The Murder Complex

by Lindsay Cummings

  Finally, we are led down a long white hallway, into a room too small for our group. We all pile onto couches and chairs. Some sit on the floor, others stand, and two girls get in a fight over a spot by the front of the room. They are both removed by the Initiative Officer.

  Another girl breaks Commandment Four: Thou shalt not harbor pre-Fall propaganda. She shifts, and something small falls from her pocket: a coin. The girl is removed with the other two. I wonder if they have families at home who will starve because of their foolishness.

  I end up on a wide leather couch that sticks to the backs of my thighs. Beside me is the girl with the red heels. We are so close together our legs touch. She is rough-looking, with a jagged scar running down the side of her face.

  “Nice.” I nod at her scar with a grin.

  “You, too,” she says, appraising the tiny scars that dot my arms.

  We sit in silence for a while as girls are called into the testing room in pairs. Soon the room is so hot there is sweat dripping down my neck. After what feels like hours, there is no one left but the two of us.

  “Looks like we’re next.” She turns to me. “You don’t stand a chance.”

  “We’ll see who comes out of there with a job.” I keep my hands still in my lap. They are covered in sweat, and I want to rub it away, but I don’t. “In case you had any doubt . . . it’ll be me.”

  She shrugs, and then the door in front of us swings open. An evaluator with a large Notescreen calls out our names. We stand together and follow him.

  I gasp in shock as we walk through the door. It feels like I’ve been dunked into a pool of cold water. Air conditioning—who knows how much energy they are burning to keep this place cool today? I can hear the girl gasp as well.

  Cameras line the walls of this room. We step forward and sit side by side in metal chairs. There is one evaluator, one work badge on the table beside him. That badge will go to the winning candidate. I cast a sideways glance at the scarred girl. She glares back, and I wonder when I will have to kill her.

  “Woodson?” The Evaluator stands. His brown hair is greased back, like he’s just spread a spoonful of oil all over it.

  I smooth my palms over my denim shorts. The fabric is worn and tattered, and I feel so unprepared, so underdressed, so small. The room could swallow me whole. “Yes,” I stammer. “Sir.”

  He stares at me. “Stand up.”

  I shove off my chair and swallow my nerves as he steps forward, examining me. “You’re puny,” he says, looking me up and down, and I grit my teeth.

  Hold your tongue, Meadow.

  It would be easy to kill him, to slip my fingers around his neck and stare straight into his eyes while he takes his last breath. Instead I dig my fingernails into my palms.

  He looks at his NoteScreen. He licks his lips. “Your mother,” he says, his voice full of acid. “Lark Woodson.”

  “You knew her?”

  He taps something onto his screen. We are not supposed to speak unless directed to.

  “We know everyone. Even the insignificant ones.” I do not look away as he appraises me. “She teach you anything . . . worthwhile?”

  “Of course she did. Did yours?”

  “Mine taught me how to distinguish the worthy from the . . . ” He looks me up and down. “Not. Have you broken any of the four Commandments, citizen?

  “No. I honor the Initiative.”

  “You’re a worthless liar.”

  He has no proof. This man does not know me. I should show him what I’m really about. But then I think of Peri’s face. I owe her this, so I say what my father told me to say. “I’m strong. I know how to cook. I practically raised my little sister. I’ll work hard if you allow me to. I’ll take anything you have to offer. My family needs this.”

  He sighs and taps his NoteScreen. His face puckers up in disgust. “That’s what they all say, girl.”

  When my competition stands, she looks like a soldier, proud and strong, despite the red heels, and the sundress that sways around her hips. The Evaluator questions her, asks about her mother and father, too. But there is no bitterness in his tone. Nothing he says makes her seem unworthy of his time. He seems pleased with all of her answers. They are solid and she does not speak out of line.

  I sit still and keep my head high, though my heart is humming in my chest. I know I have already failed. It is impossible for me to win against this girl.

  The Evaluator leaves, taking my opponent with him.

  A woman comes in, dressed in crisp whites that make her pale skin seem even paler. She says nothing, just pokes a needle into my arm and takes my blood. She checks my vision, and even though I already know I am not colorblind, like Koi, I feel my body relax when she says my eyes are fine. She tests my hearing, my reaction times. She makes me walk in a straight line, stand on one foot, and then the other. I watch her face the whole time, trying to see if I have failed this as well, but she gives nothing away, only scribbles her notes onto a handheld screen, lips pursed. She is a wall as thick as the Perimeter.

  I do not feel human. I feel like a rat trapped inside a maze.

  Next is the paper exam. I answer questions about my skills, like fishing, and sewing, and how best to clean an infected wound. There is a list of jobs that I might receive, if I pass: hauling trash to the Graveyard, hospital duty, working in the Rations Hall, fishing, like my father. The worst job is assisting an Initiative member. I answer as best I can, and thank my mother for teaching me how to read and write. When I reach a question that asks me what my biggest weakness is, I leave the spot blank.

  A man comes in and sits in front of me. He has blue eyes that should remind me of the sea, but he looks ill, and it makes my stomach feel all wrong. “Do you understand why you are here today?” He asks.

