Like an emergency exit.
Without hesitating a moment longer, Clara shoved the stacks of papers and books away from the walls. Some of the stapled files flew apart when she moved them, but Clara did not care. If there was indeed a way to escape this office, she would find it.
After three of the four walls yielded no door, she was ready to give up hope. But at last, as she pushed the papers away from the fourth wall, she found herself staring at the rusty grate of an air vent. She tugged it, and the door easily fell away. Cautiously, she stuck her head into the opened hole. It was very dark, but she could see the tunnel extended a long way, with walls of metal. She climbed inside, and edged very slowly forward. The tunnel was nearly pitch black, except for the few grates that peered into rooms. These patches of light were a welcome sight, but frightening too, because Clara feared that the people below might hear her creeping along. Most of the grates looked into offices, where girls were at work on their atomic readings. Clara hurried past, for fear of being seen. But one particular room caught her attention, and she paused a moment to stare down through the slats of the air vent.
The room was a large laboratory, with four metal doors against the far wall; they looked like refrigerators, of some sort. There were also dozens of desks lined up along the walls. Adults were seated at the desks, busily typing at computers. Clara struggled to see what was on the computer screens, but they were too far away. It must be a research room of some sort, Clara guessed. She decided to watch the room for a bit longer, so she might find out what the people were doing.
Over the next several minutes, nothing much happened. The people continued to type at their computer screens; a few papers were printed. But then the office door opened, and a woman entered.
It was Miss Dorrod.
Clara stifled a gasp of surprise.
A man stood up from his computer, and approached Miss Dorrod. In his arms was a stack of papers. “Hello, ma’am,” he said. His voice quivered nervously.
Miss Dorrod did not bother to greet him. “We have another order,” she barked. She tossed another paper onto the stack in his arms. “Have it ready for delivery by 6 PM this evening.”
“But we’re already running a shortage!” the man protested.
“Then charge extra for this order,” Miss Dorrod interrupted. “But you’d better have it ready by 6 PM today. This client is not to be disappointed.”
Clara was very confused. An order of what?
“You, boy!” Miss Dorrod called. She turned towards a boy whose back had been turned to Clara. The boy turned around, a stack of papers in his hand.
It was the same boy Clara had seen in the window.
Timmy.
He looked terrified as a child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He pointed to himself, confused. “You mean me?”
“Yes, you,” Miss Dorrod continued. “Find us someone who hasn’t given in two months, and contact Dr. Canidia.”
Timmy stared blankly at Miss Dorrod. “Given—what?”
Miss Dorrod rolled her eyes angrily, and grabbed a phone. “I have to do everything around here myself!” she snapped. “Everyone is so damned incapable—what was that sound?” She laid the phone back onto the receiver. Her eyes glanced upward.
Directly at the air vent, where Clara was hiding.
Clara quickly backed away from the opening, but the metal walls creaked loudly as her weight shifted. They heard that squeak, for sure, she thought. She crawled further into the darkness, as fast as she could. She could not see where she was headed, but she did not care. She just needed to get away from that office, before Miss Dorrod asked someone to check the air vent. Hopefully they think the squeaking was just rats, Clara thought. Maybe they—
Suddenly, Clara’s hand reached forward into nothingness. She tumbled forward and downward. Her screams bounced off the metal walls as she fell.
The tunnel had abruptly turned downward, into a long empty shaft.
~
“Ah, you fear the apple is poison? Well, I will cut the apple into two pieces: white and red. I will eat the white, and you will eat the red.” But Snow White did not realize: the apple was created specially, so only the red was poisoned.
The closet door opened wide.
Geoffrey slammed his book shut.
Andromeda stood in the doorway. She grinned. “I knew you were hiding here! I’ve seen you come this way every day, after class. What do you do in this closet, anyway?”
Geoffrey frowned. “None of your business.”
“Yes, it is!” Andromeda retorted. Her eyes shifted to the book in Geoffrey’s lap. “Oh, I see. It’s your stupid fairytales book again.” She reached down to grab it.
