Jump: The Fallen: Testament 1 by Steve Windsor Page B

to tell you.
    “Do I really have to do this?” I ask. I’m still not sure if this is just death hysteria or if there really is someone out there. Maybe I’m already splattered and this is some final thought, or impulse or some shit. “Please don’t make me go through this crap again?”
    Or maybe I’m a vegetable in a cell at the Fifty , and Kelly is standing over me, feeding me blended-up carrots as I drool orange slime down my chin. Kill me, please . I wouldn’t ever want Kelly in that building.
    I don’t even know what I’m saying. “Please.” That’s not me. Anyway, whoever is controlling this, they’re not listening. And it’s too late now, because I’m running down the hallway to our little girl’s bedroom. Kelly is right behind me.
    “Daddy,” my little Amy cries and screams, “I can’t make it stop!”

    Before the shots, Amy was the sweetest little vanilla-frosted cupcake you ever saw. She used to kiss me on the cheek and say, “Daddy, it’s gonna be a great day!” I never had the heart to tell her any different.
    After the second injection, the blinding headaches started and her eyes sunk in from the insomnia. She tried to keep her smile, but I could tell that there was always pain behind it.
    I know there’s nothing I can do. The State doctors were clear on that. As helpful as a canker sore on my dick. “Ride it out.” I should call the bastards at home right now and let them listen. Better yet, pay them a little oh-three-hundred visit. And the rage is back—always there when I need it.
    “Mom?” Amy says. She’s in pain, but somehow she’s figured out how to bring it down and endure it. I’ve seen that tactic before, but if it was me, I’d be shooting at the walls or some other ridiculous shit.
    And Kelly scoots around me and sits down on the bed next to Amy. Poor kid—thirteen, just starting Second Ed Compliance. Now, this shit.
    “Butchers,” I say.
    “That won’t help,” says Kelly. “And now’s not the time, just . . . let me handle it.”
    And I’m back out the door and in the hall, pacing, searching for someone to choke. But there isn’t anyone. Just a hidden system of lies and money. I found that out later.

    “Cancer shot,” the school nurse told my baby. As if that existed. You don’t think if there was such a thing we wouldn’t all be lining up at the nearest State Med-Mart to get it. Never mind that she was marked as non-participating exempt. They fucked up and put her on trial anyway. Gave her judgment she should have never had.
    Damn company didn’t even have to get our permission to give it to her. Twelve-year-old little girl and they shot her up with drugs that she didn’t need. But that was the law, that’s how they liked to work it. If the people are too smart to swallow your lies, cram the pills down their throats with the law.
    You can bet your ass that the drug company’s prime officer wasn’t shooting his own daughter up with that crap. And you can bet she doesn’t have blinding headaches every night either. She’s probably on the beach in Cancun, partying it up with her friends like a teenage girl should do with her daddy’s money. Only his money was made by bribing State politicians to pass laws to stick needles in everyone else’s kids.
    The ranting anger is back—I don’t think it’ll ever die—eating away at my soul like real cancer. I guess they’re still working on a shot for that. And the rage wants to go somewhere, do something. Shove a gun in someone’s mouth and watch them cry and beg to be saved. Like my baby’s crying and begging behind that door.
    Guns. . . That’s what they are good for. In case you were wondering. That’s what they’ve always been good for. Level the playing field. Touch the untouchable. Drag the people responsible out in the shit-streaming street with the rest of us . . . and blow their brains out.
    “Whoever you are,” I say, “I’m done with this, because unless you got some way to bring