by D. K. Dailey
“We cook them in bulk,” a pimply faced kid says. “Micro meals are meant to be separate meals. The baker’s percentage is off, and the cook can’t figure the recipe out.”
Everyone at the table laughs again, and Zee is one of the loudest. “Yimi, I still don’t know how you know shucky like that, but you are—”
“His fat ass is always in the kitchen.” Rigo laughs. “He should know about food.”
A few of the kids laugh, but Saya hits Rigo on the arm, and everyone falls silent. Yimi’s face grows red, and he stuffs his mouth.
Shaking off the jab, Rigo stares me down. “We don’t have renowned chefs cooking our meals. Get used to it or go find your own food.”
“I’ll never get used to this.” I meet his cold, bugged-out eyes for the first time.
“You’re a spoiled doink.” Rigo stands and looks down from across the table. He’s not that tall, so the move is meant for him to look down on me. “I’m so tired of you!” His eyes blaze with a ferocity he probably saves for his enemies. I stare back but don’t stand. I suspect his bark is a lot stronger than his bite.
My gaze shifts to Saya’s hand, placed on Rigo’s arm, silently quelling him. The slight curve of her palm when she touches his skin infuriates me. But then I imagine her soft skin on my own, and I’m distracted.
I look back at him. “You can’t be tired of me already. I only got here last night.” Now the guys at the table share in the laughter. Their shoulders relax, and they watch me expectantly.
“You take stuff too serious, Rigo. He’s one of us now,” Zee declares.
I look at Zee, surprised he has accepted me so willingly. Does he know why I was brought here?
“What bullshucky.” Rigo sits back down but raises his voice. “We rescued you, and now we’re going to feed, clothe, and house you, and all you’re gonna do is take up space like a baby.” He slams a firm fist on the table. His skin’s ashen. He wants to show me with brute strength this isn’t where I belong.
I couldn’t agree more. He should know I don’t want to be here any more than he wants me to be. Maybe he’ll soon chill, and we can work on a strategy together for my leaving.
“Pike’s word rules,” Saya interjects. “Golden boy is one of us now.”
“Calm down, bro. He’s scavenging soon. He’ll earn his keep and cot.” Zee rubs a hand over his buzz cut. His eyes charge with sympathy. In this heated moment, I don’t need his pity. I don’t need anyone’s.
Rigo and Zee exchange a severe look as Mrs. Shelby marches toward us. Without her apron on, her outfit is visible, a black long-john shirt—a staple in the Dreg wardrobe apparently—with matching black pants and boots. Despite her short stature, she commands the place like Saya. Her strides are limber and agile. “Rigo, you know better than to attack newcomers!”
“Yes, Mrs. Shelby. My apologies.” He shoves a few bites of food into his mouth.
Saya gives the older woman a cutting look and then bows her head over her meal. Zee gives Saya a pitiful glance before returning to his tray.
Mrs. Shelby looks at me next. “Pike wants to see you.” Then she looks at Saya. “And I want to talk to you.”
I shovel food into my mouth, swallowing in rapid gulps, before my taste buds and body reject it.
“I’m not ready to talk to you,” Saya replies coldly.
What’s going on between these two? I rise.
The older woman inhales deeply, anger straining her tone. “Follow me, Kade.”
The atmosphere tenses, so I make light of the moment. “Awe, I didn’t even get to finish my food.” I frown, feigning sadness. “My regards to the cook.” Everyone but Saya and Rigo giggle.
Grinning, I follow Mrs. Shelby to the back of the recreation center. As I walk away, Rigo says, “I’ll get him alone and knock the Golden-boy attitude out of him soon enough. Only a matter of time.”
To my surprise, Saya defends me. “Do anything to him, and you’ll have to deal with me.”
“Ohhhhhh.” The kids at the table bustle in unison.
I look back. Saya’s giving Rigo a death stare that I never want to be on the receiving end of.
