The Sound

by James Sperl

  To a place called New Framingham.

  CHAPTER 47

  The man waved an orange flag at Andrew, directing him along a marked route cordoned off with lengths of rope that circumnavigated a large parking area nearly filled to capacity.

  Clarissa couldn't get over the sheer number of vehicles. There must have been hundreds. Thousands, even. Cars, trucks, campers, trailers, motorcycles, RVs—all were butt end to end into every conceivable space. Many hadn't been moved or used for quite some time; a scrim of dust coated the windshields and bodies in a fine, sooty layer.

  A-frame signs with hand-painted arrows on them guided would-be arrivals forward until the makeshift lane came to an end in front of a well-guarded security checkpoint. Eight stern-faced men holding automatic rifles glared down from elevated positions while ten more dispersed among two hopeful groups, each of which stood beside their respective vehicle. A family of three in a dirty white Mazda and a late-middle-aged man, whose truck was so decrepit, it wouldn't have surprised anyone to learn he'd pushed it there, watched nervously as the men rummaged through their vehicles.

  A squat security guard, who sported severe, close-cropped hair and sunglasses that made him appear as if he perpetually scowled, threw up a hand as Andrew approached. Two guards, who had been silently observing the proceedings of the two most recent arrivals, stepped up behind him, each holding a rifle.

  Andrew parked and killed the engine. The security guard streamed up to his open window.

  “Are you seeking asylum?” the guard said.

  Andrew dropped his head in confusion. “I'm sorry? Asylum?”

  “Do you wish to seek asylum?”

  Clarissa leaned into the security guard's line of sight.

  “Is this where Rosenstein is?”

  The guard's fingers drummed over the stock of his rifle. “I don't know anything about that. Now are you here seeking asylum or not? If not, then I must ask you to turn your vehicle around and leave New Framingham.”

  Clarissa spied the return lane just off to her right. As was the case with the entrance, the road leading away from New Framingham was roped off, with more of the same A-frames pointing the way out.

  The security guard audibly sighed, as he waited for a response.

  Clarissa gave Andrew and Rachel a raised-eyebrow look and shrugged. “It's why we came, right?”

  Andrew nodded almost imperceptibly. He turned from her and passed his eyes over what little he could see of the area beyond the security gate. Zane was right—it looked big. Clarissa knew what personal sacrifice Andrew was making. He had been clear from the beginning about his distrust, discomfort, and dislike of crowds and people. For him, going to New Framingham must have been akin to asking a claustrophobic to live in a windowless shipping container. Everyone sympathized with him. But Andrew saw the larger picture and recognized that if he ever wanted to return to his reclusive lifestyle, someone would have to fix the world first.

  “Yes, we are,” he said finally to the guard.

  “Okay. Welcome to New Framingham. Do you have any weapons with you?”

  Andrew hesitated, perhaps too long. “No.”

  “If you do and don't report them,” the guard began, clearly having been down this road a time or two, “you will be subject to the law of New Framingham.”

  “Which is?”

  “All personal items will be confiscated, including vehicles, food, and gear. After which the offending individuals will be expelled from the community.”

  Clarissa snarled. “That seems a little harsh.”

  “Guns invite problems,” said the guard.

  “You have guns,” Andrew retorted.

  The guard looked at Andrew, his patience wearing thin. “Are you seeking asylum or not?”

  Andrew remained silent for a long moment. Clarissa wondered if he would have ever responded had she not done so first.

  “Yes,” she said. “We're seeking asylum.”

  “Please step from the vehicle.”

  Clarissa got out and met Rachel by her door to help unstrap the baby from the backseat. She gave a supportive wave to Jon, Cesare, Elenora, and Evan behind her, as they exited the SUV. Armed men and women swarmed both vehicles.

  The two guards, who had been standing idly by, sprung into action. Starting with Andrew, they commenced frisking each person. When they found no weapons, they reported to the head guard with a terse “Clear” before resuming their previous positions.

