By the time Ulysses and the boy reached Quezon Memorial Circle, the park had transformed into a desperate camp.
Blue tarps flapped between trees. Cardboard shelters leaned against crumbling walls. Families huddled on the grass, their belongings spread like offerings before them. Smoke from makeshift fires stung the air, mixing with the stench of sweat and unwashed bodies.
Soldiers patrolled the perimeter, their uniforms mud-streaked, rifles slung but ready. Lines stretched from military trucks where rations were being handed out—cans of sardines, packets of instant noodles, bottles of murky water. The line shuffled forward with the sluggishness of despair.
Ulysses and the boy joined the end. Hunger gnawed at him, but he tried to focus on details: the way people clutched their ration slips like lottery tickets, the low growl of voices arguing over cuts, the occasional sharp cry of someone collapsing from exhaustion.
He pulled out his recorder, shielding it with his palm. His voice was low, almost a whisper: "Relief camp at Quezon Memorial Circle. Manila's inland lungs, gasping for breath. Supplies scarce. Tempers high. Soldiers barely hold the line. The city bleeds into itself."
The boy leaned close. "Are you talking to yourself?"
"To the world," Ulysses answered softly. "If anyone's still listening."
When their turn came, a weary soldier handed them one ration pack. Just one. Ulysses frowned. "There are two of us."
The soldier shrugged. "One per family."
Ulysses opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. The boy's hand tightened on his sleeve. He accepted the pack in silence.
They sat beneath a tree, splitting the cold noodles and sipping from the same water bottle. The boy ate slowly, chewing each bite like it was gold. Ulysses forced himself to eat too, though guilt churned in his stomach. He'd reported famines before, but being inside one was different. Every swallow felt like theft.
That evening, a commotion erupted near the park's monument. A group of men in ragged clothes climbed onto the platform, one of them waving a torn Bible above his head. His voice carried across the camp:
"The government is gone! The soldiers are powerless! But the signs are clear—the Son of Man is coming! Repent and prepare, or be swept away like the waves!"
Cheers and amens rose from part of the crowd. Others booed, throwing scraps of food and rocks. A fight broke out, soldiers rushing to intervene. Gunshots cracked the air, sending people diving to the ground. The camp dissolved into chaos, fear and faith colliding in equal measure.
Ulysses shielded the boy, pressing his face into his chest. His own heart pounded, but his mind raced. He scribbled in his notebook even as bullets echoed: Even here, in the refuge, the nations fracture. Belief divides sharper than hunger. Who rules—government, soldier, or prophet? No one knows.
When the camp finally quieted, Ulysses looked at the boy and saw reflected in his eyes the same question burning in his own:
How long can this world hold together before it tears apart completely?
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End of Chapter 15