  I clear my throat. “For an opportunity,” I say, “to provide for my family.”

  “You have a father. A fisherman. You have a brother who is twenty-one, and a sister who is seven. Your mother is dead.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Sir.”

  “Why do you think you deserve to have a job? You already have someone to provide for your family. Your father gets a bag of rations per week, just like the other families. If he works hard enough, and earns enough Creds, we gift him the opportunity to purchase other, less necessary items, to keep you comfortable. Are you greedy?”

  I look down at my feet. “Because it is not enough,” I say. I want to say more. I want to scream at him, to make him understand how horrible it is to see the way Peri’s clothes swallow her thin frame, and the way Koi’s face falls whenever he looks at her.

  He leans back in his chair and laughs, a short bark like a dog. “The Initiative provides you with plenty.”

  “There are four of us, sir,” I say. “We live on rations that provide for two. We have a child. She’s growing fast, every day. She needs more.”

  “Then you should learn to ration better,” he says. “Your father should work harder and earn more.” He leans back, puts his hand to his temple. “Would you ever steal from the Initiative, Miss Woodson?”

  The question takes me off guard. I feel my heart start to beat faster, harder. “I’m not stupid enough to try,” I say, but the real truth is that yes, I would steal, if I had to. To keep Peri alive, I would even kill this man right now with my bare hands if I had to.

  “Fair enough,” he shrugs. “A final question.” He leans forward. “Are you willing to fight for what you want?”

  I look down at my hands. There is still blood under my fingernails from last night’s fight with Koi. “Yes,” I say. “I will always fight for what I want.”

  The man smiles for the first time. “Good,” he says. He scribbles a note onto his pad. “Very good.”

  He stands up and heads for the door, and I am alone. There is a clock on the wall, an old-fashioned kind, that tick-tick-ticks at a constant rhythm, and after a while, it feels like my heart is beating in time with it. I am covered in sweat.

  Finally, the
door opens, and my opponent walks in. She has a smug look on her face, like she has already won.

  My heart sinks. “Congratulations,” I say to her, but she shakes her head.

  “I thought you got it,” she says. Her mouth hangs half-open. I see she is missing one of her teeth.

  The door swings open again. We both whirl around. The Evaluator walks into the room. He has a silver work badge in his hand and a sickening smile on his face. “The test was inconclusive. You are both fine candidates.”

  “So what the hell does that mean?” the girl asks him. Her pleasant charade is up. “We both get a job?”

  I hear Koi’s voice.

  Only one of you will leave that room alive.

  You will do what I wasn’t strong enough to do.

  The Evaluator holds the badge between two fingertips, a dangling prize. “The Initiative wants someone for the Rations Department. Someone able to take care of themselves. Citizens get testy there, as you may well know.” He lets the badge drop to the floor. I want to grab it, press it to my chest, never let it go. “A pity,” he says, “that only one of you will work for us. But that’s part of the fun, wouldn’t you agree?” He laughs and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  “The badge holder should report next door for further processing.” With that, he turns around and leaves the room.

  There is a moment of silence. The girl and I just sit there and stare at each other.

  The girl looks at the badge, then back at me. Her eyes are as wide as oyster shells, and I see the pieces clicking together in her mind.

  One badge. One job. One person will get those rations.

  One person will leave this room alive.

  I stand up a second before she does and dive for the badge. She collapses on top of me and we are one tangled mess, nails clawing, fists pounding, fighting for what we both so desperately need. She is fast, but she isn’t trained like me. She tries to hold me down, and her punches are uneven, her arms as stiff as pieces of wood. I throw her off into the wall. Her head slams against it, and for a moment she looks dazed. She stands up and rushes for me. I sidestep her and watch her tumble back to the ground, already out of breath and sloppy.

  I’m guessing there is no way this girl got those scars from real fights. She probably marked herself to look stronger to enemies. It’s clever, but a sign of true weakness. Part of me wants to stop fighting her. She never even stood a chance against me.

  You will do what I wasn’t strong enough to do.

  Kill or be killed.

  There is no other choice. She grabs the badge, and I grab her by the shoulders and slam her face into the floor.

  “Give it to me!” I yell. She tries to twist around. I take an arm and twist it behind her back, like a broken bird’s wing. “You won’t win,” I say, but she just keeps on writhing, screaming like an animal.

  “So kill me!” she yells. “Kill me and you’ll be just like them!”

  I raise my hand and scream, feel my fist pound into her skull, right over her temple. Her body goes slack.

  I take the badge from her hand. Then I turn for the door.

  There is no handle. I can’t get out.

  I bang on the door. “I have the badge!” I yell. “Let me out!”

  Nothing. There is a groan from behind me. The girl’s eyes start to flutter open.

  Only one of you will leave that room alive.

  “She’s done!” I yell to the door. I look up at the cameras. I hold up the badge. “I’m done!”

  Nothing. I slump down against the wall and wait. Time is slow. I can hear people walking by outside the door, hear screams from somewhere, and I know that someone else is doing what I have yet to do.

  It’s obvious. The Initiative won’t let me out until I do what they want. I take a deep breath. This is what my father trained me to do. This is what I have to do.

