The camp was alive with murmurs. Some rushed to gather their belongings, eager to climb onto the waiting trucks. Others dug their heels in, insisting the relocation was a trap, a way for the government to control or abandon them.
"Shelter?" one man scoffed. "You mean prison. They'll herd us inland and forget us there."
"They have food," a woman countered, clutching her infant. "Anywhere is better than starving here."
The soldiers shouted over the arguments, urging people to form lines. Their hands rested on rifles, not out of overt threat, but as a reminder.
Ulysses stayed on the fringe, the boy pressed close to his side. His gut twisted. Trusting the government felt like surrendering his freedom—and yet, the memory of empty ration packets gnawed at him. The boy's thin face made the choice crueler.
The prophet appeared then, striding through the crowd as though he had been waiting for this moment. His torn robe trailed in the mud, his voice booming:
"Do not go with them! They promise safety, but they will lead you into the valley of chains! Do not trust those who silence truth with bullets!"
The soldiers stiffened, their commander barking orders to keep the crowd under control. The prophet climbed a collapsed wall and lifted his arms high.
"The Son of Man comes not to cages, not to bunkers, but here—where the faithful endure! Stay, and you will see His glory!"
A cheer rose from his followers, swelling with fervor. Others shouted in anger, torn between hunger and faith, fear and hope.
Ulysses felt every eye shift between the trucks, the soldiers, the prophet… and him. He wanted to melt into the ground, but the prophet's earlier words still clung to him like a curse: This man is a witness.
The boy tugged on his sleeve. "Kuya," he whispered urgently, "what if they take us far away and we never see the sky again?"
The words chilled Ulysses. The boy's fear was not of hunger or bullets—it was of being cut off from the signs in the heavens, the red moon that loomed above like a terrible clock.
"I don't know," Ulysses admitted, crouching so their eyes met. "But we have to choose. Here, with the prophet and his fire… or there, with the soldiers and their guns. Neither feels safe."
The boy's lip trembled. "Then where do we belong?"
Before Ulysses could answer, a scuffle broke out at the truck line. A man tried to force his way aboard, screaming about food. A soldier struck him with the butt of a rifle. The crowd roared, surging forward.
The prophet's voice cut through the chaos, fierce and commanding:
"Stand firm! The earth trembles, the heavens shake—redemption draws near!"
Ulysses pulled the boy back, heart hammering. Survival was slipping further from his control. Both choices—government or prophet—felt like traps, and yet the boy's eyes looked to him for guidance.
And for the first time, Ulysses realized: his choice would shape not only their survival, but perhaps their souls.
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End of Chapter 22