-two percent of us are murdered within ten minutes of losing citizenship. Most die fleeing the courthouse. Before me stand the double doors to the parking lot. As soon as I step through that sunlit threshold, I’m fair game.
Mom reaches over to squeeze my hand. Her pulse races against my palm. “Your father will drive the car right to the foot of the stairs. When he gets here, we’ll run together. We’ll be your shield.”
My breath seems to be wheezing through a straw in my throat. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“Don’t you worry about us right now. You’re all that matters, Kathryn.”
“I’m so sorry.” Tears blur my eyes. “I screwed up, Mom. I really screwed up.”
“We’ll figure out how to live with this when we get home.”
If
, I correct her silently. Not
when
we get home. If.
The wait for Dad feels endless. My heart thunders in my ears. I can’t focus. My panicked thoughts buzz like bees in my brain. I picture myself stabbed, beheaded, gutted… There are so many online horror stories about failed courthouse escapes.
Then our car pulls up. Dad leaves the engine running and rushes towards us. Mom’s hand tightens into a death grip on mine. All the survival tips I’ve read online over the last few weeks flee my mind. Blank terror engulfs me.
Dad’s panting by the time he bursts through the double doors. “Okay. Okay, are you two ready?”
Mom’s voice is terse. “We’ve been ready for five minutes, Frank.”
A tense moment passes as Dad catches his breath. Every second we lose narrows my window of survival. Morning trials are perilous, but afternoon trials are death. Hunters wake up, have breakfast, then head to the courthouse to see if they can kill a newly minted anathema or two. It’s ten-thirty. Breakfast is probably done. We’re drawing closer to the afternoon. For all I know, my future murderer is driving towards us right now.
“Let’s just go,” I urge them. “I can’t stand waiting.”
My parents exchange a meaningful look. They’re both shaking, too. When I was little they had all the answers, but today they’re as frightened as I am. They press in on either side of me.
“Don’t trip,” Mom warns.
“Lydia, maybe we should time this,” Dad says to her, always an engineer trying to figure out a system for our actions. “Take the steps together, on a beat. One-two-three-four-one-two…”
I can’t stand it anymore. Even dying would be better than waiting, waiting. “Let’s just
GO
!” My legs shoot me forward in a wild run.
Mom and Dad run, too. We burst through the doors. Sunlight envelops us, our feet striking the cement steps. I don’t feel in control of myself. My muscles burn, my body springing forward with animal panic.
Movement flashes in the corner of my vision.
A scream lodges in my throat as a man in camouflage emerges from his hiding spot just outside the doors. He jerks to a halt at the sight of my parents, crushed in on either side of me. The machete in his hand droops downward like the wilting stem of a flower, sunlight dancing over its edge.
My brain freezes.
A machete.
An actual machete.
Oh my God, oh my God. A hunter. Here to
kill
me
.
I knew this would happen. I knew it. But this is real. This is very real and I’m not ready. I am marked for death and I’m not ready. The man wears camouflage gear and a lopsided hat. His beer belly peeks out from under his ratty flannel shirt and hangs over his trousers. He has never met me before and he came here to kill me.
Dad jolts past me several steps, and horror grips my heart. I’m totally exposed. The man lunges forward, machete raised—and like that Mom is in front of me.
“You cut her, you cut me!” she roars, flinging up her bare, vulnerable arms before his blade. My heart wrenches. I fight the instinctive, suicidal impulse to pull her out of the way.
Mom’s maneuver works. The hunter steps back.
As an anathema,
I
can be killed without consequence. If he so much as nicks one of my parents with his blade, he’ll officially be committing a crime against a fellow citizen of the USA. He’ll forfeit his own citizenship. Then he’ll be declared an anathema like me and stuck trying to escape the courthouse while hunters wait to ambush him.
The hunter withdraws another step, then another. An aw-shucks grin teases his lips. He looks like his favorite football team has lost and he’s trying to take it in good humor. “Guess I was a hair too slow.” He winks at me.
I just stare at him.
My parents urge me onward down the remaining steps. As we draw nearer to the car, my brain begins to work again. My panic recedes, replaced by relief. It’s almost over… Almost over…
I watched so many videos of courthouse escapes on YouTube to prepare for this. They were all shot in the afternoon. Crowds of bounty hunters, psychopaths, and drop-ins waited for brand new anathemas to walk out. They laughed and joked with each other, drinking beer, roasting hot dogs. A festive excitement thrummed on the air. Some jostled for position closest to the doors. Professional hunters were known to camp out the night before just to get those spots at the high volume, urban courtrooms.
One video was called, ‘Savage Death on Courthouse Steps’. The new anathema emerged from the courthouse surrounded by a family of five. He should’ve stood a chance, but there were too many hunters waiting. Maybe an entire hunting guild. They swarmed in like hyenas.
The hunters ripped the man’s defenders away from him. Then others crushed in on the man and plunged their knives into him from all sides. He disappeared from view under the slashing knives, the shouting men. One of his killers emerged from the mire with a beating heart in his hand, blood on his lips. He threw back his head and howled into the air like an animal.
Most who commented on the video found the howling man funny. He’s apparently famous on the internet: Trent ‘The Wolfman’ Savage. He’s leader of a hunting guild called ‘Death’s Disciples’ and has his own fan page with all of his kills listed. There are dozens of YouTube videos of his exploits. They’re all labeled ‘Savage’-this and ‘Savage’-that.
I couldn’t sleep for two days after finding his videos.
I suppose I’m lucky that there are hundreds of people across the United States of America being stripped of citizenship and declared anathemas right now. The only hunter who made it to this courthouse in the seaside town of Cordoba Bay is an overweight hillbilly who wanted an easy kill.
This is lucky. I tell myself that like a mantra. Lucky. Lucky, lucky.
And then my parents and I stumble the final, perilous steps down to our car. Mom jerks open the door and shoves me inside.
The hunter calls, “See you later, girlie!”
My door slams shut on the hunter’s jeering laughter.
I close my eyes until we’ve pulled out of the parking lot. Dad announces, “We’re clear.” His gruff hand swipes back and paws at my shoulder. “We made it, kiddo. The worst is over.”
I muster a smile for him, but we both know that isn’t true. The most statistically dangerous minute of my life is behind me, but I’m not safe. I’ll be an anathema for the rest of my life.
My forehead rests against the cool glass of the window. Our car winds along the perilous stretch of Highway One as it descends into the beachside refuge of our town. Most days the sight of the sun dancing across the ocean makes my heart soar and fills me with possibility.
Today everything seems to be edged with brutal shadow. I have entered a new world.
Only citizens of the USA have a right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Not those who have been found guilty of committing a crime and had their citizenship revoked. I’m marked for death and that will never change.
I’ll be hunted until the end of my life.