  “Weapons?” the head guard said to the group.

  Andrew reluctantly nudged his chin toward his truck. “All inside. Should be a couple of rifles, a handgun or two.”

  As if on command, a female guard withdrew a pair of rifles from the truck and walked them over to a collection station, where an awaiting notary accepted, tagged, and recorded them into a ledger.

  She hadn't been at New Framingham five minutes, and Clarissa already had doubts. She felt violated. The way total strangers searched through her and the others' personal belongings was intrusive. From a pure security perspective, she understood why they had to do what they were doing, but such familiar handling of so many delicate items required a level of trust no one at New Framingham had come close to earning. It was a bitter pill to swallow but a necessary first step. If they were going to find Rosenstein, they needed to get inside.

  “Welcome to New Framingham,” came a soft, feminine voice from behind them. Everyone turned to find a woman holding a clipboard. Though dressed plainly, her striking features, which consisted of almond-shaped chocolate-brown eyes, upswept, cocoa-colored hair, and a pleasing smile, made her stand out from the people around her. Clarissa thought the woman had probably been even more attractive before world events robbed her of spa treatments and facials.

  “My name is Donna Quinlin,” the woman said behind a semi-bored, been-there-done-that smile. “I'm a registrar and one of the orientation specialists for prospective citizens.”

  “Do you greet all incoming folks this way?” Andrew said, canting his head in the direction of his truck, which no less than three people inspected.

  “It's a necessary precaution, as I'm sure you understand. To properly vet applicants, we need to know as much as we can about them before we allow them inside to enjoy the relative safety of our community.”

  The words “relative safety” raised a red flag with Clarissa, but when she thought about it, she supposed the safety of any closed community would be relative compared to the dangers of the road.

  “I know you must have a thousand questions,” Donna continued. “Everyone does when they first arrive. I will do my best to answer them all. Once I collect all of your names, I'll take you over to the Big Board so you can acquaint yourselves with the layout of the community.”

  Jon, Evan, Cesare, and Elenora joined the group, as did the lone man and the family of three. Donna plastered on an even more disingenuous smile.

  “The 'Big Board'?” Evan said. “What's that?”

  “It's your first point of inception. When you see it, you'll understand why we call it that.” She looked at the small crowd of people staring back at her and straightened, as if suddenly aware she had a small audience. “Trust me,” she said, “you've made a wise decision by coming here. Once you see what New Framingham has to offer, you won't want to leave.”

  * * *

  “Welcome to your new home.”

  Donna swept her arm with a showy flourish in front of a ten-foot high hand-painted map, which someone had created atop sheets of bolted-together plywood. Clarissa thought Donna came dangerously close to looking like a Price is Right display model.

  The map was impressive, but not nearly as much as what it depicted. New Framingham was more than just a handful of loosely organized living areas; it was a comprehensive, well-organized community—and it was enormous.

  The center of its universe revolved around what used to be called Shopper's World, a horseshoe-shaped consumer's paradise comprised of the standard-bearers of strip-mall cul
ture, from Old Navy and Best Buy to Barnes & Noble and Toys R Us. These stores, along with a dozen others, ringed a massive parking area, which carried the label “Sleep Zone” on the map.

  Peripheral buildings, such as an AMC theater, a Lowe's home store, and the entire Natick Mall, lay outside the primary habitation zone, but were represented with the same bold green color as the ones contained within it. Surrounding and nearby structures, which appeared to be non-use facilities, were signified in red. Below the map, an accurate and detailed legend oriented the viewer to the layout, citing each location's name, current function, and walking time from the Sleep Zone.

