by Тахера Мафи
Only once we’ve gone down several floors and are making our way down an unfamiliar hall toward an unfamiliar exit does he finally look at me. He offers me 4 words.
“Welcome to your future.”
SEVENTEEN
I’m swimming in sunlight.
Warner is holding open a door that leads directly outside and I’m so unprepared for the experience I can hardly see straight. He grips my elbow to steady my path and I glance back at him.
“We’re going outside.” I say it because I have to say it out loud. Because the outside world is a treat I’m so seldom offered. Because I don’t know if Warner is trying to be nice again. I look from him to what looks like a concrete courtyard and back to him again. “What are we doing outside?”
“We have some business to take care of.” He tugs me toward the center of this new universe and I’m breaking away from him, reaching out to touch the sky like I’m hoping it will remember me. The clouds are gray like they’ve always been, but they’re sparse and unassuming. The sun is high high high, lounging against a backdrop propping up its rays and redirecting its warmth in our general direction. I stand on tiptoe and try to touch it. The wind folds itself into my arms and smiles against my skin. Cool, silky-smooth air braids a soft breeze through my hair. This square courtyard could be my ballroom.
I want to dance with the elements.
Warner grabs my hand. I turn around.
He’s smiling.
“This,” he says, gesturing to the cold gray world under our feet, “this makes you happy?”
I look around. I realize the courtyard is not quite a roof, but somewhere between two buildings. I edge toward the ledge and can see dead land and naked trees and scattered compounds stretching on for miles. “Cold air smells so clean,” I tell him. “Fresh. Brand-new. It’s the most wonderful smell in the world.”
His eyes look amused, troubled, interested, and confused all at once. He shakes his head. Pats down his jacket and reaches for an inside pocket. He pulls out a gun with a gold hilt that glints in the sunlight.
I pull in a sharp breath.
He inspects the gun in a way I wouldn’t understand, presumably to check whether or not it’s ready to fire. He slips it into his hand, his finger poised directly over the trigger. He turns and finally reads the expression on my face.
He almost laughs. “Don’t worry. It’s not for you.”
“Why do you have a gun?” I swallow, hard, gripping my arms tight across my chest. “What are we doing up here?”
Warner slips the gun back into his pocket and walks to the opposite end of the ledge. He motions for me to follow him. I creep closer. Follow his eyes. Peer over the barrier.
Every soldier in the building is standing not 15 feet below.
I distinguish almost 50 lines, each perfectly straight, perfectly spaced, so many soldiers standing single file I lose count. I wonder if Adam is in the crowd. I wonder if he can see me.
I wonder what he thinks of me now.
The soldiers are standing in a square space almost identical to the one Warner and I occupy, but they’re one organized mass of black: black pants, black shirts, shin-high black boots; not a single gun in sight. Each is standing with his left fist pressed to his heart. Frozen in place.
Black and gray and black and gray and black and gray and bleak.
Suddenly I’m acutely aware of my impractical outfit.
Suddenly the wind is too callous, too cold, too painful as it slices its way through the crowd. I shiver and it has nothing to do with the temperature. I look for Warner but he has already taken his place at the edge of the courtyard; it’s obvious he’s done this many times before. He pulls a small square of perforated metal out of his pocket and presses it to his lips; when he speaks, his voice carries over the crowd like it’s been amplified.
“Sector 45.”
One word. One number.
The entire group shifts: left fists released, dropped to their sides; right fists planted in place on their chests. They are an oiled machine, working in perfect collaboration with one another. If I weren’t so apprehensive I think I’d be impressed.
“We have two matters to deal with this morning.” Warner’s voice penetrates the atmosphere: crisp, clear, unbearably confident. “The first is standing by my side.”
Thousands of eyes snap up in my direction. I feel myself flinch.
“Juliette, come here, please.” 2 fingers bend in 2 places to beckon me forward.
I inch into view.
Warner slips his arm around me. I cringe. The crowd starts. My heart careens out of control. I’m too scared to back away from him. His gun is too close to my body.
The soldiers seem stunned that Warner is willing to touch me.
“Jenkins, would you step forward, please?”
My fingers are running a marathon down my thigh. I can’t stand still. I can’t calm the palpitations crashing my nervous system. Jenkins steps out of line; I spot him immediately.
He’s okay.
Dear God.
He’s okay.
“Jenkins had the pleasure of meeting Juliette just last night,” he continues. The tension among the men is very nearly tangible. No one, it seems, knows where this speech is headed. And no one, it seems, hasn’t already heard Jenkins’ story. My story. “I hope you’ll all greet her with the same sort of kindness,” Warner adds, his lips laughing without a sound. “She will be with us for some time, and will be a very valuable asset to our efforts. The Reestablishment welcomes her. I welcome her. You should welcome her.”
The soldiers drop their fists all at once, all at exactly the same time.
They shift as one, 5 steps backward, 5 steps forward, 5 steps standing in place. They raise their left arms high and curl their fingers into a fist.
And fall on one knee.
I run to the edge, desperate to get a closer look at such a strangely choreographed routine. I’ve never seen anything like it.