  Sometimes we have to give up little pieces of our humanity so that we can keep living.

  I grab the dagger from my waistband and walk over to the girl. Her face is bloodied and bruised. I hold the dagger right above her heart.

  Her eyes flutter open. They look right into mine.

  Blue. Peri’s favorite color.

  “Do it,” she says through tears. “I want to die. Do it. Please. We don’t have a choice.”

  “It’ll be quick,” I whisper.

  Then I drive the dagger right into her heart.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  CHAPTER 6

  ZEPHYR

  By the time Collection duty is finished, we’ve filled three carts. Every week, there seems to be more. The carts are solar-powered, geared to help us bear the weight of the corpses. After we deliver them to the Leech Building, Talan takes to the streets with me. In the daytime, it’s safest to walk in the alleyways, away from the crowds. But in the evenings, when the Dark Time is near, everyone walks right in the middle of the street, soaking up the last seconds of light before the darkness settles in.

  “Ten years of knowing you, and you still do the same thing every night. It’s boring,” Talan says. Her arm is locked in the crook of mine, her head against my shoulder. “Come home with me instead. I’ll teach you how to braid my hair.”

  I roll my eyes. “That sounds great and all, Talan, but I’d rather someone stick a knife in my throat.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  We end up standing in front of the doors of the Catalogue Dome. It’s open every night at dusk, during the Silent Hour. It’s the same thing we always do, and we stand here frozen, unable to go inside. Every so often, the old automatic doors slide open, creaking from years of overuse. A rush of stale air hits me, and for a moment, I think I might step in.

  “Just go, Zephyr.” Talan shoves me in the back. “Girls are so not attracted to pansies.”

  I turn around and see her there, hands on her hips. She’s got full lips that are always set in a permanent pout. Even though we’re both seventeen, she looks older, in a good way. I reach out and loop a finger around her belt. “Who says I need a girl when I’ve got you?” I pull her toward me and bury my face in her neck, sweeping her long hair aside.

  “Holy skitz, you’re coming on to me.” She gapes at me, half-amused, half-flattered, and pushes me back.

  “Come on,” I joke. “You know you want this.” I pose like I’m one of those ridiculous model guys that Talan and I found pictures of in an old pre-Fall magazine. Talan laughs so hard she almost cries.

  “Stop!” she says, clutching her stomach.

  We both stop laughing when the Night Siren goes off.

  “All right,” Talan says, as soon as the ringing dies away. “Grow a pair, and get in there.” Her arm sweeps the doors open, ushering me in. I know she won’t come with me. Seeing her daughter’s picture will only remind her that Arden’s death is something she cannot erase. It’s not her fault Arden wandered off during Cleanup. It’s their fault she got lost in the crowds, their fault that no one would help us search for her during our shift. Arden’s blood is on the Leeches’ bloodsucking hands. But Talan blames herself, and nothing I say will ever change that.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Zeph.” She turns and strides down the street. I envy her strength, her fearlessness, but part of me thinks it’s just because she wants to die so she can be with Arden again.

  “Be safe!” I call out after her. She flips me the bird, and I smile as I watch her walk into the darkness. Talan always makes me happy, but the feeling goes away when I hear a creaking somewhere in the dark. I shiver and step into the Catalogue Dome.

  Commandment Three: Honor the Silent Hour.

  My breath catches in my throat. I stagger back. It is a virtual graveyard. All around me, lining the black walls of the Dome, are the numbers and portraits of deceased citizens. They’re all staring at me.

  Hallways lead away from the main lobby,
and I set off toward the 17000 hall. My first victim’s memorial is there.

  Some faces leap out at me as I walk, letting my fingertips trail the smooth black walls. 17530. I picked up her corpse last week. I remember her number, because Talan made fun of her orange lipstick. “Like cat vomit,” she said.

  The Dome is quiet. My footsteps are the only sound I can hear besides my nervous breathing. There are hundreds of other mourners here, so many that the halls are completely lined with people on their knees, silently saying their good-byes.

  I keep walking with my head down, dreading the moment when I look into his eyes.

  But there he is. 17907. I sit cross-legged on the floor in front of his screen, a small black rectangle that flickers sadly when I place my palm on its warm surface.

  Michael Kans. Husband. Father of three. Fisherman. Death during the Dark Time.

  Brutally and undeservingly murdered by Zephyr James, is what it should say.

  Michael’s face is kind and wrinkled, his smile huge. Crow’s feet pucker the skin around his eyes, and I wonder what made him smile so big when the picture was taken. Maybe it was his child, making a funny face. Maybe he was thinking of his wife. She was probably beautiful. I’m sure he loved her.

  I rock on the floor in front of his plaque, not caring who sees me. Michael reminds me of my father. Someone who never deserved to die. “I’m sorry,” I whisper through ragged breaths. I woke with his blood on my hands, his mangled body at my feet, and fragments of a memory I didn’t want to piece together. His screams. My hands, strangling his throat. My heart, steady and sure while I made his stop beating for good. I don’t know why or when I did it. But I know I did.

  It’s the same for all of them. “I’m so sorry.”

  I go down my list of numbers, visiting each memorial to pay my respects, begging myself to just remember.