Whispers in Autumn (The Last Year, #1)

by Trisha Leigh

  We parade from our homes and gather at the Cell in complete silence. At exactly nine-twenty we spill onto Main Street. I spot the pine-scented boy and his parents the same moment he sees me, raising his eyebrows in a silent hello. An odd combination of pleasure and trepidation fight for my attention, but neither wins and I eventually distract myself by studying the rest of the group. To my right, the girl with the black curls, the one who wants to work in Administration, bounces next to two petite, adult copies of her. A couple of younger children skip next to one another in perfect synchronization.

  The day dawned crisp and breezy, and even though the sun has risen, frosty dew slicks dying blades of grass. The morning is as quiet as the humans moving through it, save the occasional scuff of a sneaker or a swallowed cough. Closer to the boundary we might hear birds singing or animals scratching up breakfast, but not this far inside the city.

  A typical Family Outing lasts about an hour, from nine until ten. Brunch deliveries wait in the kitchens upon our return, and then we watch the afternoon movie together. As we near the boundary today, though, the people at the front of our hiking brigade slow to a stop. I crane my neck, straining to glimpse what has caught their attention. When I do, my stomach plummets into my shoes.

  A group of Wardens stand at attention in front of the boundary.

  I’ve witnessed Wardens in person just four times. I remember them all with clarity; they were the scariest days of my life. I count them quickly. Eight Wardens. I’ve never seen so many in one place before. Never seen more than two, actually, the number sent out to collect the Broken. They flank a large video screen they’ve hung on the fence. Off to one side sits a white plastic table that holds a punch bowl, some blocks of pale pink rock, and several jugs of what looks like water.

  The Wardens are the enforcement arm of the Others’ government, but aside from their tan uniforms with shiny black accents, they look the same as the rest of their race; tall, blond, and beautiful to the point of not appearing real. Unlike the Elements, they have no blue pinpoints interrupting their glossy, black gaze. No whites like a human eye, no pupil or iris. Just an endless void. The effect makes them appear sightless, but they’re not.

  They shouldn’t be here now. No one is Broken. But no one speaks or questions them, even though I don’t think the Others informed anyone of this alteration. We all simply wait.

  Once everyone has entered the park, a Warden clears his throat. “There will be a brief video presentation regarding this change to your monthly Outing, and afterward we invite the Terminal students to join us for a drink celebrating our presence among you in your final year at Cell.”

  His beautiful voice pours into my ears like a sweet coating of honey, but the sight of him embeds a throbbing ache behind my eyes. Looking directly at the Others causes a jabbing pain deep in my brain, like needles being slammed through my forehead. Perhaps because our mere human minds can’t process their superior existence.

  That is what they would have us believe.

  Most of my fellow humans stare at the ground or into the Wilds—no one maintains direct eye contact with the Wardens. My heart spasms and clenches, a sense of foreboding wriggling past my boredom as the screen flickers to life.

  Our Cell Administrator slides into his office chair on the screen, even though he should be on the Outing, not at Cell on a Sunday. I focus on holding my head still, refusing to let it whip around to look for him because everyone else remains motionless. And the Wardens aren’t interested in the screen. Their black-hole eyes train on the crowd, watching for…what?

  The Administrator’s round belly barely fits behind his desk, and he works to smooth his tie into place. Serenity paints his familiar, fleshy face as he smiles and nods into the camera. “Good morning. As you’ve noticed, the Others have dispatched Wardens to Danbury. Their purpose here is to observe and conduct interviews with the Terminal class, which will begin tomorrow. The sessions will be held one student at a time during chemistry, one block each week until completion. The Others wish for me to convey their appreciation for your cooperation in this matter. Thank you.”

  The screen goes black. Sweat dampens the back of my neck, spinning chills down my arms in the clammy morning. They’re going to talk to us alone. Just the Terminals. Why? Since chemistry is my end block, the seventh of my day, I have seven weeks to figure out how I’m going to keep my secrets while alone in a room with a Warden. Or more than one.

