Enemy of Gideon

by Melissa McGovern Taylor

  “Wait!” I shout. “Please!”

  The terrible, dark giant beyond the trees draws closer and closer, louder and louder. The ground shakes under its weight, and the oaks and pines fall from its path. The sun fades above as I turn to see the darkness closing in on me. I gasp for air with every throbbing heartbeat until I finally sit up in my bed.

  Sweat soaks my whole body, even dampening the bed. I catch my breath, strained but not nearly what it was in the dream. Every muscle in my body eases from the tension as reality settles over me like a soft breeze. I lay back on my pillow in the dark. This nightmare, the third one in a week, was the worst one yet. With each one, my escape became more frantic and difficult, and the pursuer became more frightening. And in every dream, the mysterious guy from my sketchbook ran with me.

  I don’t ask Mom about the mysterious boy later that morning. Her lastest answers to my questions have been vague at best, so I decide to investigate other sources.

  “Tayra,” I say, tapping my classmate on the shoulder in science class.

  She turns to me with an annoyed expression on her face. “What?”

  “Was there ever a guy here with hazel eyes and blond hair?” I ask.

  She rolls her eyes. “There are a lot of guys with blond hair.”

  “I think I was friends with him,” I say, wondering if I should show her the sketch.

  “You need to go back to your head doctor,” she says with a sneer and turns away.

  Why did I even ask her? The girl is as useless as a lifejacket in a burning apartment.

  Someone at school has to know the mystery guy. In one of my sketches, he sits under the oak tree from the courtyard beside the cafeteria. I have to ask the only person who will have real answers: Ogden Penski.

  ►▼◄

  I sketch my memories from the nightmare, concentrating on the mystery guy’s face and the fear in his eyes. Have I been in a stressful situation with him? Or did I even know him at all? Could he merely be a figment of my imagination, a merging of different features from different boys I’ve encountered before?

  As I close my sketchbook, the freshmen exit the school doors. I search the crowd from face to face, seeking out Ogden. Then I finally catch a glimpse of him trying to remain inconspicuous behind a group of tall boys. I hop up from the bench, but I don’t call out to him. I have to catch him off guard, otherwise he might flee.

  I wait for him to pass before slipping into the crowd and heading down the cobblestone walkway. With Og a few feet ahead, I wait for the crowd to thin out as students head in various directions at the first intersection. Sweat fills my palms. It’s just Ogden, right? We’ve known each other for years.

  “Og,” I call, coming up beside him.

  His concentration on the path ahead breaks, and he looks at me. His eyes widen, and he shakes his head.

  “You can’t be near me,” he says, increasing his pace.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Stay away from me. It’s too dangerous for you,” he says.

  I match his pace. “Why?”

  “If you want to stay alive, we can’t be friends, so leave me alone!” He bursts into a sprint and pushes his way through the pedestrians ahead.

  “Wait!” I yell, sprinting after him.

  I dodge people walking both toward him and away from him. I press closer to him, nearly grabbing a fistful of his backpack when we reach our apartment building steps. He runs through the door and I follow, diving at him with all my strength. He falls under my weight, but he squirms and almost frees himself.

  “Let me go!” He flips over on his back. “Let me go!”

  I pin his arms to the floor.

  “I need to talk to you,” I say, catching my breath. “Why can’t we talk?”

  “Because we aren’t friends anymore,” he says.

  “But I want to know why. Why aren’t we friends?”

  He struggles to break free of my grasp. “It’s the only way things can be normal again.”

  “I don’t understand. I can’t remember anything,” I say, loosening my grip and easing off of him.

  He sits up as I pull away. “You’re not supposed to remember, so let it go.”

  “But I need to know one thing,” I say, reaching into my backpack.

  He rises to his feet and dusts off his coveralls as I pull out my sketchbook and turn to a sketch of the mystery boy.

  I show him the drawing. “Who is this guy? I see him in my dreams.”

