“Willa,” she said. “I’m from here.”
“Willa,” he repeated, thinking on it. “None from here can afford a food drone, much less a quartet of ’em.”
She shrugged. “Nevertheless, here they are,” she answered, holding the bowl toward his face. He inhaled reflexively and felt his mouth go swollen with saliva. She noticed.
“Stop waiting. Call those kids out here, take this.”
Everard allowed her to place the bowl into his hands. The warm, fragrant steam filled his nostrils and suddenly he was a kid again, celebrating Thanksgiving on the bayou. He gave in, shoveled a mouthful. It was like waking up in a better time. Nostalgia hit him like a shot of adrenaline and he felt his chemistry change. He spun to the door. “Come on, come on out! Hurry on.”
All ten children poured from the home. They reached him and stood quietly in line, a learned behavior, taught for their own good.
“Grab a bowl, each of you,” he said, handing them out. “Lynn, Ryan, Octavia, Jack: help the tikes first, unnerstand?” The older children nodded and went to work doling servings to their younger compatriots. None took a grain of rice before the smaller children had their bowls.
Restraint inside the other homes failed as doors erupted with a similarly diverse ragtag compliment of children, galloping ahead of the few adults who tried to herd them. Everard finished his bowl, which Willa graciously reloaded with a mountainous spoonful.
“You got money,” he remarked, swallowing. “You highblood or employed?”
“Employed.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Phlebotomist,” she said.
So she was Patriot. “Reaper.” He grunted with a note of disdain. “Patriot know you’re doin’ this?”
“It’s not illegal,” said Willa.
“Yeah, well,” he said over a mouthful of hot rice, “something good happens in AB Plus, it’s usually ’cause it’s illegal. Speakin’ of, how’d a reaper come into the funds to buy all this?”
“Production bonus,” said Willa. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Everard. Everard Olade Augustus Alison.”
“That’s a mouthful,” she said extending a hand. “Willa Mae Wallace.”
“That’s an old name.”
“I’m an old person.”
He grinned through his chewing. “You ain’t look old in that hair.”
“Well, I’ll consider that a compliment,” she said.
“It was,” Everard answered, filling his mouth again. “Tryin’ to bring back All Hallows’ Eve?”
“Afraid not,” she answered. “Chrysalis got mine. I wear this so my grandson can find me if we ever get separated.”
He nodded, understanding. “Hmmph. Smart.”
One of the drones closed its cargo panels and lifted off. A group of better than forty children had cleaned it of food, piranha-like, in minutes. The other drones left shortly after, but the population of the street remained to revel in the glow of good fortune.
“You kids gather,” said Everard. They assumed a single file line, bowls in hand, along the uneven and broken concrete of the sidewalk. “This is Willa Mae Wallace. She brought us this food tonight. She’s lowblood just like all you. And guess what? She has a job.” Their faces lit. “Hardly has to sell any red neither. That’s because she listened when the teachers visited. She studied hard. Read those books. And now she makes her own coin, y’all unnerstand?” The children nodded eagerly. “Now, each of you tell Ms Willa thank you.”
One by one, each child shook her hand. Everard felt a tinge of guilt at what he had said, but told himself it was the right thing, to give them hope. Otherwise, there was nothing.
CHAPTER FOUR
ANTIGEN
A substance that stimulates an immune response in the body. There are over 300 known antigens found on blood cells, with those in the ABO blood group being the most immunoreactive, and therefore most important to screen for.
Willa put the kettle on as Isaiah sawed logs. The boy could sleep through anything – an inconvenient fact, in her opinion, as the trauma of previous evacuations rekindled. Forty years had passed since she’d slept in a way that allowed her to forget she was trying to sleep. Lying in bed ten miles from ground zero, she’d been dreaming when Chrysalis bloomed, but the blink of light had burnt through her lids like a camera’s flash.
She still saw it whenever she shut her eyes, the mushroom cloud that came with no warning and no explanation. In the years that had followed, the government gave a smattering of possible reasons. Rogue nation-states, terrorism, sleeper-cells, et cetera. Even the name evolved over the years until the citizenry settled on a moniker that described the bomb’s effect on their way of life. Chrysalis. The thing that changed everything.
