Then one day there was a knock at the front door. Luca had jumped up with excitement, maybe it was Mummy.
He tried to run to the door but Grampy had caught him and held him tightly. It was his Dad that crept up to the door, looked through the spyhole and then swung the door open with a strangled cry of relief. The sound relaxed his grandfather’s arms and Luca managed to wriggle away to join his father.
At the front door were two men dressed like the Action Man figures he had left at his old house. He stared at them in awe, smiling as one of them ruffled his hair.
So transfixed on the men, it had taken him a few minutes to notice his surroundings. The first thing he saw was that the outside of the front door had words written in white paint. He couldn’t read very well and didn’t understand what they said. He looked at the door in confusion and then back at the two men. He was certain he had never seen words on the front door before. Maybe the men had painted them. Maybe his Dad would tell them off, just like he told Luca off the time he had drawn on the walls.
Luca wondered if the men would cry like he did when he got told off. But as one of them shifted position, a small gap opened up between them, allowing Luca to see out onto the street. All thoughts of the potential telling off fled from his mind as he took in the strange scene.
People were lying in the street, and they didn’t move, so they must be sleeping. Cars were parked all over the road, not nice and neat like normal, but haphazardly, as though they had been abandoned. The windows in some of the houses had been smashed and some of the front doors were broken.
Luca tugged at his father’s sleeve, wanting to get his attention and ask about the strange sight. But he was ignored as his Dad spoke with the army men. Moments later the house turned into a flurry of activity as his Dad and grandparents raced around, taking anything of use and putting it into bags. When they were ready, they climbed into the back of the green army truck and drove away.
They arrived at Zone G over an hour later. Luca had not been outside since that day, and that was fine by him.
For years, the zone had thrived. Civilians and the military worked closely together to create a secure and sustainable habitat. The farms flourished, and the food was plentiful. Then a few years ago there was a bad harvest. The winter had been long and harsh and had destroyed most of the crops. Years of being well fed and comfortable had led to complacency.
Food had never been stockpiled. It was a long, hard year. Many died of starvation as they sacrificed their rations for children and the elderly. The angry residents placed all the blame for the zone’s predicament firmly at the hands of the zone leader, Curtis.
For all his faults, Curtis was a kind man. He had done everything with the best of intentions. He was quickly ousted from his position, then days later he had hung himself, too consumed with guilt that his lack of foresight had led to the death of some of the residents.
Brian Crowe, the new leader, was shrewd and practical. He negotiated a temporary increase in supplies from other zones. When the next harvest came, he implemented rationing, everyone getting an equal share, regardless of age, gender or occupation. The food not earmarked for rationing was then preserved and stored in case of an emergency.
Brian was protective of the zone and prioritised the well-being of its residents above all else. Last winter a group of twenty or so nozos turned up at the gates, begging to be allowed in. Brian came to the gate and immediately refused them entry. There was not enough food for them. They would need to go elsewhere.
One of them had protested and attacked Brian. The guards leapt to his defence and got the raging man under control. He was then forced to his knees and executed on the spot. His wife lunged at the guards and attacked them, her fists pummelling into bodies. Her weakened state meant that her fists barely had any impact on them, but she was pushed forcibly to the ground next to the corpse of her husband. Her throat was slit while she sobbed.
Brian addressed the other nozos, who were cowering in fear, “Let this day be a lesson. We will not tolerate violence of any kind. We have no space for you. Leave now. If you return, we will not hesitate to kill you all.”
The actions that day divided the zone. Many were outraged by the events. They argued that humanity was all that separated the survivors from the zebs. Anyone in need should be helped, or at the very least, shown compassion, and not murdered in cold blood. Others countered this with the importance of protecting the zone. Outsiders should fend for themselves and should be afraid of the consequences of attacking a zoner. Some, like Luca, remained silent on the matter, refusing to be drawn into either side of the argument, because he could see both sides.
Murder was wrong, and the situation could have been handled better. But it was true that they did not have enough resources to let new people join them.
Such was the extent of feelings; fights broke out, and friends stopped talking to one another. Tension throughout the zone ran high. Brian remained silent on the matter but took to walking the zone and talking with people. His right eye was swollen shut; the bruising was vivid and purple. It stayed like that for days, just enough time for him to visit all the different areas of the camp and gain sympathy for his injuries. The sight of their leader shocked many into changing their minds. It was clear that the assault he had been a victim of was much worse than they had been led to believe. No one questioned why the eye was taking far longer than normal to heal.
Two weeks after the incident, Marc, the most vocal of the small group that was still protesting against the killings, was found stealing food. He was declared selfish and a hypocrite and banished from the zone. With Marc’s departure, tempers abated, and friends reconciled their differences. Things returned to normal, and peace reigned across the zone.
Six weeks after the incident, strange things started to happen.
It started with two pigs going missing. The entire zone was searched, but they were not found. It was assumed that someone had stolen them for food. Everyone was questioned, and everyone pleaded innocence. The farmer who reared the pigs was ultimately blamed. Too valuable a resource to banish, he was publicly flogged, his wife and children forced to watch.