  His lips tighten into a thin line. “You want to know why we can’t be friends anymore? Because of him.”

  “But why? Who is he?” I ask as he uses his elevator key.

  “It’s better to forget,” he says as the elevator door opens. “I wish I could.”

  He steps into the elevator and the doors close between us, leaving me alone with more questions.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The mid-June heat closes in on Gideon, forcing citizens to carry their white umbrellas for relief from the sweltering sun. Coveralls remain long-sleeved through every season as required by the Code. I can recite that particular code with ease, but I can’t remember the end of last winter or the beginning of spring.

  The end of the school year cancels out any hope I have of recreating my friendship with Og or even finding new friends from my classes. I make one attempt to visit Og at his apartment, but no one answers the door.

  With the prospect of a lonely summer in full view, I confide in Hunter for advice.

  “You don’t need friends. You don’t need the distraction,” he says. “You need a summer job to keep you productive.”

  Hunter’s friend in the marketplace needs a transporter to bike a cart across Gideon every day, delivering fresh produce to the citizenship centers. I jump at the opportunity.

  The route challenges me more than I expect, taking me into two corners of Gideon in the hot sun. After the first day, I don’t know if I will be able to pull myself out of bed, but despite the pain and soreness, I dread the thought of hanging around the apartment all day.

  I pump the bike pedals, my legs burning with each push as I drag the wooden cart behind me. Even after two weeks of deliveries, I still struggle to finish out the shift. Fortunately, as the day wears on, my load becomes lighter.

  Beyond the next intersection, I turn right and pass my apartment building. I search the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of Og or even one of his parents. I don’t recognize any faces, but a fleeting familiar sight makes me blink hard. A flash of dark curly hair and dark glasses: the guy from three weeks earlier, the familiar yet unfamiliar one. He stands a few feet from my apartment building as if he is waiting for someone. Staring at me, he lifts his hand up. Is he waving at me?

  “Hey, watch out!”

  I slam on my brakes, and the bike skids to a stop a foot in front of a woman holding the hand of a small boy.

  “Pay attention!” the woman shouts. “Are you trying to run someone over?”

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

  The woman scowls and pulls the oblivious child along behind her. When I turn and search for the dark-haired guy, he is gone.

  ►▼◄

  “Do you think I could be seeing things?” I ask, walking along with Hunter.

  The exotic birds in the glass, dome aviary chirp and sing all around us. Mom falls behind us, reading a placard about the scarlet ibis.

  “What do you mean?” Hunter asks, pausing in front of a pond where ducks of varying colors swim and squabble.

  “I know I had some kind of surgery at the rehab. There’s this scar on my neck,” I say, pulling my hair aside to show him. “I wonder if it’s making me see things and have nightmares.”

  “I don’t think so. What types of things are you seeing?”

  I shrug. “People. I guess I think they’re there, but maybe they aren’t.”

  “Sounds odd. Maybe we should get you back to the rehab for a check-up.”

  “No,” I say. Go back there and be re
minded of my instability? No way. “I bet it’ll pass.”

  He nods. “You’re probably right. You went through a lot of trauma, you and your mother, but forget about it today. It’s your birthday. No sixteen-year-old should be stressed out on her birthday.”

  “That’s true,” I say, still amazed at how the date sneaked up on me.

  “Why don’t you go on ahead? I’m going to hang back with your mom,” he says.

  He meets up with Mom, placing an arm around her waist. She smiles up at him and kisses his cheek. Her affection surprises me, but her smile eases any concerns. If Hunter stays around, I won’t have to worry about her when my time comes to leave home.

  A macaw flies overhead, its red feathers contrasting against the green trees above. I regret not bringing my sketchbook. I could sketch the amazing birds and scenery for hours without even a blink. Birds of every kind hide behind branches, nestle in bushes, and perch high in trees reaching the top of the giant steel cage. As I walk the dirt path, I count each flash of different feathers.