The bombs that followed were the natural sequelae of the first, with the country now engaged in a never-ending war with someone, though the authorities were cagey about saying who. They justified their surreptitiousness under the umbrella of protecting intelligence, and with the press largely dismantled, the public had long given up in pushing for answers. Whoever was in charge now – whether it was the shell of the once elected government, or its largest private contractor to which it had gradually ceded power – kept information to a trickle.
Since Chrysalis, sleep had been a fit of wakeful vigilance. Regular PatrioCast notifications kept the prospect of extinction fresh, feeding her mind’s anxiety over another burst of annihilating light. In contrast, the depth of Isaiah’s own sleep troubled her – he was a slow riser, and she worried on the lost seconds that might mean the difference between life and death. As if on cue, her touchstone lit up.
PATRIOCAST 10.21.67
Northwestern Gray Zone Update – Traumatic blood loss: up. Acute illness down. Radiation sickness stable. Anemia of chronic diseases climbing for the following cancers: lung, bladder, ovarian, thyroid.
Total Units Required last 30 days: 2,874,234
Total Units Provided by Patriot: 2,874,234
Northeastern Gray Zone Update – Traumatic blood loss: up. Acute illness stable. Radiation sickness climbing. Anemia of chronic diseases rising for: stomach, lung, liver, colon, breast, gallbladder, esophageal, bladder, ovarian, leukemia, thyroid.
Total Units Required last 30 days: 10,120,098
Total Units Provided by Patriot: 10,120,098
#Lives Saved Estimate last 30 days: 50,000
#Lives Saved Estimate year-to-date: 190,000
Patriot thanks ALL DONORS. Your gift matters!
Willa went to the hallway and pulled on her aubergine rain boots. A small mirror hung on the wall catty-corner to the door. It was easy to avoid, and she usually did, but it seemed to call to her today, so she faced it.
There was Elizabeth, her daughter, gazing back. She always did, just looking older than when the Trade had finally taken her: skin pulling down on those high-up cheekbones, crows’ feet creeping, ear lobes stretching. They’d resembled twins more than mother and daughter – friends and strangers alike had made that clear. The mirror showed Willa, but she never saw herself, only what Elizabeth would have become had her years not been stolen – had she not been failed by her mother.
A knock at the door.
Willa broke from the imagined reunion, stepped back into the main room to check on Isaiah, then went to see who was paying visits during breakfast time. She placed her touchstone on the door, which brought up the outside view through an external camera. A man and a young woman, both in suits, stood smiling. The woman gave a wave.
“Ms Wallace? We’re from Central City Collection. Just hoping to follow up on the incident from night before last.”
They were Patriot. And from the Heart, no less. “No need,” said Willa through the door. “I’m totally fine.”
“We won’t take much time at all,” said the woman. “Just some necessary paperwork I’m afraid, seeing as you’re an employee.”
Willa didn’t like them coming to her home, but Patriot did as it pleased.
The lines of privacy had been pushed backward for years now, and there was no reclaiming lost territory. “Just a moment,” she sighed.
“Not a problem, Ms Wallace. No rush.”
“Isaiah,” she said, nudging his head, “get up, go get dressed.”
The boy rose semi-conscious from his pallet and walked into the bathroom on autopilot. Willa did a once-over of the apartment. She wasn’t sure why; she’d done nothing wrong. She kicked some trinkets underneath their reused-crate bookcase and flipped down the four manual locks on the apartment door.
Upon opening the door, her eyes went to the visitors’ lapel pins. They were identical to those the company phlebotomists had been given, with the new, friendlier Patriot insignia – the letter P impaling a valentine-style heart, rather than the vintage, anatomically correct organ as worn by Jesper Olden.
“May we?” said the woman. The request was perfunctory, a formality understood by all three individuals.
“Of course, Miss…?” prompted Willa, stepping aside.
“Scynthia Scallien, Patriot logistics, and this is Mr Hunter, Patriot security,” she said in a disarmingly courteous way.
