The Rebel

by Gerald Brandt

  I picked up another piece of tofu. There were only ten or so left. I looked down the line. Some wouldn’t get any.

  “Kris?”

  I focused on the person in front of me, finally realizing the woman had used my real last name. I didn’t think there was anyone alive that knew that, except Kai. Her face was wrinkled and her brown eyes sunk into her skull so far it must have been like looking out a tunnel. The world had given her a beating and she’d come out the other end the worse for it. Like most everyone else in the food line.

  “Is that you, Kris?”

  Through the gaunt cheeks and unruly hair that looked prematurely gray. Through the dirt that stained her face and hands and clothes. Through the tears that coursed down her dry and chapped face. I recognized her. She had the haggard look of a Level 1 worker written all over her—aged beyond her years.

  I dropped the tofu. What was she doing here? She had no right. I let go of the serving spoon and it clattered into the almost empty container. My heart froze, refusing to beat until the heat rising from the pit of my stomach reached it before creeping through my chest and into my face. My hands shook, my forearms taut and rigid. I gripped the edge of the table, words forming in my mouth of their own accord.

  Before they could shape into coherent sounds, the old lady’s shaking hand reached out to mine, prying it from the table and turning it palm up. She placed a folded piece of paper into it and closed my fingers. She turned and shambled away, the bottom of her coat tattered and losing its filling, her plate forgotten on the serving table, wedged between the vegetable and tofu bins.

  Auntie.

  I turned my back on the people left in line, taking two slow steps, and unfolded the paper. By the look of it, the note had been opened and read many times before being folded back up. The edges of the folds were black from years of handling. The paper almost separated in my fingers as I read it, my hands trembling with fear and hate.

  Auntie,

  I’ve tried so many times to tell you what Uncle is doing. I know you don’t believe me. Don’t come looking, you won’t find me.

  Kris

  The handwriting still contained the uncertainty of a thirteen-year-old, the letters rounded and clear and slowly written, instead of the rushed script of an overstressed adult. Written underneath in a shaky hand was the date: May 3rd, 2137. In even smaller letters were Kicked out May 5th and Died August 24.

  Tension seeped from my body in a single rush, leaving me hollow and uncertain. I crumpled the note in my hand, grasping for something to lean against. I slid to the ground, only a few feet away from where they were serving, my legs unable to hold me anymore. Hot tears streamed unchecked down my face.

  Dead. The bastard was dead and gone. I had given so much of myself to the memories he’d burned into me, so much that lay hidden below the surface. And now it was finished. I stood and stumbled to the sidewalk, whimpering with the rush of emotion, of relief, and oddly, a sense of loss.

  In the end, she had believed me. She had chosen me over him, right over wrong. Uncertainty over stability. Only it was too late.

  I felt a touch on my shoulder, light, unsure.

  “I’m so sorry. I searched everywhere for you.”

  Something inside me broke. Years—a lifetime—of holding it all in, turning the fear into fuel to keep others away. Suddenly everything merged into one: Ian dying, Mom and Dad, the years of being alone. Being pregnant. It all crumbled into dust. I turned and pulled her into my arms. Her tears soaked through my jacket to my skin, warm and wet. We stood and cried together.

  Eventually we separated. Auntie still laughing and crying, holding onto my hand as if she was scared to let go, to lose me again. I helped her over to the lines, and we grabbed whatever food was left and moved to an empty table. We ate in silence, each one of us too embarrassed or too scared to start talking. She broke the silence first.

  “I . . . I found your note. I almost threw it away, but I couldn’t. I went through your room and found it. Found the red negligee.” She stopped and stared at the empty dishes. “I didn’t want to believe you, didn’t want to know what kind of man he was. I confronted him, showed him the negligee and the emptied bottles. Showed him your note. He denied it all. Told me I was stupid. Worthless.”

  Her hands shook and I grabbed them. They were cold, too cold even for the temperature of Level 2. She squeezed back, drawing strength.