  I continue around a bend where the path splits and head to the right, catching a glimpse of something golden. I press on, searching low for a walking bird, but instead, a head of dark, curly hair peeks through the trees. The head turns, and he stares at me through the dark-framed glasses. Then he shoots out of sight.

  “Wait!” I call, hurrying past another bend in the path.

  Around the corner, he’s nowhere in sight, but I pick up my pace, landing in the middle of an intersection in the path. I turn in every direction, scanning the foliage hanging over the dirt. To my surprise, he stands in the middle of the path to my left a few yards away.

  “Raissa,” he says, smiling.

  I know that smile.

  I hurry to him, not sure what to say. I stop a couple of feet away and stare.

  “I told you I’d come back for you,” he says, rushing at me and wrapping his arms around me.

  I swallow, unable to find my breath or my ability to move.

  He pulls back and stifles a laugh. “It’s me. See?”

  He removes the glasses, revealing the face from my sketchbook. Reaching up under his bangs, he removes the curls to reveal blond hair.

  “There aren’t any cameras in here,” he says, replacing the wig and glasses. “I had to wait for the right place to talk to you.”

  I shake my head, the initial shock seeping away and giving me the words to speak. “Who are you?”

  His eyes widen, and his face loses its glow. “What did they do to you?”

  “I have sketches of you,” I say. “Why?”

  “It’s me, Arkin. You can’t tell me you don’t remember me.”

  I frown. “I don’t know you.”

  He bites his lip. “Raissa, you have to remember. Did you forget everything? The Bible? The believers? Philippi?”

  I step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  This is what Og meant about it being better to forget. Why is this guy running around Gideon in disguise?

  “I don’t think you should be around me,” I say. “I have to go.”

  He places a warm hand on my cheek, forcing me to stare into his eyes. “You have to remember me! I’m in your sketches for a reason!”

  I pull out of his reach. “Get away from me!”

  The pain in his expression numbs me. He turns and runs away. When he disappears beyond the foliage, my whole body relaxes, and I stroll in the opposite direction.

  ►▼◄

  The strange guy overwhelms my thoughts for the remainder of the day. I don’t mention him to Hunter or Mom, fearing the worst—I might have imagined him. But I smelled his cologne, spicy and warm. Can you smell a hallucination? He said his name was Arkin, but the name is no more familiar than the face.

  The face sticks with me, though. The hazel eyes held so much pain when I told him I didn't remember him. He hugged me, a feeling so foreign that I froze in response. Was hugging normal for us? Were we friends or something more? There’s no way a guy that adorable could be my boyfriend.

  I climb into my bed that night with my thoughts scurrying around like hungry rats. I crave answers, but where can I get them from? Could I ask Hunter or Mom or would they ship me off to the rehab center again? I can trust Ogden, but he isn’t an option.

  I toss and turn, sleep refusing to settle upon me. I roll over once again and stare at the moonlit floor, allowing my eyes to trace the cracks between the boards. The predictable pattern falters. One line in the pattern is thicker than the others. My secret treasure box. Did I leave anything in it years ago?

  With curiosity driving me, I slip down to the floor and pull up the loose floorboard. Inside, my childhood knick-knacks are gone, replaced with an oddly-bound, black book.

  Did I put this here? The cover of the book reads Holy Bible. Bible? Arkin said that word. Is this his book?

  A folded sheet of drawing paper juts from the pages, so I pull it out and unfold it. Staring at the handwriting, I recognize it as Petra’s, even in the moonlight. Did she leave something behind for me? My gut tells me this isn’t for CE eyes, so I rush to the window and close the curtains. Then I flip on my bedside lamp, and I read the letter, my heart pounding faster and faster with each word.

  The book was Petra's, but who was the messenger? Was it Arkin? And in whose hands had Petra been in? I fold up the letter, more confused than ever. Fully aware of the camera outside my window, I pull the curtains shut.

