Kill School: Slice

by Karen Carr

  Mom grabs her medical bag and fiddles with the handle, something she does when she is nervous. I wonder if she’s worried about the girl, who is around my age. From the glint of the moon, I can see a token dangling from a chain around her neck. Perhaps that is why the microdrones seem so excited.

  A cold breeze crosses my face as we exit the pod. The mist swirls away from our feet, as if we are here to catch it. Dozens of microdrones flicker around us and larger ones hover in the sky. In the city, with all the lights, the drones aren’t so noticeable. Here, they turn the dark woods into a magical wonderland.

  The PRT’s doors close behind us and it goes into hibernate mode, leaving the moon to light our way to the house.

  Mom has turned back into the confident doctor. She holds her bag high as she makes her way to the house, pulling out her high heels when they stick in the mud. The girl moves her hip against the porch rail as we approach. She appears to be my age, but her makeup and clothes make her look much older.

  “Doctor’s here,” the girl hollers through the screen door.

  The girl’s eyes quickly travel to my bracelet and I know she thinks I have my token already. She reminds me of the kids who come back from training camp, a pile of mixed up emotions, anxiety, anger, and resentment.

  The girl’s eyes are locked on my bracelet, as if flames are going to pop out of it and strike her dead. I want to reassure her, to tell her I don’t have mine yet, but I don’t know if she’s thinking of me as a target. I’d rather pretend that I could kill anyone in her family if she dares touch mine.

  A man appears in the doorway. He’s tall, almost as tall as the doorframe, and wears a dirtied and ripped shirt.

  “Come quick.” The man ushers mom inside. I move to follow her, but the girl stops me.

  “You won’t fit in there,” the girl says. She steps in front of me in a protective gesture. The moonlight exposes a black and blue bruise under her eye.

  Mom has already gone inside, without considering me. She is in full doctor mode, ready to take care of her patient and nothing else. She has forgotten about me, her daughter, in the dark for the first time.

  “My mom wants me to see.”

  I peer over the girl’s shoulder. Stacks of boxes, empty bottles, and bags of garbage are crammed everywhere. It looks as if someone is moving out and in at the same time.

  A woman lies on the couch, a sheet covering her pregnant body. Several more children sit around her in various states of shock. I count at least four before a male voice asks me what I am doing.

  I turn around to see a tall, muscular boy standing in the yard. He wears a white tee shirt, though the air is cold. The most unusual thing about him is the color of his hair. I have never seen blonde hair before and can’t take my eyes from his wavy blonde locks. The boy looks nothing like the girl. I doubt he is her brother.

  “What do you want to see?” asks the boy.

  He can’t be much older than I am, but his tone is one of such authority that it gives me goosebumps. I gulp, blush, and step away from the door. I’m not sure what my mom wanted me to see. A birth? The night?

  “My mom’s in there,” I say. My voice sounds pathetic. Why should I care?

  The boy wears black terry cloth wristbands. Most likely one is hiding a token. He moves like a mountain lion as he approaches the porch, all sly, and silent.

  “She’s the doctor’s kid,” the girl says. Her eyes brighten with the approach of the boy. It’s not love she feels for him, something else. Reverence. Like he is breathing life into her with every step.

  “She doesn’t look like the doctor’s kid,” he says. He must have been watching us from the shadows.

  The boy glances at my bracelet. “What color are you?” he asks.

  I touch the bracelet. The question feels odd, although I can expect to answer it a thousand times once I have the real thing.

  “I don’t have my token yet.”

  The girl smiles as if she’s relieved.

  “Mine’s red. Ruby red,” she says.

  The girl’s eyes drift toward the boy. She reminds me of a puppy who’s done something bad the way she looks at him, all guilty and wanting reassurance. He smiles and nods imperceptibly, as if he doesn’t want me to see.

  Ruby red. Birth to five. I think of the kids in the house. Now I understand why she looks so uncomfortable. It must be hard to know she has to kill someone so young, especially with so many younger sisters and brothers. I couldn’t imagine terminating Baby.