Warner makes them stay like that, bent like that, fists raised in the air like that. He doesn’t speak for at least 30 seconds. And then he does.
“Good.”
The soldiers rise and rest their right fists on their chests again.
“The second matter at hand is even more pleasant than the first,” Warner continues, though he seems to take no pleasure in saying it. His eyes are sharpening over the soldiers below, shards of emerald flickering like green flames over their bodies. “Delalieu has a report for us.”
He spends an eternity simply staring at the soldiers, letting his few words marinate in their minds. Letting their own imaginations drive them insane. Letting the guilty among them tremble in anguish.
Warner says nothing for so long.
No one moves for so long.
I begin to fear for my life despite his earlier reassurances. I begin to wonder if perhaps I am the guilty one. If perhaps the gun in his pocket is destined for me. I finally dare to turn in his direction. He glances at me for the first time and I have no idea how to read him.
His face is 10,000 possibilities staring straight through me.
“Delalieu,” he says, still looking at me. “You may step forward.”
A thin, balding sort of man in a slightly more decorated outfit steps out from the very front of the fifth line. He doesn’t look entirely stable. He ducks his head an inch. His voice warbles when he speaks. “Sir.”
Warner finally unshackles my eyes and nods, almost imperceptibly, in the balding man’s direction.
Delalieu recites: “We have a charge against Private 45B-76423. Fletcher, Seamus.”
The soldiers are all frozen in line, frozen in relief, frozen in fear, frozen in anxiety. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes. Even the wind is afraid to make a sound.
“Fletcher.” One word from Warner and several hundred necks snap in the same direction.
Fletcher steps out of line.
He looks like a gingerbread man. Ginger hair. Ginger freckles. Lips almost artificially red. Hi
s face is blank of every possible emotion.
I’ve never been more afraid for a stranger in my life.
Delalieu speaks again. “Private Fletcher was found on unregulated grounds, fraternizing with civilians believed to be rebel party members. He had stolen food and supplies from storage units dedicated to Sector 45 citizens. It is not known whether he betrayed sensitive information.”
Warner levels his gaze at the gingerbread man. “Do you deny these accusations, soldier?”
Fletcher’s nostrils flare. His jaw tenses. His voice cracks when he speaks. “No, sir.”
Warner nods. Takes a short breath. Licks his lips.
And shoots him in the forehead.
EIGHTEEN
No one moves.
Fletcher’s face is etched in permanent horror as he crumbles to the ground. I’m so struck by the impossibility of it all that I can’t decide whether or not I’m dreaming, I can’t determine whether or not I’m dying, I can’t figure out whether or not fainting is a good idea.
Fletcher’s limbs are bent at odd angles on the cold, concrete floor. Blood is pooling around him and still no one moves. No one says a single word. No one betrays a single look of fear.
I keep touching my lips to see if my screams have escaped.
Warner tucks his gun back into his jacket pocket. “Sector 45, you are dismissed.”
Every soldier falls on one knee.
Warner slips the metal amplification device back into his suit and has to yank me free from the spot where I’m glued to the ground. I’m tripping over myself, my limbs weak and aching through the bone. I feel nauseous, delirious, incapable of holding myself upright. I keep trying to speak but the words are sticking to my tongue. I’m suddenly sweating and suddenly freezing and suddenly so sick I see spots clouding my vision.
Warner is trying to get me through the door. “You really must eat more,” he says to me.
I am gaping with my eyes, gaping with my mouth, gaping wide open because I feel holes everywhere, punched into the terrain of my body.
My heart must be bleeding out of my chest.
I look down and can’t understand why there’s no blood on my dress, why this pain in my heart feels so real.
“You killed him,” I manage to whisper. “You just killed him—”
“You’re very astute.”
“Why did you kill him why would you kill him how could you do something like that—”
“Keep your eyes open, Juliette. Now’s not the time to fall asleep.”
I grab his shirt. I stop him before he gets inside. A gust of wind slaps me across the face and I’m suddenly in control of my senses. I push him hard, slamming his back up against the door. “You disgust me.” I stare hard into his crystal-cold eyes. “You disgust me—”
He twists me around, pinning me against the door where I just held him. He cups my face in his gloved hands, holding my eyes in place. The same hands he just used to kill a man.
I’m trapped.
Transfixed.
Slightly terrified.
His thumb brushes my cheek.
“Life is a bleak place,” he whispers. “Sometimes you have to learn how to shoot first.”
Warner follows me into my room.
“You should probably sleep,” he says to me. It’s the first time he’s spoken since we left the rooftop. “I’ll have food sent up to your room, but other than that I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”
“Where is Adam? Is he safe? Is he healthy? Are you going to hurt him?”
Warner flinches before finding his composure. “Why do you care?”
I’ve cared about Adam Kent since I was in third grade. “Isn’t he supposed to be watching me? Because he’s not here. Does that mean you’re going to kill him, too?” I’m feeling stupid. I’m feeling brave because I’m feeling stupid. My words wear no parachutes as they fall out of my mouth.
“I only kill people if I need to.”
“Generous.”
“More than most.”
I laugh a sad laugh, sharing it with only myself.
