Departures

by E. J. Wenstrom

  I have a feeling this is as much praise as I can ever expect from Sue. But she’s got one thing right – it was unsettling to see a person so broken and vulnerable.

  She continues. “I gotta give the Directorate credit for one thing – they take great care of their citizens, physically. For his age, Frank is in great condition. He’s strong. He’ll be walking again in no time. Maybe with a walker this time, but he’ll get around fine.”

  “And the dementia?”

  “He’ll have that the rest of his life. It’s almost certainly the reason Frank is here right now, and not in the Directorate.” She shakes her head. “They used to look for cures, you know. For dementia, for a lot of things. Now the Directorate’s the only ones left with the resources to do it, and they’re too busy optimizing the lucky ones to bother helping the others.”

  The old lines the Directorate repeated to us over and over in school come to my lips.

  “But people suffered, that way. What they do now – so much is eliminated with the right diet and exercise, by eliminating pollution and stress. We’ll never be able to eliminate every cause of suffering, but we can eliminate the suffering.”

  Sue studies me, raising an eyebrow. “Tell that to all those who the Directorate killed over the past seventy-five years, without any say on whether that’s what they wanted or not. Or even how they lived.”

  I have no response for this, and Sue doesn’t wait for one. She pushes ahead, and we’re quickly at another cabin, another patient in need of Sue’s energetic care. A cancer patient this time.

  “So she’s departing?” I ask.

  “No!” Sue grabs my shirt. “She is not dying. If you go in that room and mention death or in any way imply it, I will personally drag you back to the Directorate, and I don’t care what they do to you once we get there. Do you understand me?”

  Her anger catches me off guard, giving me a jolt like an electric shock. But it’s not Sue’s words that get to me. Even Sue, gruff as she is, wouldn’t really turn me over to the Directorate, I’m sure of it. It’s her eyes. They ignite with anger, as if we were heading into some kind of battle. There’s something different about this patient.

  “Okay, okay. Just trying to understand. Got it, not departing.”

  Sue shoves the supply bag at me and heads inside, leaving me to catch the door behind her with my crutch.

  Sue immediately shatters the quiet, her voice packed with energy and a smile plastered to her face. “Rosie! Still in bed? It’s past ten!”

  The woman in the bed looks so depleted I almost panic. Her head is entirely bald, with hardly enough fuzz to call eyebrows framing a face that is sunken and pale.

  She lifts her head slowly, as if dragging herself out of a dream. But I don’t think she was asleep.

  “Only ten, huh? I got more time to kick back than I thought.”

  A slow grin spreads on her face. It looks half-hearted to me, like maybe she’s only playing along for Sue. But if Sue notices, she ignores it and goes on about her business. She unhooks an IV bag from behind the bed and grabs a new one from the supplies.

  “This is Evie, she’s new. Directorate.”

  Rosie glances towards me. “You’re so young.” I don’t know what to say to that, so I shrug. She continues. “Quite an adjustment, huh?”

  My eyes trace over her hollowed cheeks and her bald head. I can’t believe she’s alive, with all that her body is going through. “Adjustment. Yeah.”

  Rosie laughs, glancing at Sue, who smirks back at her. As if they’ve shared some kind of inside joke. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it. You’ve been here, what, a few days?”

  “One.”

  “Yeah. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

  “Get used to what?” I ask.

  “Being around pain,” she responds. “It’s not easy, at first.”

  I glance to Sue. Her eyes brim with sadness, and the lines of her face are strained. Something tells me it never gets easy to be around pain, not the kind Sue has been showing me this morning.

  Sue parks me in the chair next to Rosie’s bed with the clipboard, and I update her vitals on the chart as Sue gives her a full checkup.

  It takes a while. Sitting still, I suddenly realize how strained my body is from all the moving around on the crutches. My arms and neck are sore from the movement, and my muscles are tired. But in the lull of the beeping machines, I start to relax – for a moment.

  “What’s that?” Sue demands, peering over my shoulder at the clipboard.

