Wall of Fire: A Young Adult Dystopian Novel

by Melanie Tays

  Old memories start to coalesce, and I inhale a sharp breath in excitement. I let go of Whyle’s hand and slide off the bed. Away from his radiating warmth, the air feels cold; a shiver runs through me despite the perfectly regulated air temperature.

  I should go straight to the power plant and tell Mom what happened. I should go to school before the Enforcers catch me and dock me a day’s worth of credits. Neither of those things will help Whyle now. But I just might know what—or rather, who—can.

  Chapter 2

  Ikeep to the back alleys as I make my way around the perimeter of The City. By doing this, I can avoid the Enforcers who usually just patrol the main square and the buildings that the Council considers of vital importance to the welfare of The City, such as the nutrition stations and the seven recycling centers that reclaim everything from plastics to human debris.

  Nothing is ever wasted in The City.

  I round a corner, and the makeshift building comes into view. From the outside it looks more like a pile of rubble, but it’s probably one of the more structurally sound buildings in the Smoke, carefully constructed of bricks and boards that had come loose from other buildings and reinforced to make this shelter.

  When I’m close, that’s when I start looking for a fat, furry rat.

  Rats are one of the few animals we have left in The City. Most of the birds, dogs, and pigs were illegally killed by people who just weren’t satisfied with the food The City provides. I’ve only seen three birds in my whole life. Others—like turtles—died out on their own. People say something about the habitat not being right for them to thrive. The rats weren’t even supposed to be a part of The City, but something went wrong with the original barrier field and let them in. Since rats can give birth to up to twelve live baby-vermin every single month, once they were inside, it proved impossible to eradicate them.

  Still, they have their uses.

  Whyle and I sometimes hunt them for fun, and I’m better at catching them than he is. They aren’t smart. The key is just to approach quietly and pounce fast. The Council actually encourages it, because the rats are a threat—they eat some of the bugs and plants that we need to maintain our delicate ecosystem. It only takes me a few minutes to locate one of the scraggly, pointy-nosed pests, and less time to have it grasped firmly around the middle where it can’t squirm free or twist around to bite me. Its fur is coarse and matted with dirt, which helps me keep a pretty solid grip, but I know the muscles in my hand will be aching with fatigue soon, so I need to get on with this.

  With the rat hissing and writhing for its life and freedom, I approach the rubble pile that I know hides the safe house. It was several years ago when I stumbled into it. I came through here looking for a place to escape an Enforcer after he accused me of throwing a rock at his car. It wasn’t true; he was just bored and in a foul mood, and somehow I got trapped in the fallout. My arms were completely full of heavy sacks loaded with recycled fabric at the time that I’d supposedly vandalized the vehicle. But the Enforcer didn’t look like he was in a mood to be reasonable, so rather than wait around and try to explain that it couldn’t have been me, I dropped the sacks and ran. I run fast, but I couldn’t run forever, and he had a car.

  Exhausted and unsure where to go, I crouched down next to the brick pile that forms one corner of the building. Through a small slit, I noticed two eyes staring out at me.

  “In here,” a woman whispered, and she pulled back a board to reveal an entrance.

  I could hear the Enforcer’s footsteps closing in, so I didn’t think or argue; I just dove through the opening. That’s how I met Kenna.

  She’s the one who opens the door now when I give the specific knock that calls for her. She hobbles out, hopping on just her right leg because her left leg was lost in an accident at the textile recycling center. When people can’t work, they can’t earn credits. That means no food, no shelter, nothing that The City provides. She holds a cane, but mostly just uses it to push things around. I never actually see it touch the ground.

  Kenna is one of the lucky few who helped build this safe house, and has learned to survive on trades alone. If there’s anything in the Smoke that can be gotten, she knows how to get it. But after that first meeting, I learned to never come asking for a favor empty-handed. We’ve had only a few interactions since that time, but she hasn’t let me down yet.

  “Whatcha got there?” she asks, hungrily eyeing the squirming rat.

