by Logan Keys
And what he doesn’t say, I notice, is that he’s sorry.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
A train filled with the sick passes next to our place on the roof tonight. It chugs on, back to the Island, with its heavy load.
Jeremy’s livid when he sees it. Then, he’s staring at me, clearly considering my prior imprisonment on Bodega and hating them for it. This makes me soften toward him even more, if that’s possible.
In the quiet after the train passes, I ask, “What was it like? I mean, when they purged you.”
Jeremy shrugs. "There isn't enough pain in the world to purify me. The Authority had to pull out all the stops during my purge. I was half dead when they let me go, but who needs a soldier with free thoughts still left inside his fried brain?"
Who, indeed.
"What about you, Liza? Did you dream of things, back there on the Island? How they could be?"
“It's a prison, Jeremy, not a vacation. I rarely dreamt."
"But when you did?" Jeremy asks.
My smile’s dry. "It was peaceful. Everyone was dead."
Visibly shaking off my description, he asks, “What about the prisoners? Didn’t anyone fight?”
"That place is full of dying people.”
He nods in sympathy. "Same as here, then. It's like everyone's asleep. Pisses me off how they obey the Authority, no matter what. Stand by and watch. Disgusting."
I shrug. "They are asleep. But to wake them the wrong way …" I gesture toward the sign above us that had been slashed in half from the last uprising.
Jeremy tells me the slaughter from that time was such a great loss, you had to wear rain boots for the puddles of blood on the streets. He's fine with such lengths for freedom, but he has nothing to lose.
“There are still angry, willing people out there,” I tell him, “but maybe they have a family, or maybe they just know it’s futile. If my family were still alive, nothing would be worth losing them again. Nothing.”
But he’s not going to concede my point. He rarely does.
Back at Bodega, we’d pictured people living perfect lives here in Anthem City. Seemed like we were the prisoners, and the mainlanders lived in prosperity. But that had all been a dream. Every place is a camp now, and if there’s a free man left among us, it's Jeremy. It pains my heart to think of just how short his life will be for that fact. The leader of the rebellion sits not two feet from me, and at any moment he could be caught. His outlaw status is “kill on sight” for the last round of pamphlets. No more hearings. Kill. The urge to hide him, even though we’re completely alone, is ever-present.
Jeremy sadly shakes his head. "Your hair's barely grown back. I can't imagine what it's like to be sick, rounded up, then forced to get busy dying. To them, you were already gone. They fear it, because they want something to blame for what’s wrong with us."
My hands cover the scars hidden under my shirt. "No, Jeremy, they fear it, because they might be next."
He sighs and starts to write. I try to see what he’s working on, but Jeremy hands me another pamphlet. “This new one might be of more interest to you.”
Island Duppy Returns
And beneath that: An inmate of the Authority tells a story of a survivor from Cancer Island. She holds the power of life and death.
My stomach tightens. “I thought you said you wouldn’t write about this.”
“I know,” he replies guiltily. “But it doesn’t have your name, and the people need things like that. Fairytales. Imagine the impact it’ll have on the poor lost souls going there. Someone got out, so there’s still a chance for all of those people on that train.”
“I suppose.… ”
He always makes good points, but permission would have been nice.
Jeremy continues, “I met an interesting inmate recently who’s been telling the story of a girl who died and came back. Jamaicans have folklore of the duppies—or ghosts, evil spirits who walk this earth—although he never called you that. His cellmates now have their own version.”
“Inmate …? Desi?”
“That’s it. So you do know him?”
My fingers pet the page. “Yes,” I reply, feeling my throat constrict.
“Did you, Liza?” Jeremy asks, drawing my name out long. “Did you … die?”
The jerk of my shoulders is swift. “I was just really sick.” Then, I change the subject. “Jeremy, have you ever thought of translating these?”
“For what?”
“Kiniva. The people in the black market don’t all speak English. Manda told me the purge makes you live forever, but they don’t take anyone from Section. I wonder who started that rumor.”
“Well, half of that’s true,” says Jeremy.
Disgust makes my voice rise. “What?”
He nods.
“I wonder why. Strengthening the divide, maybe? Turning one class against another? Eternity for the wealthy; protection from becoming a zombie, but only for the few, breeds hatred.”
Jeremy laughs. “It’s all lies, though.”
“Does it matter if they believe it? Besides, I think we can help.”
“How?”
My sudden idea puts me on my toes. “What if you spoke at the dog fights?”
“No way.”
I cross my arms. “Think about it. Put out pamphlets so both sides can come and listen to what you have to say. You said it yourself: they’re asleep. But what if you’re simply targeting the wrong crowd?”
Jeremy’s eyes flick to the side—a nervous movement I’ve never seen him make, even on death row. “I’m not sure that’s wise.”
“Ha!” I punch his shoulder, having stolen the move from Manda. “Who would have thought: Jeremy Writer, a man for the people … an utter and total snob.”
Jeremy grins, rubbing his chin. “Fine. Do it.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Kiniva’s a lot harder to get ahold of than simply waltzing in, unannounced. He’s currently on a run, and no one’s going to just give me an itinerary of his return.