  “As you can see,” Donna began, “we utilize a rather large area, which makes sense, as we accommodate a rather large population, and things look only to expand in the foreseeable future. Though you will be permitted to other sections of the community, your primary area of concern will be here.” Donna rapped her knuckles on the words printed over the map's central parking lot. “The Sleep Zone. For many, this is the sole reason they come to New Framingham. The promise of a safe and assured night's sleep is enough for most folks to want to join our community. While that's important, don't let it preclude you from benefiting from everything else we have to offer, which is camaraderie, friendship, a sense of purpose, and shared commitment—all that we lost from before, you can find here.”

  Clarissa chewed her lip. The sales pitch was a bit on the heavy side, though she didn't doubt it was the truth for lots of people. It didn't make her want to drop what she was doing and join up, but she'd be lying if she said the all-for-one premise didn't intrigue her.

  Donna continued with her canned presentation.

  “As you may notice, the Sleep Zone is surrounded by what were once major retail stores. While many of them have been converted to serve other purposes, several still function as sales points and accept both money and trade for goods: clothes, shoes, entertainment, even food—all can be found in some capacity.”

  “Wait. You accept money?” Jon said. “Like cash?”

  “Of course. Something needs to change hands to make a sale. Not much sense in creating a new form of currency when so much of the old stuff is laying around unused.”

  Curious eyebrows raised among Clarissa and her group.

  “Now, let me give you a quick rundown of our fair community.” Donna pointed to a structure on the map outside of the Sleep Zone and to the east of its surrounding buildings. “We have converted the AMC theater into a K-12 school. Education is and will continue to be the highest priority for the children of New Framingham. While the theater may look as if it's located in an unprotected area of New Framingham proper, let me assure you, it isn't. Armed guards patrol the grounds during school hours, and others are positioned on the rooftop throughout the day. We have installed barricades on all roads surrounding the community and have put in place two columns of razor-wire fencing along the field to the east. As far as student safety is concerned, it's more secure than schools ever were before the Sound.”

  “What's the student population?” Jon asked.

  Donna didn't hesitate. “Several hundred, if I recall correctly. So many, in fact, that we have already begun discussing the possibility of converting the Walmart to the west into a secondary school.”

  Jon nudged Evan, who was less than amused. “Well, that's good news, eh, Ev? At least we can get those brain cells working again.”

  “I'm glad you feel that way,” said Donna. “Because attendance is mandatory.”

  Evan's face exploded with disbelief. “What?!”

  “Any child under the age of eighteen must attend. If that child fails to attend, whether through willful negligence or the negligence of his or her parents, said child and his or her family would be subject to the rules of expulsion.”

  “Hell with that, Dad. I ain't going to school here,” Evan protested.

  Jon patted his son's shoulder in a placating manner as if to say, It's okay, we'll talk about this later, but Clarissa knew it really meant, Yes, you will, now stop talking.

  Donna moved on.

  “As you may have noticed in the map's legend, several retail stores have been reconfigured to benefit the community. For example, Best Buy and Macy's Furniture Gallery have been set up exclusively as social areas, places where people can unwind and relax. The younger crowd seems to prefer Best Buy for its electronics and games, while the older generations tend to gravitate more toward the peaceful setting of Macy's. Barnes and Noble, understandably, has been designated as the community library.”

  Donna indicated two different locations on opposite ends of the parking lot, one north, one south.

  “You may be surprised to hear that we have dining facilities. The Olive Garden and the Brew House have both been set up us cafeterias. You may use them to eat food you bring with you, or you can purchase from the limited menus offered at each. A word of warning: both places fill up fast and tend to remain that way throughout the day. Consider altering your usual dining times if you wish to utilize either.”

  Donna turned to the group suddenly, as if she forgot to mention something.

  “Incidentally, any food you arrived with has been donated to the community stores, which are located in the PetSmart, though I'm sure security made that clear to you when you accepted asylum.”

  “They did,” said Cesare, “but I have to admit, it doesn't seem particularly fair.”

  Donna cocked her head. “How so?”

  “Well, what if a group of asylum seekers arrives with a truckload of food and another group arrives with nothing. Do they both get equal shares of the food?”