  “Nothing.” I impulsively move my hand to cover up the tree I started sketching in the corner of the page. “Sorry.”

  I’ve always drawn little doodles like this, when my mind starts to wander. And it’s always gotten me into trouble. I used to draw in the margins of my syncscreens in class with my stylus. I tried to pay attention, but my mind would drift off, and next thing I knew there was half a sketch covering the page and the instructor was frowning over my shoulder.

  But Sue doesn’t scold. She studies it a moment, then cocks an eyebrow. “Not bad.” Then she points to the chart. “Heart rate. Forty-eight bpm.”

  She turns away to get back to Rosie. I write down the number and try to pay attention.

  When we’re about to leave, Sue leans over the bed, presses their heads together and whispers to Rosie, and then they share a kiss. Goosebumps shoot down my arms – oh. No wonder Sue got so angry at me for saying Rosie was dying.

  Sue turns away without so much as looking at me, her eyes fixed on the floor.

  As we walk back towards the Med cabin, I can’t help but wonder how much pain Rosie is really in. If she told the truth, if Sue wasn’t there determinedly telling her she was going to make it, if the camp didn’t expect her to fight through it… if she could go back and let herself slip away in her sleep on her intended departure date, would she do it? Does she really want to live if it means suffering through all this? The Directorate would never stand for all this torture.

  We move on to more patients. A broken leg, and then an older lady who we have to make sure eats something.

  Each time, a panic tries to climb into my chest, and each time, I dig my fingers into the handles of my crutches and force it down. But as we walk between cabins, I can’t fight it anymore. The panic takes over, choking my breaths and strangling my lungs. Blackness edges in on my vision, and I have to stop and lean forward keep my head from rushing.

  In, two, three, four, five. Out, two, three, four, five. In, two, three, four, five. I fight to get my breaths back under control.

  “What on Earth are you doing?” Sue demands. Her voice feels far away. I want to answer her, to explain. I’m sure I look ridiculous hunched over with my crutches sprawled out. But I can hardly get air in and out, and I have none to spare for talking.

  “I’m dying.” It’s all I can get out, half-shock, half-whine.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not dying. You’re panicking. Slow down your breaths.”

  “Not now,” I gasp. “But soon. I’ll be like the rest of them. My date’s already passed. It’s probably happening right now.”

  “Oh.” Sue sighs. “I probably should have expected this.”

  A hand runs back and forth over my back. “Take it easy, now, breathe,” she coaxes. She’s gone into doctor mode, strong and caring, kneeling beside me.

  “And listen. Just because the Directorate says your time is up, that doesn’t mean that’s what’s going to happen. They set departures for all kinds of reasons, and not all of them are actually terminal. People can live long lives after the Directorate writes them off. Happy ones. Healthy ones, even. You’ll see. For now, I need you to breathe, and to not give up on yourself so easily. You might have a battle to fight. You might experience some pain. But your time is far from up.”

  Her strength is soothing, and as she speaks, my breaths slow back down to normal. There’s a determination in her voice, and it makes me think of Rosie.

  “But is a lif
e in pain really a life?” I whimper.

  Sue’s eyes flicker with anger. “Does pain stop you from loving, or thinking, or feeling? The Directorate has it all wrong. Out here, with the pain, there’s more life, not less. A life dedicated to just avoiding the bad, that’s not a life at all. Now, are you all right? You look better.”

  She gets up. I follow her lead and stand, too.

  “Yeah.” I’m more confused and scared than ever, and my head is still rushing with the fear of what the Directorate was trying to protect me from. But my breathing is back to normal. “But can I go back to my cabin and rest?”

  She looks at me, frowning as she considers. “No. And I know you think I'm being a hardass. But lying around is the worst thing for you right now. Staying busy. Acclimating. This is what you need. So, compromise: I'll take you back to the Med cabin, and you’ll take inventory the rest of the day. Any injuries that come in, you’ll observe and assist Noah.”

  She raises her eyebrows, waiting for my consent.