  Dropping down on my bed, I crack open the book and scan the picture of the family tree inside. I find my way to the first section, Genesis, and start reading.

  ►▼◄

  It’s difficult not to read the book. Over the span of two weeks, I devour it part by part, hiding in a corner of my room where the camera can’t see me. Every creak and noise behind my door causes me to hide the book from Mom. Despite my paranoia, I return to it after every shift each day and read it well into the late evening hours. I can’t grasp all of it, but I press on, latching on to what I can. The book reads with vivacious beauty, nothing like my monotonous textbooks.

  As I press on with my reading, Petra comes to mind. Was she really in trouble? The details of the accident are vague, and Mom refuses to take me to the Honored Citizens Park where my sister’s body was buried. She said it’s too painful for her and too soon. I agree, yet I long to have full confirmation of Petra’s death. Could she be in custody? Maybe she was caught with EP and actually sits in jail. Maybe I can’t remember because I don’t want to remember Petra is an enemy.

  I struggle with my questions and don’t know how to get the answers. If only I knew how to find Arkin. He has to be the messenger Petra mentioned in the letter. But where do you find a guy who seems to come and go with the wind?

  The people in the Bible just spoke to God, yet not all of them could see Him. Would God hear me if I spoke to Him? Flipping through the part called Psalms, I read chapter five in a whisper, making it my petition to God.

  “Hear my cry for help, my King and my God, for to you I pray,” I read. “In the morning, LORD, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait expectantly.”

  I dream of Arkin that night, and we dance together.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The next morning, a Tuesday in mid-July, I mount the delivery bike and my hand lands on a piece of paper wrapped with a rubber band on the right handlebar. I release the paper from the rubber band’s grasp, unravel it, and read:

  Raissa, if you want to know the truth about your lost memory and Petra, please meet me in the basement of Building A15 on Street H-31 after your shift today. –A.

  I glance around, searching the back of the apartment building for Arkin. A camera on a nearby building monitors me from above. I shove the paper into my pocket and pedal the bike to the pick-up location at the market.

  I prayed for this, but the Bible is against the Code. I want to be an honorable citizen, but what about the truth? What is the truth? Is it a coin
cidence that Arkin contacted me the day after I prayed? Is God real?

  During my route to each citizenship center throughout the day, Arkin and my loyalty to Gideon fight it out in my head. Questions pile up. The battle rages hour after hour until my mind grows more tired than my legs.

  At my apartment building, I push the bike and cart into the alley but stop in my tracks.

  “Tell me now!” a CE officer yells, standing near the bike rack. “Where are the others?”

  The officer forces an elderly man against the brick wall and chokes him with a batton. The old man’s red face turns white, then bluish purple as he fights for a breath. I can scarcely breathe myself.

  “Stop!” I yell. An image flashes across my mind like a glimpse from a forgotten dream. In my mind’s eye, Mom is held against a wall with the end of a taser wand pressed into her neck. The image disappears as quickly as it appeared.

  The officer turns to me, startled. He lowers his batton from the old man’s throat, and the man collapses on the cobblestone, coughing.

  “Get out of here, girl!” the officer shouts, pointing his batton at me.

  With my heart pounding, I back away, abandon the bike, and run out of the alley. Inside the apartment building, I pause at the staircase to catch my breath. What just happened? Did I remember something? It had to be a dream. Why would Mom ever be confronted by CE?

  Inside the quiet apartment, I strip out of my sweaty coveralls and take a cool shower, hoping to wash away the questions. I can’t stop trembling from the sight of the elderly man’s panicked face, and the strange image of Mom being threatened almost the same way. After wrapping myself in a towel, I wipe the steam from the mirror and stare at myself. Water runs down my face and drips from my dark hair. The eyes looking back at me are tired and somehow distant.

  A part of me is missing. I know what I have to do, and the thought doesn’t ease my trembling. I’m going to Building A15 for answers.