  “What color is yours?” I ask the boy. My voice sounds hollow and stupid. What a dumb question and one I have asked many times before.

  The boy comes closer. He pulls out a token from his wristband. Turquoise. Same color as my brother. He could terminate me right now. I shuffle my feet and look toward the PRT.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you.” His eyes cover my body, as if he’s sizing me up to determine which way to kill me. An arrow to the heart, a slice of my neck, or a bullet in my brain. He has no visible weapons.

  “Thanks,” I say as I pull my shirt closer around my body. “You can’t kill me for another few days,” I add. “I’m not yet sixteen.”

  He laughs and looks over to the girl. She is chewing the tip of her thumbnail. We stay like this, each in our own private thoughts. No one speaks. No one smiles. The only sounds come from the girl’s raspy breaths, the soft buzz of the microdrones, and the occasional pebble thrown from the boy’s hand.

  The cry of a baby breaks our uncomfortable silence. I feel a lump in my throat. A new life has entered our world. My mom has done her job.

  The boy briefly smiles and then looks sullen. He nods at the girl. The boy steps to my side as we watch the girl disappear into the house to greet her new sibling.

  “Don’t be scared,” the boy says. His fingers briefly touch my shoulder blade. His height and his size make me feel vulnerable. His words make no sense.

  A woman screams. It is the most heart wrenching tone I’ve ever heard. The woman screams again and then sobs. My jaw drops and I feel dizzy. The boy catches me before I fall to my knees. Don’t be scared. Of what? He knows and I can guess.

  A man shouts. Glass breaks. A thud. Hysterical crying. Voices yelling.

  The father is furious. “It was a boy,” he yells.

  I hear a thud and the unmistakable sound of a slap against flesh. The children whimper. “What’s wrong mommy?” one whines. “Why isn’t the baby moving?”

  I focus on the boy next to me. He faces the door. His profile is near perfection, perfect narrow nose, and angular jaw. His blonde hair shines gold in the moonlight. I want to find out why. Why did he let the girl do it?

  My mother rushes out of the house. A spray of blood covers her white shirt. She carries her shoes in one hand and her medical bag in the other. The blonde boy looks puzzled by the blood, as if that amount of screaming shouldn’t have produced any. Come on. There are probably pools of blood all over the place, on the floor, splattered on the walls and ceiling.

  The microdrones are swarming now. One hits me and stings my flesh like a mosquito bite. Mom knocks into the boy, glares at him, and pushes her medical bag into the small of my back.

  “Get in the PRT. Now,” Mom says.

  I know what happened inside. The girl used her token to terminate her newborn brother. Legal murder.

  Before I can follow my mother, the boy grabs my shoulders and stops me.

  “She needed me here.” His eyes search mine for understanding. “It’s my job to help out.”

  “You just let her kill a baby.” I scowl and push his hands away.

  “I’m a counselor.” His tone turns cold and hollow. “She asked me here as a favor.”

  “Then why aren’t you with her now?” I scowl and cover my ears, trying to block out the incessant screaming.

  My mother yanks me away from him. “We have to go.” She gives the boy one last look. “Stay away from her.”

  “You’ll be up next,” the boy s
ays. “We all have to do it some time.” He strides into the house. Shortly after, his voice rises above everyone else’s and then there is silence.

  I can’t get into the PRT fast enough. Mom and I enter at the same time. She tosses her bloodstained coat in the back and presses the home button. The doors close, leaving us in a bubble of safety. The PRT glides down the shack’s gravel driveway. Soon, we are back on our way down the mountain. Neither of us speaks. Both of us ride in silence to the waiting umbrella of streetlights.

  I don’t know what to say. This is my first birth. I didn’t see any of it, for which I am thankful. The screams. The screams are forever present in my mind. Mom’s hair is a mess and her makeup is streaked. I’ve never seen her in such disarray. When a tear rolls down her cheek, I can’t help it. I let out my own sob, but catch another one building in my throat.

