by Keys, Logan
Our train had bisected an opening set several miles out in the water. Each broad side had been carved into figures (like Mount Rushmore, only with part of the torso chiseled in, as well) as large as skyscrapers—one of a woman, the other a man—watching us approach with steely eyed resolve.
Desi had to prod me from the platform, I was so busy staring. The citizens wore black or grey—dove grey at the lightest. Even little girls wore plain, straight frocks, no frills, hair woven in a single braid.
He was gawked at, too, for his bright clothing.
“Can you get into trouble?” My whisper felt like a yell.
“Probably.” He shrugged and grinned.
Desi had dropped me off at the depot after giving me his cousin’s address, saying he’d check on me later before he left the city. He’d seemed eager to see his family, and to probably change his clothes, since it was becoming increasingly clear he was breaking some type of rule.
Alone….
Again.
“Liza Randusky? … Liza?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
A lady with charcoal-lined eyes stares at me with a bored expression. She hands me a box. It’s not very big.
“Is this—?” I fight through the lump in my throat. “Is this … for both?”
She raises two thinly drawn eyebrows. Donning her reading glasses, she reads the label aloud—both my parents’ full names—before giving me a questioning look.
My nod’s slow from embarrassment, and she pushes the box toward me with an expression that says: Well, all right, then. Get out of here, sick girl.
What’s left of my family, what’s left of my whole world, I hug tightly to my chest in response. People move out of my way, some pulling their children protectively behind themselves before the double doors release me back onto the sidewalk and out into the smoggy, loud city. Sunlight begins to leave its zenith, turning Anthem into a forbidding shadow.
Left then right, everywhere I look seems the wrong way. My parents’ items shift with each step through the sea of people.
It’s not difficult. They all part away from me.
I’m a hazard.
And their lives are so precious.
The trip’s only ten blocks south and then three east, yet before long, I’m panting with more than simple exhaustion. An empty alleyway offers me a break from the endless stream of citizens making me dizzy. On the ground with my box, eyes closed and head back against the wall of the building, it’s tempting to simply wait for a solution to arrive.
Watching the sky darken is more interesting than getting up, so that’s where I stay.
When darkness descends, the noise cuts like the city’s been suffocated. With the box in hand, I’m sorted enough emotionally to start my way again, but an empty city is what greets me.
When I exit the alleyway, there are no lights, no cars—nothing. A ghost town has descended, without even the wind blowing through now.
The moon hides tonight, making the way almost pitch-black dispersed only by layered shadows. I take the direction from before, and the urge to check behind rises along with my heart rate, and paranoia makes me imagine a slithering sound in the darkness.
It’s impossible to read the directions, so I’m hoping I’ve not missed my turn. What if I get lost? I’m squinting so hard at the sheet of paper that the sudden collision with an immovable object forces my parents’ things from my hands and into the street.
The glinting mirrored visor seems to float above me in the shadows. The unmistakable—familiar, hated—guard watches me impassively, as always.
He snags my shirt, and I freeze up at the memory of the last one who’d grabbed me like that. Even now, the bite on my shoulder burns. “No! Stop!”
His grip tightens, and the same robotic-quality voice comes through the breather. “Citizen, you are out past curfew. Come with me.”
“Let me go! I got lost. It wasn’t my fault. Please.”
My box still lies in the street. “Wait. Let me get my things, at least. Please, they’re my family’s last … it’s all I have left … you can’t just—”
The guard stops, and at first, he seems like he’ll relent, before he says, “Resisting arrest is an offense against the Authority.”
Then, he whips out zip ties and starts to anchor my hands together.
While they’re being pulled tight, my anger boils up like never before, and I brace myself, legs stiff.
“No.”
The guard clips something to the zip ties and his leash goes taut when he tries to walk on. But I’m not following.
“I said, no.”
He tugs, which makes me take one step, and then another.
My brain seizes. “No!”
With all of my strength, I pull back, and the guard unexpectedly flies backwards. We topple to the concrete together, where he lands on top of me, his heavy weight forcing my breaths into a frantic wheeze.
His baton is high above him one moment before flying toward my face.
Pure instinct has me diving in a worm-like movement, through his legs and out the other side. A clank of metal-on-concrete pings loudly in the silence as the baton lands where my head had been only moments before.
My teeth lock together, and my vision goes white. In a move faster than I’ve ever made, I’m behind him with the leash wound around his neck.
The leash is tight in my hands while he flails, trying to hit me with the baton, though I’m dodging his swings effortlessly.
My voice is deep, foreign. “Is this how you get your enjoyment? Beating up little girls in the street? Sick people who carry everything they have left in the whole wide world!”
He finally relinquishes his weapon to scrape at his neck instead, while thrashing silently on the pavement.
I’m unreasonably calm. “What kind of monster would bash my brains in for being out at night? I know what kind. One who thinks he protects us by stripping away our rights. One who shipped me away like an animal to die, somewhere out of sight. To endure the worst things ‘for our own good.’ All for those leaders carved neatly into the walls.”
