Hungry

by H. A. Swain

  Not sure how to reach U so trying text. I hope U know I’m not against U. OW twisted my words. Interrogated us for hours. Threatened us then doctored the footage. I M w/ U!

  I hug the Gizmo to my chest. Basil was right. Yaz would never forsake me. I hate to think what security has done to her. The threats they might have made against her and her family. The opportunities they could have stripped from her. And for what—being my friend?

  As I sit and stare at my screen, trying to find the words to text back to Yaz about how sorry I am that she had to get involved, a headline pops up and punches me hard in the gut: Ana Gignot, leader of the Analog movement, is dead.

  I scramble to my feet, calling, “Basil! Basil!” but he’s back through the door before the words are out of my mouth.

  “Ana!” he says. He looks stricken and can’t say the rest.

  “Oh, Basil!” I hold open my arms. “Is it true? Is she really dead?” His face twists with agony. I hold him tight. “What happened? How?” I ask, but he can’t talk. I get him back to the floor and cradle his head in my lap while I look for a newsfeed. I find one from the prison warden at a press conference half an hour ago.

  “At five forty-seven p.m. today, Ana Louisa Gignot, leader of the corporate-resistance group the Analogs, died in custody at detention center number forty-eight in the South Loop,” the warden says. “As a result of not properly imbibing synthetic nutritional beverages over the past several weeks, Ms. Gignot was weak, dehydrated, and malnourished when she entered our facility a few days ago.”

  “That’s not true!” Basil nearly shouts.

  “After refusing synthetic nutritional beverages in our care, doctors prescribed an intravenous solution to correct her health issues,” the warden says. “Unfortunately, Ms. Gignot suffered an allergic reaction to this solution and entered cardiac arrest at five thirty-four p.m. Doctors were unable to revive her.”

  “Liars! They killed her,” Basil growls at my Gizmo. Then he blinks at it and looks up at me. “Where did you get that thing?”

  “I … I…” The truth is too complicated to explain so I say, “I borrowed it.”

  “Get rid of it,” he tells me. “It’ll only bring us trouble.”

  “No wait, let’s find out more.” I surf for news and come across an archive of another press conference with Ahimsa from earlier.

  “Unfortunately, the situation has gotten rather out of hand,” she says coldly from behind her massive desk. “If people don’t come to their senses soon, we may be forced to halt the distribution of Synthamil to certain areas. I can’t send my workers into civil unrest.” She looks straight at the camera. I feel her eyes on me. “As I said before, until the unlawful protest against One World is stopped, our ability to uphold the Universal Nutrition Protection Act could be jeopardized.”

  “What does she mean?” I ask.

  “She’ll make sure the government cuts off the supply of Synthamil.”

  I shake my head. “She can’t do that. It’s the law that everyone receives it.”

  Basil sits up, weary and brokenhearted. “No, Apple. It’s the law that legally born citizens have the right to free nutrition from their government, but nowhere does it say One World has to provide it. They could break their contract with the government anytime they wanted, and what could anybody do about it? They’ve put every other provider out of business over the years and they’ve got the no-food laws in place. Privies will have the money to pay for private One World Synthamil distribution while the government pretends to scramble to find another provider for everybody else, but there is none and we all know it. Ana always feared this would happen if we moved too fast. That’s why she wanted us to find a place where we could feed ourselves someday.”

  As I’m trying to process all of this, Basil says, “And you want to know the worst part?”

  “What could be worse?”

  “That everyone would still receive their inocs so they wouldn’t even know that they’re hungry.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face. “They’d just starve?”

  He nods. “That’s what happens to seconds whose families can’t afford to feed them.”

  “No.” I shake my head, horrified by the thought.

  “Yes.”

  “But you…”

  “I’m different,” says Basil. “Like you. I feel it when I’m hungry. I always thought there was something wrong with me. I tried to hide it. Until I met Ana. She was the first person who pointed out to me that feeling hunger is a good thing. It’s what kept me alive.”