Today, as I leave the courthouse, a man in a trench coat and hat pulled low emerges from the fog, startling me. He hands me a piece of paper and, tipping his head with a chilling smile, he’s gone again, but not before I’ve noticed a dullness to his eyes. It was the same as the girl’s had been from the black market.
The paper he gave me has an address, and underneath, it reads: X marks the spot. There’s also a number: four.
After dressing more casually before hailing a cab, I head to that part of North Anthem, a side of the city that’s new to me. It’s better paved, aptly lit, and certainly more decorated. The skyscrapers are newly built on this side of the city, most stacked so high they seem impossibly crooked, leaning in like they’re trying to touch each other across the street.
Everyone knows Downtown is no longer the heart of the city; the Authority has built farther in this direction every year. With too many convicts to count and everything being illegal, the lower classes rubbed closer to the “civilized” than was comfortable. There’s an evident gap of city we cross where a remedy for that has been made.
Gregarious showcases of fine goods sparkle through the windows on both my left and right. Diamonds—real diamonds—glitter in tantalizing displays, and although the clothing’s still colorless, it’s better made. The shops near the very heart of Ash City fairly glisten.
And there, amongst them all, is my worst nightmare: the medical plazas.
The cab stops, and I exit on stiff legs to gape upward in astonishment.
Blinding, even in the fog-dimmed sunlight, three buildings stand interconnected by the center monstrosity that’s scraping the smoky clouds. Side structures adjoin it by suspended sky walks. All of these are pristine, too, made mostly of giant windows.
After my fill of this, I approach the walkway toward the entrance.
Down in the courtyard is an electronic display for visitors, and a woman pops up to ask in a robotic yet warm voice: “How can I help you?”
&nbs
p; When there’s no reply, she smiles, cocks her head prettily, and says, “Welcome to FLUMC, where professionalism and comfort are the priority of the Authority. Here, at Floridian Medical Center, we host a number of physicians using the latest in technology and medicinal advancements to keep our city the healthiest place in the world. Press the display, and the information for each section of our hospital will be given in a virtual tour.”
I numbly press the left building, and this makes her chirp in pretend happiness, “Cyberoptics: what was once a dream can now be realized.”
On the screen, children with replacement limbs run around on a playground while grinning adults read with robotic eyes. A grey-haired man jogs robustly on a treadmill, most of his body replaced by metal.
“Live longer, live stronger. Our motto.”
My mouth hangs open. In Section, people can’t even get their cavities filled, and here, they offer to make people half robot?
The right building is a common physician’s area, for colds, simple sicknesses, and basic practice. Also the “dreadful flu” is brought up in that guide, with warnings and instructions on how to quarantine yourself once stricken. Of course, first contact the Authority. Symptoms listed are almost exactly as those when becoming a zombie. Go figure.
Lastly, in the center and largest building, it’s apparent what happens there. It’s the testing unit for cancer.
“Here at Floridian, we guarantee your loved ones will be immediately transported, for the best care and protection of our citizens, to one of our lovely facilities on three local islands.”
Three …?
My stomach drops.
So that’s why Bodega had shrunk; they’d been making more of them. A lump swells in my throat as the screen shows me Camp Bodega. Inmates laugh and walk through the halls, enjoying themselves, drinking coffee, while children are happily learning in schools. They make it seem like your average holiday, a vacation. Even the girls wear wigs, and my eyes close upon the rest of the fiction.
My hands rest upon the receiver without my realizing it. “Did you have a question?” the lady asks.
“It’s a lie,” I say to her smiling face.
People passing by shoot me a glance and speed up their steps.
“It’s a lie!” My clenched fist slams against the screen before I can stop myself. I turn to the nearest stranger. “This thing is lying! We don’t … they … they’re not happy!”
Security strides through the sliding glass doors, and I get a grip on myself before they can weave in my direction.
I shield myself behind a pot of plants, waiting with my head down, for them to leave. My watch reads ten till four. The paper had said four.
After the guards move on, a quick scan of the area reveals an X taped to the ground in the plaza.
Careful to keep from being noticed this time, I sneak over to stand on it.
When the alarms go off, the hospital doors open and people stream from all three buildings, unhurried, certain that it’s a drill. The crowd flows around me where I stand still on the X.
Once the evacuation’s complete, the alarms cut. But before anyone can re-enter, lights in each building begin to go out. One by one, sections turn black, except for in the center building. In that one, a shape defines itself out of the dark-versus-lit windows—a giant grinning skull, too many stories to count begins to form—and the crowd gasps at the skeletal face now looming over the city. The jaw hangs open as if in a laugh … or a scream.
It’s an eerie sight.
Then, a jolt rips through the ground and wind blows my hair back. Windows shatter one by one in a tinkling rain of glass before bright orange-and-red flames flare out through the side of the center building. A bomb. The second deafening blast sprays more glass, and this time, fire consumes the entire section, billowing black smoke into the sky.
The cancer testing and relocation facility is bisected, before it falls like a domino. It crumbles to the earth like it was made out of something fragile and not pounds of concrete, as floors collapse in on themselves, taking the skull, section by section, along with it. Dust and ash coats us as twisted metal accordions in a matter of minutes. The building went from skyscraper to barely a few floors, landing in a billowing heap. The demolition is expert.