  “Mom?” I ask.

  “This is over,” she says. “I’ve had enough.”

  Mom slams her fists into the dash of the PRT. I’ve never seen my mother violent.

  “Why a newborn?” I ask. I bite my lip to stop it from quivering.

  Her shoulders stiffen. “The algorithm was programmed a long time ago to leave the choice to mathematical logic. Logic. That is why a baby died today. Because someone hundreds of years ago devised an algorithm that would determine who dies.”

  “Kalstein Barstow. The scientist who devised the algorithm.” I learned about him in history class. The algorithm is secret, programmed into the token machines a long time ago. No one has access to the code anymore.

  “Scientist. Bah,” Mom says. “No true scientist would create an algorithm that forces people to kill. We are here to save lives, not destroy them.”

  Mom brings her knees to her chest and stays that way for the duration of the ride down the mountain. I comb my fingers through her tangled hair, tucking a lose strand behind her ear.

  Once we reach the lit streets, she heaves a sigh and relaxes into her seat. Turning to me, she touches my chin.

  “You won’t have to do that,” she says. “I promise.”

  “Do what?” I ask. “Kill a baby or have one?” Right now, I don’t want to do either.

  If I get the red token, I’ll have no choice. I think of Baby at home. How on earth can a person decide to take an infant from another family? I think of the bruise on the girl’s face, the gaunt faces of her siblings, and the fury in her father’s voice. If I had to kill a baby, could I make the same choice? Even if the girl took her own life, the token would be there for someone else to use.

  We accept this responsibility. It is what we must to in order to live on this earth. A life for a life in order to survive. I would kill Kalstein Barstow if he were still alive.

  Chapter Three

  I wake up with the knot of a lifetime in my stomach. Today is my birthday. The house is quiet. Nobody slept last night because Sebastian didn’t come home. Why did he have to desert me on such an important day? Maybe he spent the night at his girlfriend’s, but my heart tells me last night may have been his day. Either he is dead, or he has taken someone’s life.

  I have to go to the post office to pick up my token. Regulations require that I fill out a form, and show an ID to prove that I am myself. I don’t want to be myself today. I’d rather be a bird soaring over the lake, or a mouse hiding in the grass. I’d rather be with my brother, no matter where he is.

  Baby cries and I walk to her room when no one else appears to console her. She greets me with a smile and a sniff. I take her in my arms and cuddle her. Mom has been avoiding Baby ever since her last delivery ended in death. It’s not unusual for a family member to take the life of another member. After all, it’s how we got Baby.

  Mom appears at the doorway. She is dressed in a sharp red suit and matching pumps. Her eyes dart across mine and to the empty crib.

  “Are you going to be alright today?” she asks without taking her eyes from the crib.

  “Are you?” I ask, jostling Baby in my arms.

  She nods and stares at Baby. “I’m sorry I can’t come with you.”

  Mom has to debrief the Regulators today. Every time someone uses his or her token to kill, everyone involved has to report to Clarkhaven House. That means the girl will be there, along with her whole family. The boy with blonde hair will be there as well.

  “You look amazing,” Dad says from the hallway. He appears at the door and places a hand on one of Mom’s shoulders. He turns to me and for a brief moment, they are a frozen picture of love.

  “Today’s the big day. Just you and me. Are you excited?” Dad rubs his hands together.

  “Dad, really?” My eye roll makes my dad frown.

  “Yes, really.” Dad puts his hands on his hips. He is serious. “You’re sixteen. Regardless of what else the day means, it’s your birthday and we are going to celebrate. Cake, ice cream, and party hats.”

  “Can you drop Baby off for me?” Mom asks. “I don’t want to be late.”

  “Sure.” Dad takes Baby from my arms. “You ready to go?”

  Time to break the news.

  “I want to go on my own,” I say.

  “Not today,” Dad says. “You need us.” He glances at Mom. “Well, me. You shouldn’t do this on your own. You will need someone with you when you open…”

  I cut him off with a hand wave. “Please, Dad.” I don’t want him there. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

  Baby grabs Dad’s nose and pinches it, as if she’s pleading my case too. I love Baby. She always makes me smile.