  “Oh, Basil,” I say, swooning and nauseous.

  Outside, an endless stream of people pass, their voices mixed into a cacophony of fear.

  “Where do you think they’re all going?” I ask.

  “Probably the distribution point before Ahimsa tells the government to shut it down.” He pulls himself up. “And we should, too. We’ll need to stock up before there’s no more available.”

  “What about Garvy and Ribald?”

  He shakes his head. “Just have to take our chances.” He holds his hand out to me. “What happened to your crutches?”

  “They were slowing me down,” I tell him. “I wish I had them now.”

  “Wait.” He rummages around the room until he finds some weird stick kind of thing with a big brush on the end.

  “What’s that?”

  “A broom.”

  I look at him blankly.

  “It’s a manual sweeper.” He shows me how it moves dirt around the floor. Then he unzips his coveralls part way and pulls out a knife.

  I gasp. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Borrowed it from my mom,” he says with a smirk as he cuts off the bristles of the broom. He lowers the hinged metal door of a large boxy thing with dials and buttons. Inside on sturdy wire racks, he finds neatly folded clothing. He pulls out a pair of pants and cuts off one leg which he wraps around the brushless head of the broom. I stand on one foot so he can measure the stick against the side of my body. He hacks at the tapered end then flips it over and slides the padded part under my arm. It fits perfectly. I lean on the pad and take a step. “Brilliant!” I tell him. “Someday, in a better world, you will design amazing things.”

  “Thank you,” he says and slides the knife inside his coveralls. “Ready?”

  I nod.

  “Get rid of that Gizmo,” he tells me.

  “Okay,” I say and set it on the floor, but when he turns his back, I snatch it up, cloak it, and slide it back inside my pouch.

  * * *

  We stay in the center of the flow of people heading out the far side of the camp, figuring Garvy and Ribald will be less likely to spot us that way. With the pain medication kicking in and Basil’s crutch at my side, I’m moving well now. Plus, the distribution center is close by, just inside the old school beyond the football field, but by the time we get there, we’re too late. The worker in a burgundy sweater vest with the One World logo across the chest is already pulling down the gates and locking up the doors.

  “One World orders,” he shouts at the restless crowd. “You know I’d give it to you if I could.”

  People jeer at him and beg, but they keep their distance and the guy doesn’t budge.

  “I could lose my job,” he says. “And if we don’t do what they say, they might not let me reopen. Then what? I have a family, too, you know!”

  I look at the drawn and fearful faces around me. I see Zara in the crowd. Women and men my parents’ age. Little kids straggling on the edges. I’ve never had to go without, but I’ve known the same hunger that they feel. If these are the geophags, they seem more downtrodden than violent, and the truth is, I am one of them. My mother thinks there’s a flaw in me, but that blip in my genetic material has allowed me to see the world differently now. I realize that what we need is not charity from some corporation lording their benevolence over us but a voice and a say in our most basic human rights. That’s what Ana was trying to do before they shut her
up. Ahimsa accused me of many things, but she’s totally wrong on one account. I can use my privilege to change things.

  As loud as I can, I shout, “It’s our constitutional right to receive free Synthamil!” People around me crane their necks to see who’s yelling. “We demand our Synthamil! They are not yours to distribute!”

  “Yeah!” someone else shouts.

  “She’s right!”

  “Hand them over!”

  I start to chant, “Synthamil! Synthamil! Synthamil!”

  Slowly, the crowd joins in.

  “Settle down!” the worker yells, but he’s barely heard over the growing dissonance of our voices. “You’re only going to make it worse,” he shouts. “I’ll have to call security if you don’t stop harassing me.”

  Some people shrink back, but I know we can’t stop. I see an old Dumpster against the wall of the building. “Help me up,” I say to Basil.

  “No, it’s too risky.”

  “We have nothing if we don’t have this,” I tell him. “It’s the one guarantee our society makes, and I won’t stand by and watch it held hostage. Now help me up!”

  “I’ll help you,” a guy behind me says.

