The Divided Line: Vero [Part 2]

It began slowly—the plague, the greed, the riots. Revolutionaries rose up behind symbols, murals, and songs, while the masses were fed machinery and religion. In the wake of the destruction, politicians deemed art a dangerous thing—a worthless thing—and the masses agreed. They took away the paint, the books, and the instruments. But they could not wholly silence the artists. These are the stories they left behind.

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The car door opened. Ivy jumped out, and Vero followed. He squeezed between two of the train cars and faced the backside of the train’s smooth exoskeleton. The metal was sleek—pristine and unscathed. He could see his own haggard reflection in it. 

Ivy’s hushed voice on the other side organized the others into extraction teams. They set to loading the cars with boxes of the condemned books.

Vero pulled his respirator over his mouth and nose. The feel of it steadied him. He breathed in, took in the stretching canvas of the train side, and breathed out. This was familiar. This he’d done a thousand times.

He snatched two cans from his bag and set to work. 

The outline came swiftly, the design practiced. It wouldn’t last, he knew. They’d scrub it off the train before its next voyage, but it would be there long enough. 

He painted the symbol of the visionaries, a prominent red against the chrome. In black lettering, he wrote four words over the foreground. Liberation on the run. Ivy had muttered the words one night, half-conscious on the rooftop of a skyscraper as they’d watched the sunrise over the city. 

Illustration by Ethan Lee

It was a battle cry, one the train would carry right through the heart of the city. A declaration that said, We will not be silenced.

He finished the last of the details and wondered how much time they had left, certain the gate guard would have turned them in by now.

As though in answer, sirens wailed from the gates, and the train yard drowned in white light. He couldn’t help but to smile. The symbol was bright and vibrant in the light. Ivy grabbed the back of his jacket and tugged him forward. “They’re coming, Vero. Let’s go!” 

Tires squealed on the other side of the train, the cars making their escape with as many books as they’d managed to collect. 

Vero grabbed his duffle and ran, climbing the fence that separated the yard from the city. Here, he and Ivy split. Better to go separate ways.

Boots pounded on the asphalt behind him, and a spike of adrenaline surged through his chest and limbs. There was a freedom to this part—something glorious about the chase, something exhilarating about leaving his mark and slipping into the unknown shadows of the city.

The blades of an aircraft buffeted overhead, and a beam of light speared from it, prodding through the dark alleys. Vero ducked behind a dumpster, heart pounding. He closed his eyes, breathed again, felt the filtered air fill his lungs, thought of Isaiah. The beam passed him by. 

Vero took off his respirator and stuffed his duffle behind the dumpster. He’d come back for it later. For now he just needed to make it home.

A man stood in the alley, leaning against the back door of a seedy-looking bar. He drew a puff from a cigar, watched glossy-eyed as Vero emerged from behind the dumpster. Vero nodded to the man, hoping the man would nod back: acknowledgement and understanding, permission to carry on and ask no questions. The man just blinked at him, dazed. 

Students from the nearby university stumbled past the alley, laughing and shouting, eyes locked on the pink and blue holographic ad that danced overhead. Vero left the drunken man to his cigar and slipped out onto the street behind them. He didn’t quite fit among them. His clothes were far poorer, his stance far less carefree, but he hoped it’d be sufficient camouflage from those who searched from the skies.

“Hey!” said a voice behind him. It was the man from the alley. Vero kept walking. 

“Hey!” the man called again, and this time his hand snaked around Vero’s arm. “I’m talking to you.” The man pulled Vero back and threw him against the wall. “I said—”

Vero’s head cracked against stone, and the lights in the sky blurred. His ears rang, and something wet trailed down the nape of his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a fragmented, nonsensical sentence. He fell, tasted blood.

The man crouched over him and swore, breath reeking of alcohol. Vero looked past him, where the holographic ad swirled into something beautiful. He wanted to capture it, to paint it. He wanted to share it with Isaiah. But he couldn’t move, and the lights were fading, giving way to swift darkness.

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***Original serial The Divided Line updates biweekly.