I’m not exactly making buds, but at least my dream girl wants to protect me. But I’m not stupid. Her investment only goes as far as the mission to save me or her desire to follow Pike’s orders. But any interest is enough for me to run as far as I can with it. Whatever this Pike guy wants, if the effort he put into my rescue is any indication, this could be problematic.
Mrs. Shelby leads me to a back room filled with weapons hung on walls and placed on counters, paperwork piled on a cot in the corner, and books cluttered on the floor. A few cots lean against one wall, and bags overflowing with clothes and other supplies are propped against another. Like the main room, this place doesn’t look like its occupants plan to settle. And there are so many relics.
Through a skylight, wavering morning sunshine glints off their fearless leader. Pike’s hair is more lemon-colored, like mine. Buzzed on the sides and long on the top, he has enough to slick back smoothly with gel.
His eyes are sapphire blue and similar to mine, yet they aren’t as warm as my mom always says mine are. Mom says eyes match personal depth. So even if you lie and are a bad person, your eyes hold the truth. She told me mine are earnest and inviting. The words sound stupid and hollow now. Like what moms say because they love you.
Pike watches me, probably wondering why I’ve forgotten my manners. All I’ve done since entering the room is stare at him like a doink, so I extend my hand.
He gives me an energetic handshake. “Welcome to the slums, son.”
Son? I cringe. He doesn’t know me. Why is he calling me son? Does he call other guys this? Even my father rarely calls me son. The words make me think of Dad. Is he trying to save me or am I gone and forgotten to him? Do they know I’m alive? That I escaped?
I sit down on a stool across from Pike. Last night, all I paid attention to was his girth and command of the room. But now, the severe lines in his face tell me he’s been through a lot. The callousness of his hands conveys hard work. In comparison, my face and hands are unlined. Wrinkles and calluses are a mark of Dreg status, a sign they aren’t as civilized as me. How do Dregs see those same markings? To them, I’m the person that’s good-for-nothing. Small leap then, Rigo comparing me to a baby.
Pike and I face each other with a worn-out, dark wooden table separating us. Resting on the table is a gun.
“Call me Pike. Everyone does. You’ve gotten a chance to settle in, I suspect?”
“Only been here one night.”
His attention gathers on the gun. He fiddles with a few parts for a moment and then grabs a thin, oily rag and a long, thin metal pipe and pushes both down each barrel. Then with one thrust and a tug on the handle, he snaps the old weapon parts back into place. He boosts it in the air like he’s aiming, squints over the stretch of the barrel, and sets one eye on me and one on the opposite wall. Great. I’m staring down the barrel of a gun.
I flinch and almost immediately feel like a doink for doing so. Impulsive. He’s not threatening me, I hope. He’s aiming the weapon for sport. But guns irk me. Knowing one pull of the trigger holds the power to end a life puts me on edge.
“It’s not loaded,” he says, but I don’t care. In my opinion, anyone holding a gun can never be reassuring or nonthreatening.
I tug an eyebrow and shift on the stool, searching for anywhere to look but at the man holding a weapon. The cracked and scuffed floor tiles draw my attention. Tarred with dirt and grime, blackened at the edges, stains settle in their crevices. They look like they used to be light brown.
Pike places the double-barrel shotgun with other weapons on the table behind him, grabs a much smaller gun, and starts shining it. A machine occupies another corner, a computer that’s fairly small and thin like paper. A rubber-coated keyboard that looks like spilled Jell-O is on the desktop, and a few other devices are hooked up to the back of the screen. Definitely ancient
. Screens are air and keyboards; they look nothing like this anymore.
Is Pike trying to get it to work, or has he already succeeded? At home, Dad and I rebuilt an old computer he found in a junkyard, but even that was better than this one. We kept the project a secret from everyone, including Mom and Ems, since owning a computer is illegal. They’re only allowed at school and at some jobs.
I point to the machine. “Where’d you get that? Does it work?”
“Rebuilt it to access the government’s system.” He chortles. “They think they can keep info and technology to themselves. You know, the Internet used to be an open network. But when the sickness started, people freaked out about surviving, and governments around the world assumed power by controlling the dissemination of info.”