  “Me, too,” says the woman beside him.

  “Apple!” Basil hisses and tries to grab my arm. “Don’t! They’ll see you!”

  But it’s too late. I don’t care anymore. Ahimsa can arrest me. She can throw me in jail until I rot, but now I’m pissed. After what I saw on the screen back at the hospital, I realize that I can’t go back to my old life. And not just because they want to arrest me. Too much has happened. I see the world differently. One World may have been the hand that fed me, but they’re the same entity that will let other children starve.

  I hold out my arms so the man and woman can lift me to the top of the Dumpster. Then I take out my Gizmo, uncloak it, and turn on the amplifier mode.

  “Nourishment is a human right, not a corporate commodity,” I tell the people. “The Universal Nutrition Protection Act is a sham meant to protect One World and should be struck down as inhumane. No corporation has the right to starve human beings. This is our Synthamil as provided by our government! And if they won’t give it to us, we must take what’s ours!”

  A rallying cry erupts as the crowd surges forward.

  “Get down!” Basil shouts at me. “We have to get out of here!”

  But I won’t listen. I open a direct video feed to the Dynasaur network and begin filming the geophags overtaking the distribution site. I narrate what’s happening as they push aside the lone worker, take his keys, and unlock the gates. “Citizens of this Outer Loop Synthamil distribution center will not be denied the human right to nutrition!” I say as the group of people closest to the store pass crates of bottles brigade style, to the rest of the crowd. Then I turn the camera onto me. All the times I badgered Yaz about speaking out on her PRC, I should have taken my own advice. “This is Thalia Apple,” I say into the camera.

  “Apple, no!” Basil yells and rushes toward the Dumpster, but the man and woman who lifted me up hold him back.

  “Aka HectorProtector. Do not let Ana die in vain. Do not fear prison. As long as One World controls the only source of nutrition we are all in prison! Take what’s rightfully yours!”

  I hear the sirens before I see the security cars arrive. The crowd scatters as guards flood the scene, swinging blunt clubs and bashing their way toward the store to stop the looting.

  The man and woman holding Basil let go and run. He sprints toward the Dumpster and grabs my good ankle. But I still won’t budge. I try to train my camera on the violence in front of me, but my hands shake and my voice quivers with hate as I describe the scene.

  Then, above the din of the chaos a man screams, “That’s her! That’s Thalia Apple!”

  People spin around, evading the security agents while trying to get a look at the fugitive. Ribald runs through the middle of the scrum toward the Dumpster, pointing and shouting at me.

  “Basil!” I scream as Ribald lunges. Basil spins around. I see the knife flash. Ribald jumps back. Basil brandishes it at him while I scramble down from my perch.

  “Come on,” Ribald yells, egging Basil on. “Try to stick me, boy. You don’t have the guts.”

  Garvy runs up behind Ribald but immediately backs off when he sees the knife in Basil’s hands. I press myself close to Basil’s back. He holds on to me with one hand while jabbing at Ribald, sending him dancing backward through the pandemonium.

  “You good-for-nothing piece of crap,” Ribald growls. “They’re going to lock you up and throw away the key, just like they did your daddy.”

  Basil keeps pushing forward, away from the building where the security guards battle the geophags for control of the Synthamil. We inch closer to the police cars on the perimeter. “Get ready,” Basil says to me. “One…” I don’t know what I’m supposed to be ready for. “Two…” He swipes at Ribald, ripping the fabric of his jacket and drawing a thin line of blood across his chest. Ribald looks down flummoxed, then Basil shouts, “Three!” He throws the knife aside and lands a hard punch to Ribald’s gut that sends him reeling into Garvy, knocking them both to the ground.

  “Go!” Basil screams and pulls me past the two men trying to disentangle themselves from each other.

  We dive into a car. I pop up behind the steering wheel as Basil slams the door.

  “Go! Go! Go!” he yells, but I stare stupidly at the screen on the dashboard. “You have to drive it!” he shouts.