  Donna nodded: A common question.

  “The point of New Framingham is to give everyone equal opportunity and a chance to return to as normal a life as possible.” She pointed in the direction from where the group had just arrived. “Out there, there are no rules, no laws. A person only survives through sheer determination, luck, or a combination of both. And in many cases, even that isn't enough.”

  She palmed the air toward the ground in front of her. “In here, though, there is order, and in here there is a plan. Everyone works for the benefit of all. Everyone contributes. Everyone. No one rides for free.”

  “What about the elderly?” Andrew said. “Are they required to pitch in?”

  Elenora wrinkled her face. “I hope you're not referring to me. I just celebrated the forty-seventh anniversary of my fortieth birthday, thank you very much. Or thereabouts.”

  The group chuckled. Elenora squeezed Andrew's arm in playful acknowledgment.

  Donna smiled legitimately for the first time. “Anyone over the age of 70 is not required to work, but they are encouraged to contribute if they're physically able. The choice is entirely up to the individual. Either way, the elderly are well looked after.”

  “We should see if they need help in one of the restaurants' kitchens,” Cesare said to his grandmother. “You'd have a line out the door.” Cesare grinned, but Rachel's fervently crossed arms sapped him of it.

  “The kitchen?” she huffed. “Really? Sexist much?”

  Cesare recoiled. “What? No, I...I was just saying Nonna's an amazing cook. People would love her.”

  “But what if she doesn't want to cook? What if she's tired of cooking? Maybe she'd like to work in childcare or something else she likes rather than something she's just good at.”

  Elenora hugged a taken-aback Cesare. “I like this one,” she said to him of Rachel. “Try not to screw it up.” Rachel high-fived her. “Have no fear, grandson of mine. I'll find something to keep me busy.” She directed her attention to Donna, whose lips pursed in a facsimile of a smile. “Do the jobs pay?”

  “I'm glad you asked that,” Donna said. “The answer is yes, they do, but just not how you might expect. Each paid position, regardless of its prior pre-Sound salary schedule, receives the same hourly rate.”

  Evan winced with spare understanding. “So a garbage collector and a doctor get paid the same?”

>   “Yes.”

  “Whoa, that's lame.”

  Donna blinked, barely tolerant. “We understand that, from most perspectives, this seems...unconventional. But to reestablish a functioning society, we need to keep the playing field level so that the community remains a well-oiled machine. For example, if someone were to arrive here with a bag of money, logic would suggest he or she is set, right? They could pay for whatever they wanted without ever having to lift a finger.”

  Evan chuckled. “Sounds good to me.”

  Donna nodded, the response expected. “Of course. But what happens when others get wind of this person's fortune and learn that he or she doesn't have to work because they can afford everything? I'll tell you: jealousy and envy happen. As a result, others go off to find money of their own, which won't be terribly difficult because there's plenty of it out there just sitting around, but this creates a serious issue for the community. Not only are the people in search of monetary gains not contributing due to their absence but they would also likely continue not to contribute once they returned because they would feel there's no need. Before long, you have a community filled with cash-flush residents with no one left to do what's required to keep the community functioning.”

  “That's somewhat of an extreme example, don't you think?” Jon said. “I highly doubt a population this large could make themselves all independently wealthy. That aside, it sounds like you're opposed to capitalism.”

  “Not at all. But capitalism only worked back when we had a world market, and even then only a small percentage of the population owned a majority stake in everything.”

  “You mean the one-percenters.”

  “Call them what you will, but that model can't sustain itself now. It's vital for our survival and sustainability that everyone pitch in, and the only way that seems feasible at the moment is to utilize a flat pay rate and limit purchases. That way, everyone gets a fair shot at bettering their lives. Using the boy's example, do you think anyone would willingly volunteer to be a garbage sorter, or a custodian, or a waste management worker if he or she could opt for a different job—a “better” job—that traditionally paid more? In most cases, the answer is no.”