My new friend is asleep when I pilfer his knife to cut my ties. Then, with a prayer that no one sees me robbing the guard, I grab his flashlight, too. I’m soon on my way, box in hand again, sticking to the darkest shadows and hoping against hope that I’ll not be caught.
I use the flashlight only once to read the directions before throwing the thing into the trash. It bears the Authority insignia of the eagle head with three stripes behind it that read: Life, Liberty, Authority.
Only two of them make sense.
At the door, there’s an obvious hesitation to open after I knock. A man, maybe in his early twenties, cracks it, checking the streets first, before pulling it open farther. He’s identical to Desi but for the short hair. He blinks behind thick, round glasses before rushing me inside, locking the door back again.
“I’m … Liza,” I say, breaths still coming fast.
“Journee,” he replies, without a hint of his cousin’s accent. “Welcome to the mainland.”
He gestures for me to sit, and I do, placing my box on my knees. I’d run the entire way and so, with heavy breathing, I take in the surroundings of the small room. “Anthem’s not what I expected.”
Journee gives a dry smile. “Around here, we call it ‘Ash City.’”
My smile is similar. “That makes sense.”
Journee leaves and comes back holding two cups of something steamy. He hands me one while two heads peek around his broad shoulders. Twins, and probably his same age, which still seems so much older than I’m used to.
One of them gasps and puts a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God!” She smacks her gum between words. “What happened to your hair?”
My hoodie’s fallen back to reveal my still-shaved head almost to the scalp.
The other twin brushes past Journee with a roll of her eyes and sits in his desk chair, making it spin. “Jeez, Manda. You can’t just ask people w
hat happened to their hair.” She turns toward the computer screen and starts typing on the program that comes up.
Journee gestures to the twin in the chair. “This is Serena,” he says, “and you’ve already met Manda, who’s known for being … a delicate flower.” He chuckles.
“Hello,” I reply. I feel like a stranger, because I am one.
The computer sounds off an annoying alarm that repeats until Journee sets his cup down and types something in.
“Why can’t you just give me the password, Journ?” whines the twin Journee had called Serena.
“’Cause then I’d have to kill you.” He winks at her from behind his thick glasses, and she rolls her eyes at him.
Manda walks forward, but keeps a safe distance, one hand over her nose.
Journee takes a sip from his cup. “Blue here isn’t sick. My cousin Desi said she got a clean bill of health and everything.” Then, he turns to me. “You ready to see your room?”
At my nod, he smiles charmingly, adjusting his glasses.
I’m still clutching the box when he stops in front of a door several down from his own, in what looks like some sort of warehouse where they all live. “I only have two rules,” he says seriously. “First, don’t get us into trouble with the guards, which means no coming in late again. And the other—” He pauses, coughing. “No sleeping with anyone in our commune.”
My cheeks heat.
“Unless”—Journee turns to me with a wink—“you really want to.”
I gape until it’s obvious that he’s joking.
I clear my throat. “How will … I pay for this?”
Journee laughs. “Well, I’m glad you think it’s worth money. But you’ll pay for it through rations, mostly. They give us food and other stuff that we share, ‘cause that somehow balances out for excess. I sell what’s left, if it’s still good enough. I don’t think you know, probably … I’ll just tell ya. You live in the projects now, so to speak. We simply call it Section, and the Authority gives me money to give people like you a place to live … but … if you want a real job, see me later and I’ll try to hook you up.
“And I’ll have Manda drop off some blankets and a pillow,” he continues. “Oh, and if she asks … say no.”
“Asks me what?”
Journee gives me a look. “You’ll know when she asks.”
On Wednesdays, we get rations. On Fridays, we return anything broken, unused, or simply bad. Fridays, I return a lot of stuff.
First week, it was moldy bread. Second, soap that burned my skin. Today, it’s broken bulbs.
The food is bland and terrible, and the toothpaste isn’t even real. Manda gave me a tube of the good stuff, but that costs her, so it’s used sparingly.
The “sick” thing seems to make her think I’m feeble and that she has to give to charity or something; she’s always ready to help. Her New York accent is wonderful to listen to, though. It reminds me of when places once differed from one another; cities that were like their own countries, with customs, people, culture.
Now, she flaps her hands at me and says, “Life left us awel behind.” Her dark hair’s tied back in a bandanna today, and her cinnamon skin is dusted with sparkles. Seems like something that wouldn’t be allowed in Ash City.
We’re at the laundromat, washing our grey clothes while she fills me in on her life. “You know, my mothah never said much, ‘cause she was always drunk, but when she did, she told me, ‘Manda, doncha evah give up. Nevah-evah.’ Life’s just crap, and you gotta push on, ya know? So here I am. Found my sistah aftah the flood, and we’ve been togethah evah since. She’s got some fancy job down at the coit howse.”
“The court house?”
“Oh yeah.” She draws out the last word, extra-long. “Big deal up there with them wigs. Even some loiya money man’s been comin’ around, and I found them in the computah room, makin’ out. I says to her, ‘Honey, I know ya love him, but come on down here where’s you belongs.’ When this thing hit, I found her and told her I’m a minute oldah, so no mattah what, I’ll be the biggah sistah.”