A week later the horses escaped from their paddock and trampled an entire field of flowering wheat, destroying half the crop. This time it was the youngest stable boy who was blamed for leaving the fence unlocked. His punishment was also a public flogging, but his wounds became infected, and without the necessary medical supplies, the young boy died.
Two days after the horses escaped, a fox got into the hen house and slaughtered half of the chickens. The builders, fearing that they would be punished, quickly built more secure fencing to protect the birds that remained.
Tempers flared again, and angry residents blamed Brian for the recent series of unfortunate events. They called for him to step down and allow someone else to take his place. Someone who could protect the people, the livestock, and the crops. A peaceful protest was arranged and took place on the day of the next zone meeting.
Those who sided with Brian found out about the protest and turned up to stop it. They carried bats, knives and anything else that could be used as a weapon. Violence erupted between the two sides. A small child got caught up in the crowds, fell to the floor and got trampled to death. This time the entire zone turned against the protesters. The ringleaders were flogged and then banished. The others had their rations halved for six months. Brian remained in power. Public challenges of Brian's leadership were no more. Everyone was too scared of the consequences.
Things returned to normal and the zoners went about their lives. Until the day the water supply was destroyed, every barrel pushed over, soaking the ground, and turning it into a quagmire. The charcoal was emptied from the containers and trodden into the mud, rendering it useless. All of which could have been fixed, if those responsible had not slashed each and every one of the barrels.
A zone meeting was called. Brian demanded that those responsible come forward, but no one di
d. As punishment, he cut the rations for all who had not spoken out publicly in support of him. While Brian and those loyal to him thrived, the rest of the zone grew hungrier and thirstier by the day.
Buoyed by their privileged position, many of Brian’s supporters stopped working, safe in the knowledge that they would get plenty of food and water, regardless. Everyone else, scared by the thought of further cuts to their rations, tried harder. With the working population weak from hunger and constantly dehydrated, production dwindled.
Six weeks ago, two people were caught sneaking into the zone. They confessed that they had been behind the sabotaging of the water and were there to commit more crimes. Brian paraded them through the zone, beaten and bloody. Initially, the residents rejoiced, because the guilty parties had been caught, but when the rationing was not lifted, the zone remained divided.
Luca had remained silent throughout, neither confirming his support nor dissent for Brian’s leadership. His rations were cut but he had at least been able to fashion a water collection system for the house he shared with his father. They were not thirsty, although summer was coming and a few days without rain would cause trouble. He was thankful his grandparents had died years ago. They would not have survived the living conditions of the zone today.
As a bribe for feeding the prisoners, Luca had been promised four eggs a day. He planned to use them to make pasta that night. His stomach growled at the thought of the starchy carbohydrate-filled food. He picked up his pace and was out of the building within minutes. Matty, who owed him the eggs, lived across the road from the makeshift prison. He would collect them now, then get on with his job in the armoury.
Luca rapped on the door to Matty’s house, and a minute later a tired man opened the door wearing nothing but boxer shorts.
“What do you want?” Matty asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Luca took in the scene. Matty’s fat stomach fell in rolls over the waistband of the shorts. In comparisons to Luca’s tall, wiry frame, his stomach almost indented because of lack of food, Matty looked obese.
“I’ve come for the eggs,” Luca said.
“Eh, what eggs?” as Matty spoke, he pushed one hand down the back of his shorts to scratch his backside.
Luca cringed at the sight, “For feeding the prisoners. Remember our deal?”
“Dunno what you’re talking about, mate,” Matty replied, sniffing the finger that had recently been down his shorts.
Luca gritted his teeth. The two men had been at school together, but they had not been friends and had hung around in different groups. He was well aware of Matty’s reputation for being a bully. It seemed that he hadn’t changed. “We agreed yesterday, I would feed the prisoners, and you would give me four eggs.”
Matty looked at Luca, his eyes calculating, as though coming to a decision. He nodded, “I’m just fucking with you, mate. Hang on.”
Luca stood at the doorway; he wasn’t surprised that Matty had tried to weasel his way out of their agreement. But he would have worked out that if he didn’t pay Luca today, Matty would have to go back to feeding the prisoners. Above everything, Matty was a lazy shit and he would be hard pushed to find someone else willing to enter that cell.
Minutes later, Matty came back carrying four eggs and handed them to Luca. He took them and placed them carefully in his satchel.
“Same again tomorrow?” Luca asked. Matty grunted in reply and closed the door in his face.
Chapter Three
Not even the constant squeak from the wheels of the cart could irritate me today. Everything seems more colourful and vibrant, the grass a sea of deep green, the sky a perfect azure blue, even the few clouds in the sky were puffy and perfectly formed, like something out of a children’s book. Two horses pull our cart steadily down the track that leads to the gates. My only complaint is that we are not going faster. We are so close to being outside that I can almost taste it.