“You can have the rest of the day to yourself. Our real work will begin tomorrow. Adam will bring you to me.” He holds my eyes. Suppresses a smile. “In the meantime, try not to kill anyone.”
“You and I,” I tell him, anger coursing through my veins, “you and I are not the same—”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“You think you can compare my—my disease—with your insanity—”
“Disease?” He rushes forward, abruptly impassioned, and I struggle to hold my ground. “You think you have a disease?” he shouts. “You have a gift! You have an extraordinary ability that you don’t care to understand! Your potential—”
“I have no potential!”
“You’re wrong.” He’s glaring at me. There’s no other way to describe it. I could almost say he hates me in this moment. Hates me for hating myself.
“Well you’re the murderer,” I tell him. “So you must be right.”
His smile is laced with dynamite. “Go to sleep.”
“Go to hell.”
He works his jaw. Walks to the door. “I’m working on it.”
NINTEEN
The darkness is choking me.
My dreams are bloody and bleeding and blood is bleeding all over my mind and I can’t sleep anymore. The only dreams that ever used to give me peace are gone and I don’t know how to get them back. I don’t know how to find the white bird. I don’t know if it will ever fly by. All I know is that now when I close my eyes I see nothing but devastation. Fletcher is being shot over and over and over again and Jenkins is dying in my arms and Warner is shooting Adam in the head and the wind is singing outside my window but it’s high-pitched and off-key and I don’t have the heart to tell it to stop.
I’m freezing through my clothes.
The bed under my back is filled with broken clouds and freshly fallen snow; it’s too soft, too comfortable. It reminds me too much of sleeping in Warner’s room and I can’t stand it. I’m afraid to slip under these covers.
I can’t help but wonder if Adam is okay, if he’ll ever come back, if Warner is going to keep hurting him whenever I disobey. I really shouldn’t care so much.
Adam’s message in my notebook might just be a part of Warner’s plan to drive me insane.
I crawl onto the hard floor and check my fist for the crumpled piece of paper I’ve been clutching for 2 days. It’s the only hope I have left and I don’t even know if it’s real.
I’m running out of options.
“What are you doing here?”
I bite down on a scream and stumble up, over, and sideways, nearly slamming into Adam where he’s lying on the floor next to me. I didn’t even see him.
“Juliette?” He doesn’t move an inch. His gaze is fixed on me: calm, unflappable; 2 buckets of river water at midnight.
I’d like to cry into his eyes.
I don’t know why I tell him the truth. “I couldn’t sleep up there.”
He doesn’t ask me why. He pulls himself up and coughs back a grunt and I remember how he’s been hurt. I wonder what kind of pain he’s in. I don’t ask questions as he grabs a pillow and the blanket off my bed. He puts the pillow on the floor. “Lie down,” is all he says to me. Quietly, is how he says it to me.
All day every day forever is when I want him to say it to me.
They’re just 2 words and I don’t know why I’m blushing. I lie down despite the sirens spinning in my blood and rest my head on the pillow. He drapes the blanket over my body. I let him do it. I watch as his arms curve and flex in the shadow of night, the glint of the moon peeking in through the window, illuminating his figure in its glow. He lies down on the floor leaving only a few feet of space between us. He requires no blanket. He uses no pillow. He still sleeps without a shirt on and I’ve discovered I don’t know how to breathe. I’ve realized I’ll probably never exhale in his presence.
“You don’t nee
d to scream anymore,” he whispers.
Every breath in my body escapes me.
I curl my fingers around the possibility of Adam in my hand and sleep more soundly than I have in my life.
My eyes are 2 windows cracked open by the chaos in this world.
A cool breeze startles my skin and I sit up, rub the sleep from my eyes, and realize Adam is no longer beside me. I blink and crawl back up to the bed, where I replace the pillow and the blanket.
I glance at the door and wonder what’s waiting for me on the other side.
I glance at the window and wonder if I’ll ever see a bird fly by.
I glance at the clock on the wall and wonder what it means to be living according to numbers again. I wonder what 6:30 in the morning means in this building.
I decide to wash my face. The idea exhilarates me and I’m a little ashamed.
I open the bathroom door and catch Adam’s reflection in the mirror. His fast hands pull his shirt down before I have a chance to latch on to details but I saw enough to see what I couldn’t see in the darkness.
He’s covered in bruises.
My legs feel broken. I don’t know how to help him. I wish I could help him.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t know you were awake.” He tugs on the bottom of his shirt like it’s not long enough to pretend I’m blind.
I nod at nothing at all. I look at the tile under my feet. I don’t know what to say.
“Juliette.” His voice hugs the letters in my name so softly I die 5 times in that second. His face is a forest of emotion. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, so quietly I’m certain I imagined it. “It’s not . . .” He clenches his jaw and runs a nervous hand through his hair. “All of this—it’s not—”
I open my palm to him. The paper is a crumpled wad of possibility. “I know.”
Relief washes over every feature on his face and suddenly his eyes are the only reassurance I’ll ever need. Adam did not betray me. I don’t know why or how or what or anything at all except that he is still my friend.
He is still standing right in front of me and he doesn’t want me to die.