“Please excuse my place. I live here with my grandson, and he–”
“Isaiah?” said Scallien. “He’s almost ten, is that right?”
Willa felt her throat tighten. “Yes, that’s him.”
Seeing her tension, Scallien said, “He was enrolled in PatrioTot, just a few years back, Ms Wallace.”
“Right,” said Willa. Isaiah peeked in from the other room and Scallien gave a playful wave. He trotted out, ever intrigued by new people.
Hunter smiled grandly, offering a hand. Isaiah took it proudly and gave it a robust shake.
“Very strong, master Isaiah!” Hunter crowed. “You might be a boxer some day!”
Isaiah made fists and considered them, smiling. Hunter shadowboxed some and Isaiah dodged the fictional blows.
“Isaiah,” said Willa. “’Saiah! That’s enough, now.”
“It’s not a problem, Ms Wallace,” said Hunter, presenting a lollipop from somewhere in his black trench coat. He gestured to Isaiah. “Is it OK?”
Willa swallowed hard. She hated taking anything from Patriot, but how could she object? She’d taken the five hundred, after all, and this Hunter person seemed harmless enough. She nodded and Isaiah snatched the candy and made to scurry away. “Hey now!” she hollered. “What do you say?”
He turned around. “Thank you, sir.”
“Very welcome,” said Hunter.
“Don’t eat that now, you save it for after supper!”
“Yes, Grandma,” he called back, headed to his room.
The kettle began its low whistle and Willa went to cut the burner. “You all are lucky, kettle’s hot. Please, sit down. Mint tea?”
“No thank you for me, Ms Wallace,” said Scallien. “Hunter?”
“I’m fine, ma’am. Just came from the Pantry.”
“The Pantry. Years since I’ve eaten there.” Willa poured herself a mug. “Do they still have that croque madame?”
“They sure do,” he answered. “Had it this morning.”
Willa could almost taste the sandwich – the toasted bread, the ham, melted swiss, fried egg on top…
“We needn’t be long, Ms Wallace,” said Scallien, taking a seat and steering things back to business. “We just wanted to drop in and see how you were doing after the accident.” She found her own touchstone and set it on the table, an unspoken signal that the conversation was being recorded.
“Accident?” Willa said, returning to Scallien.
“Has it been so long already?” laughed the woman. “Two nights ago. Outside SCS Distrib.”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” said Willa, pressing harder than necessary against the tea bag on the rim of her cup. “I wasn’t hurt. Honestly. It didn’t come near me. I don’t get all the fuss. Mr Olden himself gave me a ride home, you know, and I’m embarrassed to say he deposited five hundred in my account. I told him I didn’t need it.”
Scallien doodled a fingertip over the surface of the table, considered an image only she could see and smiled. “Already spent it though, right Ms Wallace?” she said, raising a playful eyebrow.
There it was, ice in the air.
“Is that a problem?” Willa asked. “If it is, I’ll pay the money back.”
“Of course not. We’re pleased to see that you were able to make use of it,” Scallien answered with renewed warmth. “Interesting choice though, letting go of that kind of money so quickly. I could imagine a hundred things you might spend it on.” She looked around the apartment.
Willa felt the woman judging their home and suppressed the urge to say something.
“Anyway, we assembled some docs,” Scallien said, gesturing to Hunter, who placed a screen onto the table. “Standard stuff. As with any settlement, there’s a mandatory arbitration clause should there be any subsequent disputes, and of course, an NDA for you to sign.”
“Settlement?”
“What did you think that five hundred was for, Ms Wallace?”
Willa felt like she was being slowly dismantled. “Like I said, ma’am, I wasn’t hurt.”
“And we’re all thankful for that. You’re a top performer at your precinct. A real profit center.” Scallien’s words, while whitewashed in company-speak, were now delivered with what seemed like genuine happiness at Willa’s wellbeing. The hot and cold, casual schizophrenia of her manner made Willa dizzy. “And the NDA is a non-disclosure agreement that we’ll require as a retroactive condition precedent to the monies advanced,” Scallien continued, redirecting Willa’s attention back to the screen. “Like I said, very simple. Boilerplate, really.”
