WHEN THE MARSHALS
TAKE THE LOWLANDS
I woke up thinking things back.
The range of time was endless, and
she'd mentioned already that her name
was Eleanor Binden. I looked high and
low : for any escaping things, for any
noise or scene that may have been out of
order. There was nothing to be found.
Along the highway corridor, it was
Tonnelle Avenue again. Fifteen hundred
huge trucks, barreling past that old graveyard
no one wants. They can do whatever they
want with stuff, and they've already - with
the newly updated roadway - blocked of the
entrance to the graveyard. It seems now you
have to break in, or climb a fence.
Apparently, the marshalls have already taken
the lowlands - all those dead people, they are
buried in squares. Entire families, in their fenced
plots, now old and decrepit. Each dying with days
of the others. Mothers and father and sisters and
brothers. 1917. 1918. Why? I looked up the
detached and sacred answer, way back when -
when I first found this place and entered it.
Forty years ago. The raging death-fury of the
1917 Flu epidemic, as it took so many, then.
The marshals have taken the lowlands.