  “A big fat one.” I hold it out to her.

  She licks her lips. “Nice and fresh, too.”

  Most people don’t eat the rats because they make you puke up your guts as often as not, but it’s nothing you don’t recover from. People in Kenna’s situation have built up a tolerance, or so she’s told me. I know that nothing will go to waste. The fur will add to a meager blanket, the bones might become toothpicks or sewing needles, or any number of other things that only someone so desperate would ever conceive of.

  Now that she’s seen that the rat hasn’t been dead for days, I go ahead and bang its head hard against a brick. It’s quick and effective, and its body instantly falls limp.

  Kenna holds out her hands excitedly, but I pull it away.

  “First, I need to know how to get some medicine.”

  She looks at me like I’m pretty stupid. “You don’t want to get anything through my channels that you could get with credits. It’ll be far more expensive. Just go to the Medical Center and they’ll fix you right up.”

  “The Medical Center can’t get it, either. I need Curosene, and the Council won’t send more for some reason.”

  She whistles and shakes her head. “Oh sweetie, that kind of fancy medicine doesn’t come through the back channels.”

  “There has to be some way to get it.”

  “If the Council has said it won’t send more, there’s no way to get it across the Wall of Fire.”

  I can’t give up that easy. “Who else might be able to help me?”

  “If I can’t get you something, it can’t be gotten this side of the wall,” she insists. I know I’ve insulted her by suggesting that I might take my business to someone more capable. “Who got you those textbooks?” she says, reminding me of our last trade.

  “You did,” I admit.

  Any books that aren’t authorized by the Council for our school or work are forbidden. They say it’s because unnecessary books make people so unhappy, but I’ve never been more content than when I’ve been able to fill in the gaping holes that my schooling leaves in understanding the world. Two thick books—one about math and science, and the other full of the history from before the Withers—cost me my extra shirt and pants and my breakfast for a whole month. These kinds of trades are never cheap—they’re a desperate last resort.

  I know she isn’t exaggerating her ability. I’ve seen Kenna come through for people with seemingly impossible trades—power cells, ID cards, even an Enforcer’s blaster. She is my only hope. That’s why I can’t walk away so easily.

  “I’ll pay anything,” I promise. “My parents will, too. Kenna, you can have my house, for all I care. I just have to have that medicine.” My voice breaks. Moisture gathers at the corners of my eyes, and I blink it away.

  That gets her attention away from the dead critter I’m still clutching. She observes me for a moment, considering. “Well, for a house, maybe there’s something I can do—but there’s no going back on a trade,” she warns me.

  My offer was desperate and impulsive, but still I breathe a sigh of relief. “I swear. If you come through with that medicine, you can have my house.” I can’t stop to consider what that will mean for my family, but if Whyle dies, what does anything matter, anyway?

  She twists her mouth and cocks her head to the side. “I’ve got a guy who deals in drugs. How about I get you a double dose of Amphetomite? That’ll make any problem feel like it’s nothing at all.”

  I groan. “Yeah, ‘cuz you’ll be so brain numb.”

  “Or I could get
you a whole bottle of antivirals—kills anything weaker than the Withers.”

  “Kenna, you’re not listening! I need Curosene. Nothing else.”

  “No, you’re not listening, girl.” She raps her cane lightly against my skull. “You clearly don’t get how these things work. In order for my people to get something, it has to be here, in the Smoke, somewhere for us to get our hands on. That means that it either has to be produced here, the Council has to authorize it to be sent across the wall, or people like the Enforcers or couriers who come from the Flame each day have to carry it with them. You said the Council won’t send this medicine, and why would anyone be just walking around with it in their pocket? They won’t—so it ain’t going to happen.” She doesn’t appear one bit happy to have to tell me this. The prospect of a proper house had already started to settle in and plant seeds of hope that would hurt to root out now.

  “Is there any way to get across the wall? Surely someone has done it?” I ask. “The Enforcers and couriers go back and forth every day, so there must be a way.”