  “How?” I yell back just as Ribald throws himself across the hood of the car. He snarls and spits with rage.

  “Push the pedal!” Basil screams and jams his foot on top of mine. The combustion engine roars, but we don’t move.

  Suddenly Ribald’s sliding across the hood of the car away from us. We look out the windshield to find Zara, her magenta hair flashing as she and her geophag friend yank Ribald off the car by the ankles. I jab my finger against the touch screen in front of me. Lights go on and off. Wipers swish. Air blasts in our face, then we lurch forward, heading straight for Garvy. His mouth drops in terror, and I yank the wheel to the right, sending the vehicle in a big arc through the crowd that scatters as we race toward the building, the engine bellowing.

  “Turn, turn, turn!” Basil yells at me with his foot jammed on top of mine. “Now straighten it out.”

  I pull the wheel and swerve around Zara who’s too busy kicking Ribald in the ribs to hear me shouting, “Thank you!” through the open window. My voice trails after us as we hit the road and zoom through town.

  “There has to be a location device in here,” I yell over the engine.

  “Can you dismantle it?” Basils asks.

  “Not while I’m driving,” I tell him as I clutch the steering wheel so tight my knuckles go white. This is nothing like steering a bicycle or motorbike, and I’m petrified that we’ll crash as we pass the decrepit buildings and the clinic, surrounded by flashing red-lighted vehicles. Everything whizzes by in a blur.

  “Climb over me,” Basil says. He grabs the wheel then slides across the seat toward me.

  “We’ll wreck!” I’m too afraid to let go.

  “It’s okay,” he assures me. “We can do it.” I pry my fingers from the wheel and slide across his lap so that we change places. Then I jab at the screen, trying to work my way into the operating system, but nothing makes sense to me.

  “I can’t figure it out,” I spit, sure that security won’t be far behind. “Stupid thing!” I lift the crutch Basil made and smash it into the dashboard, over and over. The screen shorts out with a loud pop, a puff of smoke, and a sad little whinge. Every light inside and out of the car dies. We continue barreling down a rutted road toward the setting sun. We don’t stop. We don’t slow down. We don’t even talk. We buckle ourselves in and we fly.

  * * *

  For the next half hour we drive in silence with the wail of sirens not far behind. I continually scan the road and the air for red lights, but we
seem to have gotten enough of a head start. Each time there’s a fork, a curve, or another road away from the town, Basil takes it until after nearly an hour we’re zipping along an unlit dirt path alone and the sirens have faded into the night. But Basil keeps pushing the car forward, bearing down on the pedal, so that our heads scrape the ceiling with every bump. A few times I gasp when I think I see something lurch in front of us, but it’s just the shadows of clouds moving across the moon.

  “Maybe we should stop now,” I say.

  “Maybe we could if you hadn’t announced to the world who we are!” he snaps at me and keeps his eyes locked forward and his foot on the pedal like a man possessed.

  “Sometimes you have to do the right thing!” I yell.

  “Not at the expense of your safety.”

  “But if you’re not willing to take a risk, how will anything ever change?”

  “I take risks,” Basil argues. “But I’m smart about it. I stay under the radar. Until now!”

  “I did the right thing,” I tell him defiantly. “Maybe we should go back and be a part of what we started.”

  “No,” is all he says.

  Before I can argue with him anymore, the car tilts sharply, and we head up a steep uneven incline. As we reach the crest, the moon slips behind a large cloud. He guns the engine and the wheels leave the ground. My body lifts, airborne between the seat and ceiling. Basil floats beside me. I hear myself screaming as we soar like a meteor rushing through deep dark space. In that time, which can only be a second or two, my mind slows enough for me to have one clear thought: If I’m going to die, then I’m glad I’m beside this boy.

  But we land quickly then bounce and bang down an equally steep decline, screaming and flailing into the air bags, which have burst from the dashboard and doors to cushion our blow. Then, just like that, the bags deflate and we’re motionless. We sit in stunned silence as fine powder from the air bag explosions sprinkles over us like simulated snow.