  After all these years, fooling the kids at school and my fake parents is second nature, but something tells me the Others won’t be affected by my semi-invisibility.

  The Wardens march to the table. One stands behind the cut-glass punch bowl, a plastic dipper in his hand. “If you would all gather around, we’ll begin serving you in a moment.”

  He doesn’t elaborate on what we’ll be served. My legs don’t want to follow the direction to gather, even though there’s no choice. I can’t refuse, not while my Cellmates shamble obediently closer to the table, forming a loose line. I manage to find a place, nearly bumping into a boy I don’t recognize. His glossy black hair hangs over one almond-shaped eye and he offers a half smile as he motions me in front of him.

  He’s a Barbarus, an uncommon thing here in Danbury. We’ve been instructed that even though the Barbarus look different on the outside, inside they’re like the rest of us. They even differ in appearance from one another. Some have funny-shaped eyes, some a kind of light brown skin or noses that seem too big for their faces. Since they don’t teach us about what existed before the Others came, we don’t know about the origin of the Barbarus, but only a handful remain on Earth.

  Even though a few attend my Cell in Portland, when I turn to thank him breath catches in my throat. The boy’s complexion appears yellow in the dappled autumn sunlight, and he’s barely taller than I am. The slanted eyes, the jet-black hair, and short stature all align with my knowledge of this particular human variation. But his eyes are wrong. They’re a clear sky blue when they should be dark brown.

  It takes a moment to recover, but habit pastes a fake smile on my lips while my brain catches up. “Uh, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I turn around. At the table, two Wardens grab the pinkish lumps and set to crushing them under their hands. The Others prepare food and deliver drinks for us every day, but I’ve never seen the process. Either the substance is soft or the Wardens are strong; perhaps the truth is a little of both. Soon piles of pink dust scatter the white tabletop. A breeze blows some of the particles into the faces of the Terms nearest the table. They giggle, swiping dust off one another’s shoulders and shaking it out of their hair, trading their laughter for violent sneezes after a moment or two.

  The majority of the pink substance dissolves in the jugs, coloring the clear water as the Wardens shake them and then begin to pour rations into tiny plastic cups. The first of my Cellmates, a tall girl with a long brown ponytail, accepts the gift and drinks it down in two gulps before rejoining her parents. The next two are boys, one blond and one a redhead like me. The line moves forward slowly, but too fast for my pounding heart. This development scares me, although as with the fear I have of the Others, I can’t put a finger on the reason.

  Except that I don’t want to be observed or interviewed or noticed at all. Not by the Others.

  I spot Pine Boy—Lucas—four or five people ahead when he turns, scanning the faces of the kids behind him. Our eyes meet, and for a split second I see my fears reflected on his pale face. Then he spins around again, stepping ahead as the line moves.

  The novelty of this exercise makes it hard to breathe. Trusting no one, hiding in plain sight, I depend on the familiar ins and outs of the days on Earth. Without them, how will I know how to act Acceptable?

  “What do you suppose they’re looking for in Danbury? And why just the Term class?”

  The Barbarus boy’s voice slithers over my shoulder in a whisper. I shrug, dying to talk with someone but unwilling to display any hesitat
ion while the Wardens scrutinize the moving line. The boy’s questions border on suspicious, and tangle with the similar emotion in my gut. It’s weird to hear an innate distrust of the Others in a voice not my own.

  Trust no one.

  That definitely includes a strange Barbarus who appears the same morning as the Wardens.

  The sight of the first nosebleed pulls my attention from the new boy. The second, third, and fourth jerk my stomach into knots. It’s not as though I’ve never seen one before. People take ill. There are Healers and nosebleeds aren’t serious.

  But all of the Terms with blood dripping from their noses have already swallowed their offerings.

  The affected kids wipe absently at the red flow and don’t seem to be in pain, a kind of bemused expression on their faces as they await further instruction.

  A gurgle rises in my throat, a desire to point out the problem, but not a single person utters a word. Not the kids’ parents, not their friends. But the Wardens notice, and less than five minutes later two more of them arrive in a rider. The Others mode of transportation glints black from front to rear, hovering three feet off the grass on four spinning disks, whirring quietly.