  She lets out a high-pitched whistle. “You are looking for trouble in every direction, ain’t you? You have to have one of their fancy black armbands to get through the gates. It’s their ID. Without it, forget it. You’ll be arrested for even trying.”

  I can’t accept that. “What about the tunnels?” I ask in desperation.

  She laughs. “There ain’t no tunnels, girl. Just a myth, a trap to see who’s dumb enough to go looking.” She holds out her hand for the rat, signaling that she has nothing more to say.

  I grudgingly hand it over and walk away, feeling further away from a solution than ever. I can see the glow of the Wall of Fire in the distance. Whyle’s salvation lies just on the other side, but it might as well be on the other side of the planet—past the barrier field and the Ash and the hordes of Roamers.

  I’m not as careful as I head back toward the Medical Center. There are no Enforcers to avoid because its lunchtime and school is out for the day. In the afternoon, we all have our own work assignments. The Enforcers take work assignments a lot more seriously than school, so I’ll have to show up and assist the building repair crew where I’m currently assigned, whether or not I like it.

  A rumbling ache builds from deep inside, but I put off lunch for just long enough to go find Mom. She won’t forgive me if she has to find out about Whyle from a stranger, and I suppose I can’t blame her.

  Chapter 3

  Mom sits next to Whyle, bent over him as though she’s attempting to shelter him from some external danger. But it’s what’s inside him that’s the real threat. Her tears have run dry, but they’ve washed uneven lines from the soot covering her face. Dad stands solemnly behind her with a hand on her shoulder in solidarity.

  I can almost hear Whyle’s gentle voice asking me if I’m all right. But of course, it’s just in my imagination—an echo of the past. Whyle is always the first—and often only—person to notice when I’m troubled. From the time he was a baby, he’s been looking out for me every bit as much as I’ve looked out for him. Even though it was rare he could do more for me than offer the feeble reassurances of a small child and give me flowers fashioned out of dried dirt, he always tried. That was usually enough to keep me going. But what now?

  It’s almost curfew, and we’ll have to head home soon. The thought of spending the night with Whyle’s bed empty in the next room feels so hollow. I’m holding myself together, though. I won’t cry and give my parents one more thing to worry about.

  Then Dad leans down next to Whyle and starts to talk about Oran, and I have to walk away because I just can’t take it anymore. Oran is a dragon in the latest bedtime story that Dad is telling Whyle. Each night more of the saga unfolds, revealing Oran’s adventures and how he transforms from bad to good. It turns out that he was never evil, just confused. Whyle never sleeps well if Dad isn’t there to tell a story. Mom and I have both tried to fill in for him on nights he’s had to work late, but neither of us seems to have the knack for storytelling that Dad does. Even though Whyle is unconscious, I guess Dad wants to give Whyle whatever small bit of peace he can offer.

  I pace up and down the aisle. Mom told me when I was little that I paced like a pendulum when I got nervous, and that I should put my energy to better use, so I rarely pace anymore. But the need to act is like an electric charge coursing through my veins and gnawing at me from the inside. The problem is that there’s nothing to be done right now that’s of any use whatsoever. The only thing that can help Whyle now is across the Wall of Fire—inexorably out of reach. The pain of it is visceral, and eased only the slightest degree by the rhythmic motion of my feet.

  There has to be something I can do to help Whyle—to hear him beg for one more story and laugh at the most fantastic and silliest things Dad comes up with. But I do believe Kenna—there’s no way to get that medicine in the Smoke, and reaching the Flame is impossible.

  The rumbling of an engine—something fairly rare—draws my gaze to the window. Welcoming a distraction, I take a few steps closer to get a better view of what’s happening outside. I peer out into the dimly lit street where a courier truck has stopped, and a man hauling a heavy crate ambles slowly across the road in front of it. Halfway across, he drops the crate and bends to gather what look like nails. Until the mess is cleared, there’s no way for the vehicle to proceed without destroying its tires.