“Non-disclosure of what? That a drone crashed?”
“The fact of the crash, yes. Can’t have word of something so embarrassing come out in the weeks right before Patrioteer.” She flashed through the pages on Hunter’s screen and pointed to a line there. “Each and every, all and singular. That means the agreement covers anything you may have witnessed appurtenant to the accident.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, Ms Wallace, I wasn’t there.”
Willa felt she was being shaken down by ambiguities and suggestion. With Patriot, even casual interactions felt like interrogations. “You mean the fact that Mr Olden took me home?”
Part of Scallien’s face smiled and part of it didn’t. “I meant what I said, Ms Wallace. Any. Thing. You-may-have-seen. Is that clear?”
The woman’s vague allusions had Willa wondering if Scallien knew it was possible she’d seen the empty vaults. But she dared not probe, and simply answered, “Yes.”
“Wonderful.” Scallien stood and put her hands on her narrow hips, suddenly jovial. “We can’t have people hearing about how you get paid if there’s a drone crash, can we? Every phlebotomist in the city would race down to distribution hoping to get bonked on the head.”
“But it didn’t–”
“Yes, yes, I know. You’ve said. Completely unharmed. Lucky for you, eh?”
Willa forced herself to summon a weak smile and nodded.
“I will shoot this to your touchstone so you can have a lawyer look at it.”
A lawyer for someone in the blood districts? In O Minus maybe, but not outside of it. “No,” said Willa, “that’s alright. I’ll sign.”
“Great. That’s good to hear. Much more efficient.”
Hunter scrolled to the bottom of the viewer and handed it to Willa. She’d long ago realized the futility of reading documents before signing them. Nobody had a choice on contract terms. Negotiation? A myth like civil rights. She squiggled her signature.
“We’ll be out of your hair, now, Ms Wallace,” she said. “And what hair it is.”
“Thank you for hosting us,” said Hunter.
“And remember the non-disclosure,” said Scallien with a conspiratorial tap to the side of her nose. “Not a word. About any of it.”
&nbs
p; “I understand.”
“I hope so. Violation of the NDA warrants liquidated damages.” She exited. Hunter, seeming less of a cold fish than Scallien, shook Willa’s hand and the door closed behind them.
Willa held her mug and stared at the door. Liquidated damages?
Isaiah emerged from his room, a giant towel wrapped up over his chest. “Who were they, anyway?”
“Nobody, sweetheart,” said Willa. “Go get ready for school.” She considered her tea, but no longer wanted any.
CHAPTER FIVE
HEMATOCRIT
The proportion, as measured by volume, of whole blood that is made up by red blood cells.
Everard made the long trek toward Donor Eight, checking and rechecking the blood bag stuck to his arm underneath his old beige windbreaker. The wind was biting some today and he lamented the decision to keep on the cargo shorts rather than something that might cover his pale and largely hairless calves. The terrain changed as he crossed from the low, to mid, to highblood neighborhoods and so did the people. While even though the O-negs were “poor” by historical standards, they seemed at least to give half a damn about how they looked. It made him self-conscious and he felt for the unshaven scruff under his chin and neck. He threw his hood up, curled himself against the cold, and lit a cigarette.
Nearer to the donor station, he checked the blood bag another time and lit a new cigarette with the stump of the old. He flicked the butt into the street and cased the surroundings for po-po, then tried to remember all of the Locksmith’s instructions about what he was supposed to say and how he was supposed to act. He didn’t like associating with non-criminals. He didn’t mind being sordid himself – it was all he’d ever known. It was the corruption of otherwise innocent folks that made him nervous, made him feel guilty. Especially now that they were going to involve this Willa Wallace who’d shown up in AB Plus with food drones like some pink-topped angel. The worst part about being a criminal wasn’t comeuppance by other criminals, or even getting pinched. It was the collateral damage. Shrapnel taken by bystanders. He nervously checked the bag again and told himself it was for the greater good. Because it was.
The Phlebotomist Page 4