“So I’ve heard.” I try not to show my lack of interest in a story I’ve heard a thousand times. My eyes linger on the machine. “May I?”
“You have experience?”
I nod, unwilling to tell him about Dad. That kind of info in the wrong hands could be detrimental to his government position. Although he doesn’t seem to be looking out for me, I’ll look out for him. And I’ll prove my innocence somehow.
Pike sizes me up while rubbing the gun’s metal body with a cloth. “There will be plenty of time for that later.”
My face falls, disappointed by the reply.
Once the silver weapon sparkles, he moves on to the next conversation with a steadfast look. “Rigo reported last night that Cress died rescuing you.” He slinks a pipe wrapped in a thin cloth down the barrel of another long, old rifle. The relics he owns need care, but knives would need more cleaning as the blades dull with use. ’Course the only guns I’ve seen in person are from digital games. Maybe shining guns is a nervous habit.
“Yeah, he was shot,” I say as sympathetically as I can. “Why did he save the biohealer? He could have used it.”
“Those are rare here, and because you’re important.”
“More important than him?”
“I didn’t think anyone would get hurt. Cops don’t resort to gun use ’less they have to.” He shakes his head. “I’ve known that boy since Shelby rescued him. His mother died after giving birth to Cricket. He thought his father was taken because he never came home one day. Guess we should be grateful they don’t take kids under a certain age.”
So I am important to him. To their cause. What he says simmers in my thoughts, mixing with everything else I know to be true. Analyzing the meaning behind his cryptic words has me grabbing my head in angst. “What do you mean by taken?”
He runs a hand through his thick silver beard. “I thought you’d know more, what with your dad being the head of Shaw Technologies and first advisor to the Premier.”
“I’m seventeen. You expect me to know classified info? I hope you didn’t rescue me based on that premise.”
“Actually, that is why I rescued you. Couldn’t let them throw out a perfectly good resource.” Pike stops cleaning and locks eyes with me. “Someone on the inside. The Revisionists want you, too.”
Two groups want me. And he’s called me “a perfectly good resource” like I’m food or the gun on the table. “That’s the only reason you rescued me?”
His hand trembles on top of the table, but his voice is firm. He could be telling the truth, but he could be lying, too. “Having you is like having a thousand Dregs.”
That didn’t answer my question, which makes me think he’s keeping secrets.
“With you, we can find out data we might not ever have known. Secrets the Premier keeps from society. Like the fact that you’re alive. I’ve followed the mandatory newsfeed since your escape, and you were declared dead.”
“Why would I be declared dead?”
“They want the advantage. That’s how they work. It’s why the Internet was banned, and why we created illegal networks to fight back.”
“I don’t get it.”
Pushing the gun aside, Pike leans closer to the table. “If you think you’re safe, that gives them the advantage. And if they admit someone escaped, that gives others hope.”
“The advantage for what?”
“To catch you again, Kade. Let your guard down and, bam, they got you again.”
Am I missing something? If getting arrested for treason threatened my dad’s status, dying secures it. Maybe Dad is helping me after all. Maybe being declared dead is part of his plan. Maybe he knew someone would rescue me and then he’d have time to clear my name.
“Why do you think they declared you dead when they know you were rescued?”
I ball my hands into fists. “What they do is for the good of the country even if we can’t see the plan.”
“Secrets are never kept by the government for the good of the country, son.” Pike’s gaze bores into me. Calling me son is starting to annoy me.
This man doesn’t know me. Yes, he chose to rescue me and take me in. But he still doesn’t know me, doesn’t know if I have what he wants, whatever that might be. Calling me “son” may be his way of making me feel at home. I’ll never feel at home here, though.
“So, obviously, you want something from me.” I don’t dial down the irony. He needs to hear it.
He cracks a smile and pulls at the bottom of his beard. “That’s the obvious conclusion.”