Other than their severed sky halls, the two side buildings remain untouched.
I’m grinning from ear to ear like a lunatic, coughing from the smoke, yet smiling, barely keeping myself from dancing in the snowy ash that falls.
Sirens bring me back to my senses. Fire trucks force the crowd back, engines of all grey pull up and guards begin to swarm the area, too.
It’s simple enough to ease into the crowd, and I’m instantly lost in the chaos.
Jeremy meets me just around the corner from my place, face glowing, hair sweaty from whatever he’d been doing. “Liza, did you see?”
He races forward and scoops me into his arms. He’s covered in ash, too, and Jeremy howls as we spin, making me giggle.
“Of course I saw! It was amazing!” I wrap my arms around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
When he sets me down, I’m embarrassed. My skin tingles from his touch.
Jeremy fixes a stray curl that’s come out from behind my ear. It’s getting so long—for me. He cocks a brow in question, but I’m the first to look away.
He’s more comfortable with this part of our relationship; I’m still in the “I can’t believe my luck” phase. Worry and doubt are my go-to feelings.
Jeremy decides something and grabs my hand. “Come on.”
“Where to?” I ask, though I really couldn’t care less.
“You’ll see.”
With my hand warm in his larger, stronger one, I’d walk off a cliff right this moment … and maybe I am.
“Recruiting time,” he says, and a glimmer of the Jeremy I’ve come to know flickers back—the passionate one who’s on the job, one thousand percent.
I get the feeling that I’m about to see behind the curtain.
Already he’s towing me along, his purple eyes alight with excitement.
It’s hard not to let it bother me, that subtle shift from being the object of his attention, to slightly left of center.
As he pulls me back toward the city, my sigh is long. It was a nice moment while it lasted.
Chapter Forty
We travel back to the site of the explosion, where Jeremy reluctantly leaves it with a backwards glance. He’s proud of his work. And I’m proud of him.
The Skulls have made their point without hurting anyone. That’s tough to do in times like these.
He’s a passive activist who’s not interested in making innocent people pay for the Authority’s sins. Many times Jeremy’s said that his dream is for them to just give up.
Fitting myself into his ideals is impossible. Dreams of crushing the Authority’s leaders underfoot are constant, and always violent. Reginald and Karma Cromwell—names now to match the faces—hover in the night, smiling softly at me, daring my retribution.
Another secret between us, Jeremy and I—my wanting to hurt them just like what I’d done to the grey-eyed man from the Island. Blood for blood. Not exactly a passive idea.
Jeremy takes us farther into the city, where the richest areas still surprise me. Technology gets better and more deftly used by the wealthier society. Beautiful people glide around us so starkly that they notice my shabbier clothes.
Jeremy supplies that many of the elite are augmented through surgeries to perfect themselves far beyond what we were capable of before the flood.
He says, “Sketch artists draw exactly how you’d like to be, and after a few reworks of your bone structure, things are casted and filled and thinned and permanently transplanted—hair and eyebrows, teeth, even new jaws.”
All too dizzying to imagine.
But not for long.
A mannequin standing at the corner twists its head on a too-smooth neck to grin with lips that ever-so-slightly stret
ch the poreless skin.
The thing yawns open its mouth to speak. “Excuse me,” it says to us, before striding away in a robotic glide.
Jeremy grabs my elbow and gazes at me knowingly. “They’re pretty scary at first,” he says.
“It … he … didn’t even seem human. I thought it was an ad!”
Still, there are more—they litter the areas near ritzy shops and buildings, smooth faces and movements making me shudder. Now that I’ve seen one, I notice them all over the place.
My stomach growls from smelling local restaurants, and Jeremy chuckles under his breath.
Sizzling meat on the grill fetches memories of old times, making my mouth water. I force myself not to smash my face to the glass panes to see the steaming plates of food and watch the plastic people feed one another. They sit so still in between bites; one speaks animatedly while the other’s frozen, perfectly, not even blinking, before they, too, re-animate to fawn over the other who’s fallen still. It’s almost as if they’re synchronized.
“Why are they so strange?” I ask.
Jeremy’s expression is one of disgust. “The newest rejuvenation programs put them all into deep sleeps for longer periods than a night’s rest. Some go for months at a time. This keeps them young. Instead of a vacation, you go into a tank and sleep in a sort of medically induced coma. It adds years to your life, they say.”
“I’m sorry I asked.”
“You don’t dream either, and when you wake, it’s like nothing’s happened while you were gone. The longest has been almost a year. Anything past nine months is dangerous.”
“Nine months?”
Jeremy’s mouth twists. “Surrogates from Section were the first to be tested for so long.”
“Oh.”
Poor people, birthing children to save the wealthy people’s bodies, probably forced into the coma as part of their job.
He tugs me away from the glass, yet my mind’s still replaying the strange freeze-move-freeze motions of Ash City’s Tinsel Town.
“They make me sick,” Jeremy mutters as we pass a group of carefully rebuilt teenagers.