The Nobody People by Bob Proehl (manga ereader TXT) 📕

it. He’s playing genocide like a video game. Hargrave points two fingers at Bishop’s head, an imaginary pistol. “A registered gun still shoots.”

“We’re not fucking weapons,” Fahima says. Hargrave cocks an eyebrow, skeptical.

Lowery looks at her sadly. “I don’t know how to put this to you, Miss Deeb,” he says, “but some of you are.”

“Fahima, we should go,” says Bishop.

“You have to give up something, Kevin,” Lowery says as Bishop stands to leave. Bishop turns on him.

“Three of my students erased a man-made ecological disaster. Three,” he says. “We could power cities. We could stop earthquakes, save countless lives. But it won’t count unless we do it with collars around our necks and you holding the leash. You won’t have my support on this. I won’t take this to my people.”

“What do you think your support counts for, Kevin?” Lowery asks. He’s angry. He expected love would save the day or some shit. “Are you going to vote me out? Are you going to run against me? I’ve got to say, you don’t look like you’ve got the stamina for a political race.” Fahima winces. It’s the first time she’s heard anyone call Bishop out on the obvious decline of his health. “Resonants are barely a demographic blip,” Lowery continues. “I’d earn more votes calling for concentration camps. And someone will, Kevin. Some freshman congressman right now is out there crunching the numbers on an internment bill. Registration buys time.”

It’s the first thing he’s said that makes any sense. Everything now is about time. A collection of countdown clocks and fuses.

“I think we should go,” Bishop says. “Mr. Hargrave, I hope you have a pleasant evening.”

“I hope you get ball cancer,” says Fahima. “In your balls.” She manages a sharp pivot away from the table on her heel.

Lowery grabs her by the arm on the way out. “Please, take some rolls,” he says, holding out a bread basket. It’s an awkward gesture. It makes no sense until words appear in Fahima’s head the way they do when Sarah communicates with her ability.

You have to convince him.

The words are shoved out of her head, plowed away like snow. Fahima glares at Bishop, who holds the front door open. She gives one last look at Lowery, then leaves.

“Where are we going?” she asks as she follows him down K Street. The night air is humid but cool, dense with oncoming spring rain.

“I didn’t want to wait for our ride,” he says. He sniffs, then wipes his nose with his sleeve, leaving a pale pink streak on the cuff of his white shirt.

“Was he right?” Bishop says. “Does the government have inhibitors?”

“He’s a talk show host,” Fahima says. “What the fuck would he know about it?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Then go into my head,” Fahima shouts. “Like you did in there. Scan my fucking brains and check.”

Bishop stops dead. They have an agreement that’s stood for years, and he’s broken it. “I saw him going in,” he says. “I wanted to be sure—” A fresh gout of pink pours out his nose, and he grabs on to a lamppost to steady himself. He doubles over, lets it drip down. The stuff evaporates when it hits the sidewalk.

“Hold on,” says Fahima. “I’ll call Kimani. We’ll get you home.”

Bishop crouches. He wipes his hands on his suit coat, staining it.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says. He looks at Fahima like a child with a broken toy. “I don’t want a war, and I don’t know that they’ll leave us other choices. There are so few of us. They’ll round us up and put us somewhere they can forget about us. We’re not something they have to reckon with.”

We could be, Fahima thinks. Something Lowery said. Barely a demographic blip. Fahima remembers a talk at Columbia last year about disability rights. The speaker was in a wheelchair after a car accident. She waited as undergrads removed the podium and lowered the mic stand to accommodate her. Then she gave the audience a sly grin.

“The issue of rights as related to disability is different from those related to race,” she said. “Those of you born white will never be black. You might have black friends or be concerned about racial issues in terms of abstract societal good. You will never wake up black. Never be at risk within that struggle. You may, however, wake up one morning to discover, with all the shock of Gregor Samsa, that you are disabled. And that day, the words you have said dismissing the disabled as a protected class or a people worthy of study? Those words will taste like ashes in your mouth.”

It will never be enough to help them or to be their friends, Fahima thinks. They’ll be afraid of us until they become like us.

After Owen liberates the circus, some of those he freed stay with him. Andre the skeleton and Maryanne with the tentacles. Little Gail. Wendy the Angel stays one night at a motel two hours’ drive from the circus. They steal Jake’s truck, and Owen has enough money to rent rooms for them all. He’s drifting off when Wendy knocks on his door. He understands it’s repayment. It’s only going to be this one time. She tells him so. She gives him her body but not her heart. Owen’s surprised that he’s not more upset when she leaves in the morning. He understands she doesn’t love him, and she understands he does love her. He’ll have the memory of that night, her wings folding around him, hiding them from the world. He can think about it while he touches himself and imagine it’s her again. It’s complicated, and it hurts.

He and the group keep west after Damascus. They meet up with others, people his friend sends to them. Darren, who can do a couple of useless things with televisions and reminds Owen of his manager at the Planet. There’s Oliver, who looks like a