  No one has ever sought my consent before. The Directorate’s always told us what’s best. If I really insisted, I actually think Sue would actually let me go hide in my cabin right now.

  But even though she’s gruff and snippy and can barely remember my name, even though I’m terrified and every instinct is telling me to run and hide, I want to prove to her, to all of them, that they didn’t waste their effort by saving me.

  “Okay,” I say. I try to smile but I’m not sure it comes out well.

  Sue nods. “Atta girl.”

  As we head back to the cabin, I try to focus on my steps to stay calm, but under the surface, fear still simmers and bubbles. I’m dying.

  I’m dying.

  I’m dying.

  And I have no idea from what.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Evie

  When we get to the Med cabin, Noah is waiting for us with a big smile and even bigger sandwiches.

  “Breakfast and dinner, we all come together,” he says. “But lunch, it’s more grab-and-go. We’re a people on the move, Ev! No time to stop and eat.”

  He actually winks.

  The bread is thick and filled with all kinds of seeds and grains, and between the slices are brightly-colored tomatoes, lettuce, beansprouts, and thick cuts of meat. It looks like a weird, malformed mess. But after breakfast, I’ll try anything they give me. I take a bite, and an explosion of juicy flavors fills my mouth. I’ve consumed the rest of it before Noah can hand me a napkin.

  Sue takes a couple bites from her sandwich and puts it back down.

  “She’s seen enough for a first day. I’m heading back out.”

  She doesn’t mention my freak-out. My heart floods with gratitude.

  After lunch, Noah sets me up along the wall next to the overstuffed shelves, each box filled with different supplies. I spend the next few hours counting. Counting cotton swabs. Counting bottles of pills. Counting rolls of bandages. Counting sheets. It helps.

  It is a boring afternoon, and in the quiet, I start to feel almost normal again.

  Then the door bursts open with a boom, and three people covered in camouflage and dirt rush in, carrying something between them.

  A voice calls out. “Soldier down, soldier down.”

  They rush in and drop their cargo on the medical table.

  Noah shifts gears, suddenly a whirl of tense motion as he rushes to the table. I follow, too confused by the commotion to think, and then reel from shock. They weren’t carrying a thing, they were carrying a person. The man is covered in blood and shrapnel, writhing in such great pain his cries are rendered silent as they twist over his face.

  I freeze in panic.

  Thankfully, Noah doesn’t.

  “Everyone step back,” he orders. As he starts checking the man over, he barks a series of questions. “Did you see the hit? Did he say anything about where the pain is worst?”

  “Leg,” one of the soldiers replies. “He was reaching for his leg.”

  “Gloves.” Noah stretches out his hand to me. “Scissors.”

  I stare and blink, unable to process. Noah doesn’t wait, turning instead to pull the supplies cart to him and does it himself, then cuts away the man’s uniform.

  “We’ve got work to do,” Noah says. He doesn’t look up from the man on the table. “You all need to go.”

  One of the soldiers leans over the man on the operating table. “Stay strong, Benjamin.”

  Then they reluctantly head for the door. My pounding heart wishes I could follow them, but panic has my feet glued to the floor.

  Noah sets to work, applying a tourniquet and giving the man a shot that sedates him, then performing surgery on his leg to remove the shrapnel and correct the damage.

  I stand terrified and stunned in the corner, watching the blood pulse out of his body.

  Once the worst is addressed, Noah starts talking to me while he works.

  “Evie?”

  I can’t find my voice to respond.

  “It’s okay, Evie.”

  Nothing about this is okay.

  “He’s… he’s going to be all right?” I can’t imagine how that could be possible.

  “Yes. He won’t be going back to the front lines, and his leg will always give him some pain, but he’ll live.”

  Always in pain? What kind of life is that?

  “What happened to him?”

  “Well…” He clears his throat. “Did you know the Directorate protects its borders along the surface with bombs?”

  “No,” I whisper. This was the Directorate?