  “Let her go on her own,” Mom says. She smells of vanilla bean coffee.

  “You sure?” Dad asks.

  “Of course, I’m sure,” says Mom. “I have to run. I am proud of you.” She brings me into her arms. “Don’t fear anything or anyone. Don’t think about your brother or me or your father. Today is your birthday. You have two years to get through the rest of it.”

  “Group hug,” Dad says.

  Dad steps forward and embraces me with his free hand. As corny as it feels, it also feels good to be in the arms of my parents. Baby seems to enjoy it too because she breaks out into a giggle and pulls my hair.

  Mom and I walk out of the house together. We wave to Dad and Baby. She enters her PRT and I walk to the MagLev. It is three stops to the post office. My journey will be swift. The end of it will change my life forever.

  The post office is an imposing stone building with a row of white marble columns and a red roof. It sits at the far end of an oval green where shops, restaurants, and offices line the walkway. On weekends, the green is filled with families picnicking, musicians strumming and kids playing. Today red-cloaked officers mix with blue suited professionals in an ordinary workday.

  One day I may be sitting on the green with them, enjoying my lunch, excited to go back to work. Today I must walk through their quiet and disrupt it by my mere presence. I step into the green and watch the faces turn toward me. Some people actually pick up their lunches and leave. Others stay, but watch my hands as I walk past them.

  I want to wear a big sign on my chest that says I don’t yet have my token. They know where I’m going. Kids my age aren’t let out of school unless we have to pick up our tokens. Their fear is a rehearsal, for I will not be able to kill any of them until I complete my training. I’ve been here several times when I was younger, but not recently. They don’t like kids anywhere near my age coming into the center of town. It spooks people too much. Rules and regulations prevent our movements.

  Every year, the government decides to restrict more and more areas to teens with tokens. I am not allowed in the office buildings, but I am still allowed in the green. One day, we won’t be able to walk anywhere except to and from school.

  I take a deep breath and run the rest of the way to the post office.

  I bound up the post office steps two at a time and enter the silent hall. At once, cold air blasts my skin, and my arms prickle with small bumps. An orderly line of men and women wait for forms of
various nature. Permits for PRTs, housing additions, work transfers, and other requests for and from the government.

  The strangers closest to me watch as I approach the information desk. Are they also waiting for me to strike? My sixteen birthday, the day I turn lethal. The woman behind the information desk has a wrinkly face and gray hair. If I were to guess, I’d say she was over two hundred. Some women have rejuvenated two or three times by her age.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  Layers of sagging skin hide most of her eyes. To me, she looks beautiful. If I get to be her age, I’ll keep the gray.

  “I’m here to pick up my token.” I choke on the last word.

  She nods. “I thought as much. No parents today?”

  I shake my head.

  “Never mind. They’re not required. This day is all about you. Personally, I prefer it when children come alone. Parents are a nuisance, pacing the waiting room, asking all sorts of questions.” She hands me a number printed on a piece of paper and stares at me.

  I am number six. “Is this it?”

  The old woman throws up her hands as if I should know what to do. “Of course not. You didn’t let me finish. Go through the door on your left, into the waiting room so you don’t disturb the other customers.”

  I glance over to the old wooden door. It looks worn out, much like the woman scowling in front of me.

  “Thanks for your help,” I say.

  She tilts her head. “What did you say?”

  “Thanks,” I say louder.

  “I’m not deaf, girl.” She makes a ticking sound with her tongue and opens a drawer. “Just surprised. Not many young people say thank you anymore. It’s a lost art.” She hands me a small green candy in the shape of a token. “They’ll call you when they’re ready. Good luck.” She smiles, revealing a full set of white teeth. “Think of me if you get green.”

  Green. Over two hundred. She wants me to terminate her. I walk over to the old wooden door clutching the candy as if it’s my lifeline. I want a green. I have a target.