Something sharp sits in Manda’s dark eyes when she says this. An expression that’s cold and calculating. Manda’s the survivor of the two. You begin to recognize these things.
By the hickeys on her neck, I’d be willing to guess her job involves a lot more touching than I’m comfortable with, so when she asks if I want a job, I remember Journee’s words and shake my head.
Today, boredom has me going to Journee to ask him about a job. The need to do something has become unbearable. Well, that, and my dwindling supply of real toothpaste.
He and Serena are speaking quietly near the computer when I arrive. She sounds stressed.
After she leaves, Journee doesn’t even look up from his rapid typing when he says, “How can I help you, Blue?”
“It’s Liza. I wondered about the job you’d mentioned before. Is it still a possibility?”
Journee types a moment longer before he spins around to face me. He stretches his arms behind his head with a grin. “So, you’re ready to join the team.”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, it’s about damn time, Blue.”
“It’s Liza. What did you have in mind? I’m not good at very many things.”
“First, I call you ‘Blue’ because we all have new names around here. It’s only fair we move on from where we were before.” Then, his voice changes. “And you ain’t the only one with dem kinda past, gel.”
His spot-on mimic of Desi’s accent makes me laugh. “I see.”
“If you don’t like ‘Blue,’ what would you like?”
“Um …”
“Any special talents?”
I avoid his gaze. “The piano.”
“Oh, really? How good are you?”
“Um …”
“That good, eh? Gel, dis man be tinkin’ we give you a new name, den.”
“I think Liza is fine.”
“Well, yes, but everyone deserves a new start.” He rubs his chin. “How about Mozart?”
I shrug while Journee claps his hands, not caring about my opinion in the slightest. “Mozart it is!” he says. “Now, what to do about that voice of yours …”
“What?”
“That accent.”
I draw a blank.
“You can’t hear it yourself,” he explains, “and it’s faint, but it’s there. Some kind of British. This job needs an American accent. Can you sound more American if you try?”
“I think so,” I reply with a country accent.
Journee stifles a laugh at my terrible attempt. “Good,” he says. “Or just don’t talk.”
“I can do that.”
“Even better! No offense, but a girl who doesn’t talk much around here will be more than welcome. Now”—he puts a finger to his chin—“for that hair.”
It’s actually grown a bit. For me, that is. Even my eyelashes and brows are back.
“I think I’ll just add some wigs to the list,” he says. “Other than that, get with Serena in the morning, and she’ll give you the lowdown.”
“What is it? The job, I mean.”
“Oh, right. Well, the rich people around here don’t like jury duty much. Ever been? No? I didn’t think so. Anyway, you go, hear the short arguments, using a reader in front of you all day for evidence. With the strict rules, and new ones every day … lots more hearings. Getting a proxy to go instead is big money, but you kind of have to play the part. If you look or sound dicey, they’ll pick you up in a heartbeat. Plus, we can’t use the same proxies over and over again, so you’ll have to sort of … change your identity.”
“What?”
“It’s no big trouble, or technically illegal. Plus, the rich don’t want to get caught any more than you do, so they pay a lot of hush money in the off chance that you do get into trouble. Been doing this for years.”
“But what about your rules?” I ask. “The ones about keeping out of situations like this?” I didn’t me
ntion the other, but he smirks anyway.
“That’s just something we say to the newbies, to try to scare them into giving us all of their good rations.”
“You mean, I didn’t have to give up my desserts?”
Journee laughs. “So that’s why Manda looks like she’s put on ten pounds.”
I fold my arms and raise an eyebrow.
“Nah, Mozart. Chill. We got you. Don’t worry, mon, ‘cause every little ting gonna be all right.”
After a weekend spent with Serena, my wardrobe includes a dress suit, a wig, heels, and some sunglasses. Pearls, too.
“They’re fake,” she said with another eye roll. “Stuff your bra and put on some makeup. You have to look a lot older than…?”
“Sixteen,” I supplied.
“Yeah. We need to make sure you don’t look like jail bait.”
“But I …” I began, and then, “You know what? Never mind.”
I didn’t want to start a dialogue on why I didn’t even own a bra. I’d tape socks to my chest if I had to.
Today, Serena wears a pant suit, herself. It’s sharp. And Journee’s out in the alleyway, his own tailor-made suit and tie perfect for his physique.
“I know, right?” Serena nudges me, and we start toward a waiting taxi.
The rules are simple: Act rich. Get paid.
My fake ID is snapped onto my jacket, and Serena dabs some lipstick on me. The dark grey looks silly with my pale skin, but I’m trying to keep my confusion to a minimum for this job.
As I enter the courthouse, my blonde wig and heels turn a few heads, but I’m too busy gawking, myself. Massive white pillars bracket the entrance. Banners of the Authority’s eagle insignia hang from the ceiling. Inside reminds me of a cathedral, but instead of saints on the walls, statues of the Authority figures stand—the same man and woman I’d seen from the train.
Below these, however, are their names: Reginald Cromwell, and Karma Cromwell.
“Next!” At the entrance, a guard wands me down, and I hope he isn’t the same one I’d choked after my arrival to the city.