Go deeper into the Revolution mythology! Every week, we’ll add to the collection of letters, journal entries and postcards in a world where the written word is once again the only form of communication over long distances…
The Open Eye
“WITH A REBEL YELL”
by Kerry Weldon
I’ve never considered myself very rebellious. If you’d asked my wife before the blackout, she would have told you that marrying me was the safe and sensible choice. Yes, she really knew how to make a guy feel special. In college, I gravitated toward journalism because I was shy, always more comfortable hiding behind the written word rather than standing in the spotlight. As newspaper readership moved online and employment opportunities shrank, I refused to adjust to the times and abandon journalistic integrity for speed and sensation. Even in the terrifying days after the blackout, I was never a leader. I would wander from group to group, perfectly content to let others make the tough decisions. I kept my head down and did my best to simply survive. In fact, I only got my job at the Gazette because a compassionate editor took pity on a starving kid who knew a little about typography. We worked together for years, providing the locals with what little reliable information we could, and always staying on the right side of the Militia. Until now.
In the weeks leading up to the unveiling of Militia 1, the first operational steam train in nearly a decade, rumors of slave camps and military conquest ran rampant. And as these rumors slowly transformed
into terrifying fact, my editor and I agreed that we could no longer keep our heads in the sand. So we told the truth. Three days after publishing the article, I arrived to find our office in flames, printing press destroyed and my good friend and colleague, Sean Miller, murdered.
Now here I am. On the run. Taken in by sympathizers and huddling in a storm cellar, setting the type of this article by candlelight. Yes, I am afraid. But, for the first time, I’m free to tell the truth about the Monroe Militia. We are not living in a republic, but held hostage in a military dictatorship. We are at the mercy of a man who aspires to nothing but crushing freedom under his boot heel. Thankfully, there is hope. What started as a whisper of unrest is growing into a cry for revolution. The rebellion’s ranks grow daily. And with each new member, there are new stories of Militia defeats. The destruction of a conscription camp in Martins Ferry. The burning of Militia flags in broad daylight. There are even rumors of rebel activities in the capital city of Philadelphia. It might not yet be an army, but these are the first cracks in the dam of oppression.
Although we once lived in the Information Age, the true irony is that it took the blackout to give the written word meaning again. Words are both precious and powerful, and as long as there is air in my lungs, I will continue to print this newsletter and give a voice to those who will not tolerate cruelty. We will no longer live in fear.