  “I believed him. I . . . I had to. There wasn’t any other choice. I threw the damn thing away, along with everything else in your room. When I came home from work the next day, he was passed out. Again. His bottle had tipped and was leaking on the floor. He’d pulled the negligee from the garbage and was holding it, pressing it against his cheek. I . . . I knew then. Hell, I knew before. I just didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . . I’m so sorry. I should have been there for you. He wouldn’t let . . .”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Something finally flipped. I packed his bags that night and put them in the hall outside. He almost woke up when I dragged him from his chair. It took me a long time to get him out the door. He was so much bigger than me. I bolted it behind him. I didn’t know if he had a key, didn’t know what he’d do to me if he got back in.

  “He shouted and screamed for hours. Kicking and pounding at the door. I called the police, but they don’t care about anyone on Level 1. You know that. Jim across the hall had enough, eventually. His baby girls couldn’t sleep. He dragged your uncle outside and beat the crap out of him. I watched from the window.”

  “He didn’t come back?” I asked.

  “No. He was too scared of Jim. The next time I heard about him, the police showed up at my door. Too late to be of any use. They told me he’d been killed. Too much to drink, not enough to eat. He had tried to rob a restaurant on Level 3 and the owner had stabbed him. He’d bled out before anyone found him.” She paused, obviously reliving the moment, before struggling to move on. “I used most of our money to move up to Level 2. When the food and water shortages hit, I found the nearest kitchen.”

  The pain of reliving the experience was etched on her face. I knew how she felt, how I had felt when I ran away. It was as though someone had jabbed me with a shock stick. For the first time I realized I wasn’t the only one that had been abused in that apartment on Level 1. There were two victims there, and we’d both coped the only way we knew how. And we’d both managed to break free.

  Everything she did when I lived with them, every action, every word, was wrapped in a layer of self-preservation and fear so thick, she didn’t even realize what she was doing to me. How could she have? My image of her shattered into a thousand pieces.

  I changed the topic before she could see the reaction her words had on me. “How far do you come each day?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s about an hour-and-a-half walk. Moving helps my old bones.”

  I let go of her hands and we got quiet again. She had been alone as long as I had, finally rid of that scumbag. Finally out from under his control.

  “I need to go. It’s a long way home.” She pushed herself up from the table and used it for balance until she could stand on her own. She hadn’t had enough to eat.

  “Stay. Let me get you some more food.”

  “I can’t. I don’t want to walk at night. It’s not Level 1, but in times like this, it can get rough.”

  “I can get you a ride home. I have a motorcycle . . .” Auntie shook her head. “Or I could get a car?”

  “No, thank you. I think we both need time to figure things out. I’ll be back tomorrow, if you . . . if you want to talk again.”

  It felt like I was losing her, losing the only real family I had left, but she was right. I had butterflies in my belly and thoughts raced through my head. We both needed time. Healing didn’t happen over a single shared meal. It was a good start though.

  We hugged again, p
romising to meet tomorrow. She was reluctant to let go, more afraid than I was that we wouldn’t find each other again. I watched as she walked off. Her back seemed a little straighter, her step a bit stronger.

  Tomorrow.

  LOS ANGELES LEVEL 5—TUESDAY, JULY 4, 2141 1:00 P.M.

  After John Smith left, Janice wondered if she had told him too much. She hadn’t held anything back, which meant she had no leverage anymore, no more information to give them. From where she sat, there was nothing she had that they wanted. Except maybe her skill set. And honestly, after her performance recently, even that was questionable.

  She got out of bed again. The numbness was leaving her leg and a flash of pain made her suck in a breath. Tiptoeing to the door, she cracked it open and peeked out, fully expecting John’s face to be looking back at her. She let out a soft sigh when he wasn’t there.

  From her limited view, the hallway was empty, no guards, no hospital staff. She opened the door some more and stuck her head out to look in the other direction. It was like a ghost town.

  A breeze ran up her spine and she reached back, grabbing the flaps of her gown and holding it closed before stepping into the corridor. Getting out of this place would be a great start, but she knew it wasn’t going to happen. John had told her she was in the security wing of the hospital. If no one had been placed outside her room door, that meant they were all at the perimeter.

  It didn’t really matter anyway. She wasn’t about to walk the streets in a thin gown that flapped open in the back. There was no way that would end well.

