Systematic Amnesia [10.2.12 Daywrite]

They came for us at four in the morning. We had stayed up all night, of course we had, peering out of the windows into the darkness, foreheads pressed up against the icy glass. Our breath fogged our vision, but it didn't matter. We knew no number of sentries could keep us safe when they finally came.
    So they waited most of the night, just one more step in their game of playing with our minds. We were tired when they came, fearful. Edgy. But they arrived in silence, just a whisper as they surrounded our house.
    Then Cole's cell phone rang. Its trill in the deathly silence shocked us all out of whatever level of unconsciousness we each happened to be in, and we all stared at him with wide eyes. The only people with that number were supposedly in all in the room with us.
    "It's them," he said, voice tight. "They're doing it again." It was a power play of course, and we had all known it long before he said it. We were just clinging to that last hope of safety, the belief that there was one place they hadn't finally reached.
    He picked up the phone, knowing nothing mattered anymore, and we all heard the cold, commanding voice echo out of the speakers, the slightly tinny ring his piece-of-crap phone gave the voice not detracting at all from the terror it caused. "Step out of the house right now and drop all your weapons. Make one move otherwise or take longer than a minute and we start firing." It paused. "And it won't be guns."
    There was only one other weapon people like them could be firing, and it wasn't a taser. We all swallowed, throats dry, our minds filled with horrific images, memories of the kind of thing the Amnesiacs could do with that weapon. We had all seen it more times than we ever wanted to.
    We looked to Cole for orders, but he looked just as pale and sickly as the rest of us. "Don't look at me," he said in a strangled tone. "Get out. We've lost."
    We said nothing, knowing it to be true, and got up from our resting positions, pulling firearms out of our belts and knives out of their hidden places on our bodies. There was no point in attempting to hide something; if one of us was shot the Amnesiacs would soon know everything. Hands cold and hearts thudding in our chests, we opened the door and filed out into the darkness.
    They waited there in total silence. As we moved there was the sound of shuffling, breathing, but from the Amnesiacs there was nothing, a ghastly quiet that shrouded their watching in more malice then we had believed they possessed. For mindless slaves they certainly gave the appearance that they knew what was going on. One of them stepped forward, dressed in blue as Amnesiac captains were known to do. We watched him with cautious eyes, knowing the Amnesiacs would wait on his command before opening fire.
    When he spoke, it was the same cold voice that had hissed through Cole's phone. "Which one of you claims the title of leader?"
    We looked to Cole and he stepped forward as well, standing less than ten feet away from the shifting, silent horde of Amnesiacs. He cleared his throat. "I am."
    The captain eyed him. "Cole Smith, sergeant in the Battle of Kensington. What did you see?"
    Cole moaned and dropped to his knees. We froze, hearts stopping within us. Any chance we had, hope that they did not know whom they detained here, any last thoughts were crushed with that question, spoken with the full weight that power and tradition lent. They knew who we were: the last remaining Mnesiacs. The last who remembered. And we all knew what came next.
    "I saw the Emperor," Cole said, head bowed. There was no use lying anymore – perhaps peasants could get away with an excuse, an alibi claiming they were never near the place, perhaps even the lowly privates, but anyone higher than a captain in the Army had seen It in Its full glory, Its full power and horror. From the instant the captain had identified him, Cole was doomed.
    "Then in the name of the Emperor," the captain intoned, voice carrying the pitch of long repetition, "I charge you with the fatal crime: remembering. The punishment is death, administered here and now." With one swift movement the captain drew his dream rod and smashed it down on the back of Cole's neck. He crumpled without a sound, limbs jerking, and we knew what he was seeing: the memories of every Mnesiac already executed, their dreams and desires, everything they had ever experienced or thought. His brain was no doubt awash and aflame with life, but the truth was he was already dead. He had already lost who he was into the rod, now just an extension of its cruel power. He would rise in moment, but he would not be Cole any more.
    As Cole's body lay twitching at his feet, the captain gazed at us. We stood quietly, hopelessly, but with a quiet dignity that could not be taken away. We had resisted this long, knowing sooner or later it would all catch up to us. No one escaped the Amnesiacs, and now there would be no one left to even try. We were the last.
    "Every man and woman standing here," announced the captain imperiously. "Witness my sentence: you are every one of you guilty with the fatal crime. Amnesiacs, execute them."
    Cole rose and turned toward us, and the captain smirked and handed his own dream rod to him. Cole closed in along with the rest of them, rod held high.
    The rods contacted us all at once and we collapsed, minds burning with color. Our last thoughts connected as we died, weaving together into a single memory that jolted through our veins as the last thing of ours we would ever experience, even combined as it was into a single thought.
    They came for us at four in the morning…