Geoffrey yanked it away, and stuffed it behind him. “No.”
Andromeda laughed. “You are such a puzzle, Geoffrey! What kind of fourteen-year old boy reads fairytales? You need to start acting your age.” She slouched down beside him, among the brooms and mops. “You need to start enjoying things for your age.”
“Like what?”
Andromeda reached into her skirt pocket, and removed a plastic packet. Inside the wrapper was a blue candy, like a lollipop with no stick.
Geoffrey knew exactly what that candy was. And he knew what it did. “You know we’re not supposed to have those at school, Andromeda. Get that out of here, before we get in trouble.”
She snorted. “My family donated half the school. I can bring whatever I want here.” She offered the candy to Geoffrey. “Well, go on. Take it.”
“No,” Geoffrey said firmly.
“Take it!” Andromeda yelled. She pushed the candy into his mouth.
It was sickly sweet; a buzzing sensation skittered across his tongue. But Geoffrey did not wait to see what happened next; he spat the candy onto the floor—then he spat twice more, for good measure. “Don’t—ever—do that again,” he sputtered. He wiped the drool from his chin.
Rage flushed across Andromeda’s cheeks. She jumped to her feet. “Oh, you’re going to be sorry,” she murmured. “You’re going to be so very horribly sorry, Geoffrey.” She flung the door open wide, and leaned into the hallway. “He’s here!” she screamed. “Geoffrey’s here!”
The gang of bullies thundered round the corner, headed straight for the closet.
~
“We can’t find Clara, ma’am. Those air vents go on forever! She could be anywhere in there. If only her tracker hadn’t fallen off!”
Miss Dorrod bent towards the computer screen. The screen displayed the floorplan of the building, including the airvent system. Tunnels, corners, and twists that extended round for miles, like a rats’ den. It could take all night to find Clara.
“She can’t stay in there forever,” Miss Dorrod mumbled. “She has to come out sometime.”
~
“…And then I woke up in the dumpster, with this purple spot on my arm,” Morris concluded.
Dr. Ramsey examined the large bruise on Morris’ elbow. “This looks like a puncture wound,” she remarked. “It’s possible you cut yourself on something sharp in the dumpster. I’m going to check you for tetanus. Your labs already showed that you had blood loss—a full pint. Did you donate recently?”
“N-no,” Morris stammered.
“Hm.” The doctor paused thoughtfully and stared at Morris’s sleeve. “That’s strange. I just realized—there’s no blood on your sleeve.” She straightened the sleeve fabric; it was clear, except for a few dirt streaks. “Not a drop.” She shook her head. “Well, it looks like you didn’t cut yourself in the dumpster; if you had, you would have blood on your shirt.”
“So—what happened to it, then?” Morris asked.
“I’m afraid we have to assume someone took your blood—unlawfully.”
“You mean—stolen?”
“Well…yes. There is a massive black market for blood, Morris. A pint of blood sells for about $300—possibly more, depending on the customer. I’m starting to think you were possibly a victim. A
ll the more reason to test for tetanus…also for HIV and hepatitis. No telling what you could have picked up from that needle, if a black marketer indeed stole your blood.”
~
The Food Distributor watched as the medical team exited Miss Smith’s apartment. In their hands they held a long black bag. He couldn’t understand it! He had just seen her yesterday, when she picked up her ration box, and she seemed so healthy and fine. But this morning he knew something was wrong when he arrived at Tower Block 707, and Miss Smith did not come out to greet him. He knocked, but no answer came. The door was unlocked, and so he went inside…
“Please step aside, sir,” a woman called.
The Distributor pushed his cart away from the doorway as they exited. “Do you know how it happened?” he asked. “Was it a heart attack?”
“Unlikely. It looks like she just passed away in her sleep. Peacefully.”
“No struggle, then.”
“Excuse me?”
“She wasn’t murdered, was she?”
“No!” the woman snapped indignantly. “Why would you even suggest that?” She slammed the ambulance door shut.