  While the vehicle idles, a man with a cane hobbles up to the Enforcer who accompanies this transport—every courier travels with a guard. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but it looks like he’s asking a series of questions. The Enforcer responds with annoyance.

  I cautiously slide the window open to listen, but I still can’t make out their words.

  While the Enforcer is talking and distracted, another man wearing a sweater with a hood that shades his face creeps around to the backside of the vehicle and steps up on a high ledge. He’s careful to not make a sound, so it takes him a minute of careful manipulation to work open the window at the top and reach inside. I watch, stunned by the brazen action, as he removes a large, heavy sack from the truck’s cargo. He heaves it over his shoulder, steps carefully down, and starts casually walking.

  Just then the road clears, and the man with the cane thanks the Enforcer for his time and starts to walk off. All three of them head in different directions as though they’re completely unconnected, but I’m certain that the entire scene was a coordinated effort.

  The truck rolls on, and I begin to think they’ve gotten away with their carefully constructed theft when the truck comes to a screeching halt and the courier jumps out and points in the direction of the thief, not yet out of sight.

  Spotted, the thief takes off running, and the Enforcer jumps from his perch on a ledge along the truck’s passenger side. “Don’t wait. Get across the wall,” the Enforcer yells to the driver, loud enough that I can make out the words from where I stand.

  The driver hesitates for just a moment, unsure what to do. He’s not supposed to travel without an Enforcer, but staying here stationary and unguarded is a bigger danger, and would also mean disobeying a direct order.

  The Enforcer takes off running after the perpetrator.

  The driver may be hesitating, but I’m not. Perhaps I’m emboldened by such a reckless and daring act, or perhaps I’m just desperate. Either way, the moment the Enforcer turns his back, I realize that this may be the only chance I’ll ever have to get across the Wall of Fire. There’s no time for deliberation. I bound out of the open window. The driver is facing away from me, so I break into an open run for the vehicle.

  By the time I reach its side, the driver has started to move again. All I can do is jump onto the ledge where the Enforcer would normally stand. My foot catches the step, and my right hand grasps the handhold. The vehicle is moving slowly, so it isn’t too difficult to steady myself. I crouch down and press myself as close as I can to the metal wall of the truck.

  Thankfully, the streets ar
e mostly deserted since it’s close to curfew. Mom and Dad will be heading home any minute, and I wonder what they’ll make of my absence. I know they won’t be too worried, though; they always trust me to look out for myself. It would be Whyle who would be concerned about me, and Whyle who would make them go looking for me. But Whyle won’t even know I’m gone tonight.

  Still, I can’t very well stay here, exposed. The truck is picking up speed, and I have to get inside before we reach the Wall of Fire. The entrance to the cargo area is ten feet back. A bar runs along the top, but the side is sheer, smooth metal with nowhere at all to get a foothold. I can see a ledge at the back of the truck, a place for me to put my feet and launch myself in through the back window. I just have to get there first.

  Before I even make a move, sweat is already moistening my palms. I wipe them on the legs of my pants and take a deep breath to steel my nerves. Then, before I have too long to think about what I’m going to do, I jump for the bar, clasping it with both hands. Slowly, I inch my way back, my feet dangling several feet above the rapidly passing, dusty street.

  I’m only a few arm’s lengths away from my destination when the wheels hit a large dip in the road, and the vehicle sways. My left hand loses its grip completely, and I swing awkwardly by one arm, crashing into the metal side with a thud.

  I don’t have time to worry whether the driver heard the clatter and will stop to investigate. My fingers are slick and slipping. I swing and reach for the bar, but my hand is too damp with sweat to get a hold. I press my left palm against the side of the vehicle, trying desperately to find purchase. There’s nothing to grasp, of course, but the dust that coats the metal has the unexpected benefit of drying the moisture from my palm. I swing again and reach, and this time my hand grasps the bar just as my right hand slips free. I rub it against the dirty siding as well, and then continue working my way along the bar, hands and arms protesting in pain.