  The newest Wardens guide the bleeding Terms through the open rider doors, slamming them shut with distinct finality.

  No one says a word then either.

  Parents wait for their Terms to finish partaking, talking contentedly among themselves. Little children bend and pick at blades of grass, tossing them at one another or braiding them into wreaths. The kids in the rider are going to a Healer, I tell myself. They’re not being taken away. They’re not Broken.

  I swallow once, then again, but the fear climbing up my throat refuses to dissipate. The line plods forward, and as we move, more anomalies make it impossible to breathe without gulping air.

  The girl who had been at the front of the line, the one with the brown ponytail, rubs itchy eyes until her hands come away bloody.

  A thin crimson ribbon trails from the redheaded boy’s lips after he coughs.

  They both disappear into the rider.

  The Wardens behind the table ignore their growing collection of bloody Terms, passing out cup after cup of pink liquid. My Cellmates still don’t pause before draining their celebratory gift, and as I creep closer to having to do the same, it comforts me that the rest of the Terms appear unaffected.

  I realize then that the kids in the rider are the ones who breathed in the pink dust as it blew into their faces.

  The Barbarus boy says nothing further, leaving me to believe I imagined the disquiet in his voice moments before. Sweat trickles down my back as Lucas drinks and joins his parents at the entrance of the park. His face no longer reflects worry, but remains ashen. Uneasiness claws at my lungs, shredding them as though there’s no oxygen in this entire world. What the Barbarus said about the Others dispatching the Wardens to observe our class in particular, rings in my ears like a warning. If they’re looking for something, and the interviews are designed to help them find it, perhaps the pink drink is also a test. Are the kids in the rider failing or passing?

  They’re failing. As much as I want to believe they’ll be okay, it’s hard. I’ve never known a single person who got into a rider to return. Ever.

  It’s my turn. The Wardens, apparently tired of this entire process, hand me my cup and pass out the remaining doses to the Barbarus and three girls behind him all at once.

  “That will be all. You may return to your homes.”

  None of the Wardens leave, continuing to watch, perhaps in case any more of us start gushing blood onto our tracksuits.

  “Bottoms up.” The Barbarus boy tips his pink concoction past his lips and tosses the cup into a waste receptacle.

  He waits, watching me with as much interest as the Wardens, and it’s obvious I’m not getting out of this new ritual. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan appear, stepping to my side with warm smiles.

  “Oh, Thea dear, do drink that. It was so kind of the Others to think of you at the outset of your last year.” Mrs. Morgan pats my arm, nudging my hand toward my face.

  It’s now or never. Even hesitating as long as I have could be a warning to the Wardens that I don’t trust them as blindly as everyone else. The Barbarus stares with a grin that glints in his eyes. Mr. Morgan’s stomach growls, and I know he’s anxious for brunch. From the corner of my eye, I watch Lucas and his parents hurry out of the park.

  The liquid tastes like water despite its pinkness, but it’s warm instead of cool like I expect. I toss the cup and smile at my fake parents. “Let’s go home. I’m hungry.” I turn to say goodbye to the Barbarus, but he’s already moving away. I crane my neck, looking for his parents, but don’t see them.

  The Morgans and I trek back through town alongside the rest of Danbury, chatting with the neighbors while Mrs. Morgan coos over their baby boy. I feel lucky to have escaped injury and detection this morning, but then, as we turn onto the Morgans’ street, I start to sweat. It’s residual panic, I think at first, but then the heat trapped inside me bulges uncomfortably. It rises up and out with an uncontrollable strength. It’s escaped my restraint on many occasions, but never with this kind of force. Never so powerful it makes me feel explosive, as though it’s trying to melt me from the inside.

  As soon as we enter the house, I mumble that I’ve got to use the wasteroom and make a beeline for the mirror. My cheeks are flushed bright red. Sweat drizzles from the hair around my forehead. I breathe in through my nose and blow out through my mouth as my limbs shake so badly it knocks me to the floor. The white tiles burn my knees as if they are blocks of ice.