The Distributor watched as the car drove away down the road. And then he glanced at Miss Smith’s unclaimed ration box, still resting in his hand. He knew that, by law, he was supposed to surrender all unclaimed rations to the Pantry, and he had always obeyed. But today, nothing seemed right anymore. Everything was so bleak, so hopeless. So this is how it ends, he thought miserably. Nothing left of us except decaying cells, and a ration box. And then the vultures descend—picking us dry until nothing remains.
He could already picture Miss Smith’s final journey. She would be taken to the salvage unit, then sent to the crematorium. None of this disposal process had ever bothered him before today, and yet he could not explain why. And that sickened him.
He clutched Miss Smith’s box to his chest protectively, as though he were suddenly surrounded by hundreds of greedy thieves, clawing mercilessly at the box.
“No,” he murmured. “I can’t. I just can’t.”
He knelt behind the bushes, away from sight. And there, beneath the leaves, he buried the ration box.
11.
Clara’s head throbbed painfully.
And her vision was striped, with black bars.
…Now it was coming back to her. She had fallen down the air vent shaft, while trying to find an escape route. But where am I now?
As she straightened upright, the black stripes across her vision moved away. They were not stripes at all; it was another air vent grate. Clara curiously pressed her face against the bars.
On the other side was a very large room, with aisles of file cabinets—dozens of cabinets. Against the walls of the room stood bookshelves, from floor to ceiling, filled with thick binders. What is this place? Clara pushed against the air vent. It did not budge. With an angry grunt, she slammed her foot against the grate, and it toppled into the room with a heavy crash.
Clara did not waste a further moment. She darted out from the air grate, straight into one of the aisles. On each drawer of the file cabinets was a card with letters: “Ea—Ep…Eq—Et” and so on. Maybe these are files on the people here, Clara thought. I wonder if they have a file on me? If so, it might reveal what kind of life I lived before my amnesia.
She reached for the drawer marked Ea—Ep, and tugged at it.
It was locked.
So much for answers.
“Damned scurus,” Clara grumbled, and gave the file cabinet a hard kick.
She continued through the rows of cabinets, trying a few more drawers, but they were all locked. At last she reached the far wall. On this wall there were no cabinets—only a single door, with a glass window. She did not bother to try the door this time; she instead pressed her face to the window and peered inside. The glass felt cold against her nose, as though the room were a walk-in refrigerator or freezer of some kind.
Against the far wall stood several metal shelves, filled with plastic bags of something red, like raspberry syrup. Each shelf had a white label on it, but Clara could not read the writing from such a great distance. On the right wall she could see another stack of metal shelves, but these were filled with bags of yellow fluid. It must be a chemical refrigerator for research, she guessed. But for some unknown reason, the cooler gave her a very uneasy feeling.
“There she is!”
Clara spun around. In the center of the file cabinets, a group of guards were making their way towards her. In a panic, she grabbed the doorknob of the cold room and opened it. A blast of freezing air rattled through her body, but she darted inside and shut the door. As she ran towards the opposite wall, she nearly slipped on the frost-covered floor. A moment later, the door flew open again, and Miss Dorrod entered the room.
Clara grabbed one of the metal shelves and tried to pull it in front of her, but it was far too heavy. As it rocked back and forth, one of the bags fell. With a horrible popping sound, it exploded red syrup across the floor.
She shrieked and jumped backwards, straight into Miss William’s grasp.
“You’ve caused enough trouble for one day,” Miss Dorrod growled.
~
Morris lay on the subway floor, clutching his injured arm. Fortunately the tests had been negative, but he still had a multitude of other problems to face. He had tried to sleep, but he could not; every time he closed his eyes, the haunting image of Drusilla flitted across his mind’s eye. Her words echoed in his head, like a hypnotic chant: “Talent doesn’t matter. Make the people surrender to you. Surrender. Please. Stay. Just a little while!”
Maybe Drusilla is right, he thought. Maybe I should surrender. Maybe I should stay.