“It’s the only conclusion to explain Dregs rescuing one particular Golden whose been accused of being Dreg and whose father happens to be the second most important man in the country. I’ve never heard of that happening before.”
“You are special. Who wouldn’t want your help? Like I said, we aren’t the only ones who wanted you.” Pike’s eyes hesitate on my face. “Do you know why Dregs are treated so badly?” He runs a finger over the table’s wood grain.
“Cuz you’re poor.”
“Dregs have something Goldens do not.”
I search for meaning in his words. Why can’t he be an open tablet like Rigo?
“Dregs have immunity.”
“Come again?”
“Do you know how the immune system works?”
“Yes,” I hedge, perching on the edge of the stool.
“Well then, you know the immune system develops over time. Babies acquire immunities to some diseases from their mother, and then as they grow up, they develop even more through pathogen exposure. The body builds antibodies that recall these exposures and prevent them from getting sick from them again.”
I nod. The mechanics of what he said are correct.
“In the past, after the worldquake devastated us and we had to rebuild civilization, sickness and disease rose, the poor didn’t receive the vaccines and care the rich did. Dregs were worse off than ever. But human bodies are quite amazing.” His face twitches as if he wants to smile but doesn’t. His mouth remains stern, vibrating with every word he utters. “As Goldens got more efficient at fighting diseases medically, their bodies no longer worked so hard at building natural immunities. The vaccines did all the work. Dreg bodies got stronger while Golden ones got weaker.”
He makes scientific sense, and I’m reeling from the info. “How do you know this?”
He points to the computer in the corner, and all I can think about are the multiple ways my father explained the immune system and sickness over the years. His explanations of sickness seemed to make sense back then but sound like pure nonsense now.
When compared to Pike’s answers, the government’s excuses made sense only on the basic level. If you prevent your body from building natural immunities, then it gets weaker and weaker, relying on medicine and intervention. Seems rudimentary, like one plus one equals two.
“Your hospitals overflow with patients, and now your vaccines are failing along with your bodies.”
“I’ve never been sick.” Then it clicks. “Is that why they think I’m Dreg?”
“No, you are Dreg, son.”
I shake my head slowly left to right, denying his words. My mouth opens, but he cuts me off.
&nbs
p; “We don’t have to convince you. You’ll see with your own eyes soon enough.” He stands. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes.” I rub my stomach. “Still trying to digest what you call food.”
“A sense of humor…” He smirks. “Eat up and often. You’ll train with Zee starting this afternoon and will continue for a few weeks ‘til he deems you ready. Then you’ll go out with the scavenging crew,” he says with a finality that sounds ominous to my ears.
Chapter Nineteen
I spend the day outside the center in a nearby open field, learning how to shoot a gun under Zee’s tutelage. A lot of “You’re holding it all wrong” and “Don’t you know anything?” goes on. But, otherwise, it’s a bonding experience.
Zee takes the weapon back from me, barrel pointing away from us, for about the fiftieth time, and I relax my stance. “You hold it like this.” He blows air out of his mouth in frustration. “No matter how big the gun is, it’s all about grip.”
I laugh. Innuendos never fail to amuse me.
“Aw come on, bro. Every time I say ‘big,’ you laugh. You’ve got the worst sense of humor.” A glowering smile plays over his mouth. He wants to laugh, too, but everything’s so somber here.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll be serious.”
“One hand stabilizes the gun, while the other improves your accuracy if you grip it correctly.” Zee demonstrates, then presses the handgun into my palm.
Wrapping my hands around it, I stand like he told me: right arm flexed, slightly leaning forward, knees partially bent, feet shoulder width apart, and left foot a step past my right.
“Your stance is great.”
“All this theory on how to shoot. Pike has shotguns. How come I’m practicing on an old empty handgun instead of an electro-gun?” I roll my eyes, weapon pointed to the ground.
“You have to grasp the concept first. Even electro-guns involve precision and skill. Proper grip affects your control, aim, safety, and balance, as well as your ability to pull the trigger and absorb the recoil.” Zee paces to the side, out of my “fake” line of fire.