  The heat has to go somewhere. My body can’t hold it.

  Instinct propels me across the floor to the toilet. I submerge my hands in the water and stop pushing the power back down inside me.

  I don’t feel better until every last drop of water has boiled away.

  CHAPTER 5.

  The next morning—the day of the Gathering—yawns as bright as the day before, the temperature holding steady for early fall in Connecticut. I couldn’t be more pleased about the nice weather, and I say a quick wish for my next travel to take me back to the spring. Winter is coming, otherwise known as the bane of my existence.

  Much like my required attendance at tonight’s Gathering.

  Deciding what to wear is a necessary evil. The clothes hanging in the closet offer plenty of options, thanks to Mrs. Morgan’s penchant for pretty things, and I grab a dress at random. I don’t have a date but am expected to make myself attractive. Or as attractive as a shadow person can be, at any rate.

  Now that the Wardens are in town, I have to try even harder to do everything right.

  I didn’t leave the house this morning, not even during the allowed weekend hour. Little noises made me jump and I’ve worn a rut in my bedroom carpet checking out the window. I expected to see Wardens racing to haul me away each time, yet they haven’t come.

  During Sunday Sharing, when my “parents” asked about my life, I told them I’m looking forward to exams, and to finding a Partner at the Gathering, because that’s what normal Term girls talk about during the last year.

  My autumn parents smiled as though it pleased them, their only daughter taking an interest in her future. Some people the Morgans’ ages have siblings, more than one child born to the same couple, but it doesn’t happen anymore. Now the Others have declared having more than one baby Unacceptable. Unless the first child is Broken.

  The Wardens take babies and children who are Broken, who are sick, don’t act normal, or don’t look right. I have no doubt that they’ll come for me one day.

  The deep navy material of the dress makes my eyes stand out and it’s snug in all the right places. I have to admit it makes me feel a little bit pretty. Mrs. Morgan insists on styling my hair, so my deep red locks now hang in fat curls down my back, the sides secured under a headband. My hair’s too thick to hold the style for long and will relax into waves before the Gathering even begins, b
ut the attention is nice. I even give in to her prodding and apply a little makeup before grabbing a bag and heading out. Like five days a week at Cell isn’t enough.

  The transformation in the eatery is stunning. Instead of the sterile, white-tiled environment we eat in every day, this new one is nothing less than elegant. The floors are wooden, the walls painted a deep caramel color, and every inch of the room reflects the season. Trees that look as real as the ones outside seem to reach off the walls, thin branches dripping radiant leaves toward the floor. Sunflowers and fall flora stand in between them, separated by long tables slathered with food. The three video screens are lit, as usual, and the Monitors watch over the proceedings with proud, glowing smiles.

  Students shuffle between the tables, talking and laughing with one another, though it’s quieter than a typical lunch block. Some mingle, but the majority isn’t any more comfortable with the opposite sex tonight than during Cell hours. The girls chatter in hushed tones among themselves and the boys stand in silence and stuff their faces. I sidle up to the largest cluster of girls, allowing myself a moment to wonder how Val and Monica are getting along on this night; whether they’re going alone, what they’re wearing, if they’re excited.

  Only a moment, though.

  I hover around the edges of the groups, wanting nothing more than to blend in. Conversations swirl through the air; they fall on my ears but don’t penetrate. Instead, my eyes search the room for the pine-scented boy.

  Since that first day in Danbury, pretty much all my spare time has been spent seeking his face. I’ve tried to stop, but I guess I really don’t want to. The memory of his pale face at the Outing yesterday hovers in my memory, and the small part of me that isn’t scared of being discovered or of trusting someone—the same part that misses having another human to talk to, to touch, to know—hopes he’s different because he’s like me.

  Without warning my eyes collide with his across the room; a cool, blue flame meeting a white-hot one for a split second until we both look away. Our gazes wander back and his smile drops from his lips, swapped for curiosity and anxiety.