He reached for a crumpled paper beside his head and unfolded it. It was the Pangaea immigration application. He had taken it from one of the many sidewalk stands, set up by Pangaea’s Outreach Unit.
Yes, it is time to surrender, Morris thought. Time to surrender to success. Time to leave this country and get my fair share. Time to stop struggling, like a pathetic rat in a sewer.
A paper crackled behind him.
Morris quickly spun around.
A young lady had knelt beside his guitar case. In her left hand she held a paper cup of tea, and in her right hand she held a bill, which she was about to drop into Morris’s bag.
The five dollar bill.
Morris sat upright instantly, and locked eyes with the woman. She jumped like a frightened rabbit, and started to back away, but Morris caught her hand. The lady’s cup of tea slipped from her hand and splashed across the floor.
“Wait, wait!” Morris begged, jumping to his feet. “I’m so sorry about your tea, but I’ve been waiting for you for months! My name is Morris, and I know who you are. Every morning you leave that bill in my bag while I sleep, and then you leave.”
The young woman stared at the floor.
Morris examined her face closely. She seemed familiar somehow, but he could not recall where he had seen her before. And then it struck him. “Wait a minute,” Morris stammered. “I know you! From the coffee shop! Right over there! But what’s your name?”
“Lucy. Lucy Watson.”
“Well, Lucy. Why do you give me money every morning? I’m a worthless bum who is going nowhere in life. Why are you wasting your effort on me? Spend that money on something you want.”
Lucy’s brow furrowed angrily. “Don’t tell me what I want. Don’t tell me what makes me happy.” She tried to pull her hand away from Morris. “I have to go,” she said urgently. “There’s someone who needs me.”
He did not know where she needed to go, but somehow he knew she might not be returning. The way she spoke sounded more like a final goodbye than a passing greeting. And was this how he wanted his last words to her to be, the same final words of bitterness he had spoken to his parents?
“No!” Morris cried aloud. “Don’t go!” He grabbed onto Lucy’s sleeve. “I have nowhere else to go,” Morris begged. “You’re
the only person who cares if I live or die. I need you. Please.” All his bitter pride had fled his heart. He felt nothing but shame and helplessness, like a small child pleading with his mother to stay.
For a moment Lucy hesitated. But then her eyes alighted upon Morris’s Pangaea application, still clutched in his hand. All her sympathy seemed to melt away in an instant. “No,” she snapped angrily. “You don’t need me. None of you need me. All you want is Pangaea, and the Benefactors, and their free gifts to you. You’ve made your choice, and I don’t want any part of it. I want my freedom, not to be dependent on the gifts of anyone. Now leave me alone.” She jerked her hand away from his, and walked quickly forward.
Morris ran alongside her. “Wait! Where are you going?”
“To find what Pangaea stole,” Lucy said curtly.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Morris stammered. “Pangaea never stole anything!”
Lucy halted and faced him directly, her eyes blazing. “Yes, they did. They’ve been stealing from us, from the whole planet. They’re destroying us from the inside out: first they take away our faith, then our individuality. Then they take our countries. Now they’re taking our people.”
“The people!” Morris scoffed. “Pangaea isn’t taking the people! Don’t be ridiculous!”
“I’m not being ridiculous!” Lucy shouted. “Don’t you see it? Don’t any of you see it? I can’t believe I didn’t see it myself sooner! Thousands of adults and children go missing every year, never found. It’s been happening for decades.”
“But you can’t prove Pangaea took those people! Most of those people are probably dead, never to be found.”
“Do you honestly believe that, Morris? Who could murder thousands of people and get away with it in this age of genetic testing, when you can trace a murderer with a single strand of hair? There’s no crime trail because those people aren’t dead. They’re alive.”
“You’re in denial. You’re…you’re…”
“—Crazy?” Lucy finished for him. “Go on. Say it. Call me crazy if you want. But that doesn’t change the truth.”
“You can’t prove it’s the truth. And besides, if all those people are alive, where are they? Why don’t they try to contact their families and come home?”
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