  “They’re powerful and quite effective, unfortunately. Designed to inflict as much pain as possible, without killing, and keep soldiers from returning to battle. The camp is losing support from our ally countries. Some are starting to fear the Directorate more, others are just giving up. Intel & Recon has been working on ways to defuse the bombs so we can develop more effective attacks on them. Benjamin, and the other brave soldiers who brought him in, are testing out those methods.”

  Understanding creeps into me. The Directorate knows other people are out here. And they’re hurting them as much as they can, to keep them away. I stare at the man on the table, pale from blood loss. How can they lie to us so completely?

  “But look,” Noah continues. “It’s dinner time. Sue will be here any minute. Go eat, Evie. You don’t need to keep watching this.”

  I nod, and then leave. I feel guilty leaving him there, but I also know I can’t take anymore, not today.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Evie

  I was in such a rush to get out of the Med cabin I forgot that I don’t know how to get back to where they eat. Thick clouds have overtaken the sky since lunch, making the woods darker. I almost turn back, but then I hear voices, and they lead me to where everyone is gathering. As I reach them, the horror from the Med cabin disperses a little in the open air and wafts of delicious smells.

  Kinlee is standing on of one of the tables – actually on top of it – as I approach, and she waves to me, jumping up and down to make sure I see her. As if it’s even possible not to.

  “It’s Evie!” she announces when I get there. She jumps down and sits, so she’s perched on the table with her feet on the bench, facing me.

  “So! How was it in Med?”

  “It was…” How could I explain the fear that choked me this afternoon – to her of all people? The horror of the soldier, sprawled unconscious on the table and covered in blood? This isn’t how things happen in the Directorate. But even if they did, they wouldn’t be talked about. “It was a lot.”

  Kinlee nods. “Yeah. You’ll get the hang of it.”

  And that should have been the end of it. Next, I would ask Kinlee what she did today, and we would move on as etiquette dictates. But before I can, a voice pops in out of nowhere.

  “Get the hang of what? Actual work?”

  I whip around to find Connor has slid onto the bench next to me.

  “What’s that
supposed to mean?”

  In an instant, my ears are thudding with my racing heartbeat. How does he do this, how does he make me a thousand times angrier than I’ve ever been in my life, just by showing up? After yesterday, today was the worst day of my life. Benjamin’s writhing is still fresh in my head.

  He shrugs. He’s so calm, and it only makes me angrier. “The Directorate doesn’t exactly prioritize strenuous work.”

  That’s it.

  The entire horrible day comes to a head and bursts out of me.

  “Like you would even know,” I snap. “Growing up in the woods. Like some kind of…” I realize too late, I don’t know where I’m going with this. “… of… of… squirrel.”

  Kinlee snorts with laughter from behind me. I ignore her and keep going.

  “Not that you would know, or care, or have any reason to even bring it up,” I stand up, fumbling with my crutches, so that I’m yelling down at his forehead. All the anger and fear and confusion of my day crackle through me in a burst. “But we actually spend most of our time in the Quads working in some form or another.”

  Hearing my own voice raised to such a volume surprises me. But it’s also freeing, releasing everything that built up inside me all day.

  Connor leans back on the table so he’s looking up at me. His eyes are sparkling. Ugh, he’s enjoying this. Now it doesn’t feel so good. Does he think this is some kind of game?

  “Sure. ‘Work.’ Like your carefully-scheduled classes and your carefully-organized homework, all designed to stimulate without stressing? Or when you go to your carefully-constructed gyms to perform your mathematically-determined, low-impact workouts?” He smirks, his words flying fast and cocky, calm in a way that bites. “You don’t even know what real work is. It’s not your fault. It’s just the truth.”

  Overhead, the clouds release a rumbling groan, echoing the anger that’s welling in my chest. How can he talk like that? In the Quads we talk slowly, respectfully. There’s no need to raise heart rates or upset someone. It only adds unnecessary stressors.

  “You don’t know anything. You think I’ve been sheltered my whole life, in the Quads? At least I was part of the world, and not hidden away where I can hate everything without having to bother understanding any of it.”