The last two days have seen the entire S&T team in full-on planning mode. I’ve observed this before, everyone fixated on the task at hand. When we’re organising a mission, everyone pulls together, even if they are not going. As an apprentice, I’ve only ever been on the outside looking in. Listening and watching but never contributing. This time it’s different. I’ve gone from silent observer straight to leading the planning stage. Annie had explained that I would be thrown in at the deep end and she was not wrong.
We spent the first day shut in the small office allocated to S&T, planning the route. I had a map spread out on the table in front of me.
A pin with a small yellow head marked our intended destination. Along the route, other pins marked out potential hotspots. Red for Nozos, black for zebs. Annie watched me silently as I studied the map. Route planning is all part of my final assessment.
I’d chosen to work backwards from the factory to Zone E, which I’d marked with another yellow pin. We don’t have the luxury of being able to replace maps, so we can’t put many any ink marks on them. I picked up a blue pin and hovered over a road that runs south from our destination. Hesitant to place it, I looked up at Annie, but she just stared back at me impassively. I took a deep breath and pushed in the pin. Still, Annie stayed silent.
I figured that we didn’t have the time for me to get it wrong. So Annie would surely speak up if she didn’t agree. I brushed my nerves aside and just got on with it.
I tied a strand of cotton into the yellow pin that marks the factory and then wrapped it around the pin I had just put in place. I took another pin and placed it south-west of the previous one and looped the cotton round it. Within ten minutes I had mapped out the entire route. I stood back to admire my work, then I turned to Annie and grinned proudly.
My heart sank when she did not smile back at me. Instead, she leant over the map, studying it intently. I watched her quietly until she straightened up and turned to me, “Explain why you would have us skirting the edge of a known zeb hot spot?”
I took a deep breath, “I’ve balanced up the risk and decided this was the most effective route. There is an alternative option which adds twenty miles and means we pass through two groups of Nozos. That not only adds a day, but we are unsure if these nozos are hostile, and we could risk getting hijacked on the journey.” I looked Annie straight in the eyes as I spoke. A show of confidence to hide my nerves.
“Very good, Sammie,” Annie smiled at me, “I would have picked exactly the same route.”
Now, we are nearly on that route.
I have only ventured to the outer edges of the zone a couple of times in the past. It’s all farmland, of sorts. Immediately outside the main living area are the working farms, where animals are bred and crops grown. These circle the entire zone but span out for miles. They include the allotments that Mum works on. Next to them are the water farms. This is where we collect rainwater for use in the zone.
In the early days, wells were dug which supplied sufficient drinking water, but as the population expanded we needed a solution to collect more water.
The water collectors are basically massive barrels. The ones allocated as drinking water have netting fixed in place which holds charcoal. The charcoal filters the water so it is safe for us to drink. The zoners who work on the water farms have one of the most boring jobs in the zone. They have to collect the water and transport it back to the living area. They also top up the charcoal when it’s running low. Lots of heavy lifting and carrying to and from the horse-drawn carts. I feel a bit sorry for them. When it hasn’t rained in a while, and the water is rationed, we all moan at them, as though they can control the weather. Yet no one ever thanks them for the backbreaking, mind-numbing job they do. As we pass by I can see them all methodically filling the massive plastic containers, then carrying them on their backs to the carts. Back and forth they go, like ants. I make a mental note to thank them for their hard work when I get back.
We journey past the water farms into the last of the farm lands. The most visually impressive of them all, the solar
farms.
Hundreds upon hundreds of rows of solar panels are neatly arranged as far as the eye can see. The bright sun reflects from them, so the fields look like they are sparkling. They are varying shapes and sizes, because they were mostly looted from residential homes after the outbreak. Engineers work these farms.
Power is a funny thing. For most of the year, we have plenty of electricity to keep us going if we’re careful. Mum often tells me of the old days, when people would think nothing of leaving a light on when they were not in the room; of all of the devices and gadgets that they would use electricity for without a second thought. Now it’s mostly limited to being used for lighting and cooking. The heating of older people’s homes and the hospital takes priority. On very special occasions we can apply to use it for music, but that’s usually reserved for weddings or zone-wide celebrations.
Power is difficult to store, so a few times of the year, when the sun has not made an appearance in days, we don’t have any electricity at all. We’re forced to make do with candles for lighting, and eating food cold. We are lucky. Apparently, some of the more northern zones don’t get as much sunlight as we do and can be without power for months.
“Look,” Annie says, pointing in front of us and bringing me out of my daydream. I follow the direction of her finger and my heart leaps. In the distance I can see the outer fence.
We leave behind the solar farms and within minutes arrive at the inner fence, a secondary line of defence for the zone. Annie stops the horses to wait for the inner gate to be opened.
A sentry walks over to the cart, “Hey Annie. Taking a newbie out today, are ya?” He looks up at me with a grin. His smile is kind and reaches his eyes, wrinkling his weather-worn face.
I respond with a casual nod, trying to hide my excitement. I don’t want to look immature.
Safe Zone (Book 2): The Descent Page 4