  Instead, she walked the corridor, from her room near the end of the hall to the double doors that, she assumed, led into the hospital itself. She didn’t try to open them. With no guards where she could see them, they had to be positioned just outside. The cold white tiles whispered under her feet as she slowed down at every door and opened it. Nine rooms in all, and she was the only one here. By the time she was done, her leg didn’t hurt as much.

  Where the tenth room should have been was a nurses’ station, as empty as the rest of the place. If her clothes were still here, this would be the best spot to start. She began at the desk. Its surface was worn and completely clear except for a terminal. Pressing a key brought the display to life with a small box asking for a name, password, and security number. It was useless to her, unless she could beat the information out of the nurse. She didn’t think that would go over too well with John.

  Every drawer in the desk was locked, and not with the cheap shit she’d seen on standard office desks. These locks were solid, with a double-edged key slot and heavy construction. The drawers didn’t even wiggle when she pulled on them. Janice gave up and moved to the cupboards behind her. They were all the same. Locked.

  Her last chance lay with the door at the back of the station. She pressed down on the handle, and it moved with no resistance but didn’t open. Locked with a disconnected latch system. No wonder there were no guards. The only places she could get to in here were the other rooms. She decided to go through them one more time. Maybe she could find something to pry open the drawers.

  Voices penetrated the double doors outside the station and sent her heart racing. She ran to her room, her bare feet slapping on the floor, the pain in her thigh flaring to barely manageable levels. As she crawled back into bed, the machine beside her began beeping again, its pace frantic.

  She lay under the covers, holding her breath and willing her pounding heart to slow down. By the time she heard the knock on the door, Janice had almost decided to get out of bed again. John strode in and repeated the process with the chair.

  “Did you enjoy your walkabout?”

  “I . . . It was . . . umm.”

  John laughed. “No need to worry. It shows more initiative than I thought you had, which is a good thing. Though why you didn’t try the doors by the nurse’s desk is anyone’s guess.” He paused, looking at the console beside her. “It seems your story about Mr. Adams and Miss Merrill has stirred some interest higher up. Especially Miss Merrill. Did you know they had a bit of difficulty finding records for her? Apparently she fell off the face of the earth for the last year.”

  “I told you, she was in Canada.”

  “Ah, at the supposed ACE facility. I see. Well, the decision on what to do with you is no longer mine to make, so we’ll be leaving together today. You’re lucky. If I’m doing my math correctly, it’s been about six months since anyone walked out of this place.” His voice lowered. “Most don’t get to know when they leave, if you understand my meaning. And if you try anything stupid, you may have the opportunity to find out what we did with them.”

  Despite John’s words, Janice detected a switch in the balance of power. It might be temporary, but he didn’t have the same amount of control over her. He couldn’t decide whether she lived or died anymore. She could see that he felt it as well as he fidgeted in his seat, his words a cover for his sudden impotence. She had never responded well to threats. They always brought out the nasty in her, and a quick retort was already forming on her lips. She swallowed it, the taste bitter, and just nodded. No one fought against SoCal. If she ever had the chance, though, she would let him know.

  “Good.” The smile returned. “Since you know your way around, I’ll leave you to it. Your clothes will be at the nurses’ station, and I’ll be back in twenty minutes to pick you up.”

  Janice waited a few minutes before getting out of bed. This time she didn’t bother holding her robe shut. The bastards obviously had cameras everywhere, which meant they’d already had an eyeful. Fuck them. She’d used what she had before. She strode down the corridor, fighting against the limp, not wanting to show weakness. Grabbing her clothes, she walked into the nearest room and locked herself in the bathroom. False bravado could only go so far.

  Her pants had a hole torn in the leg above the knee. The frayed edges were covered in dried blood. The shirt was in one piece, but blood had run down the front, making the material stiff. There wasn’t much she could do with the pants, but she spent a bit of time washing the blood out of the shirt in the sink, cringing at how much water she used.

  Once she was dressed, she jammed the gown into the toilet tank, forcing the intake valve open. It would take them a while to find it, she hoped. It was a petty act, but it still made her feel better. Fuck the water. She waited by the nurses’ station, sitting in the chair behind the worn desk. The double doors swung inwards and John walked in, still alone. He told her to come around the counter and to face it, her arms on the surface and her legs spread apart. He shackled her legs first, then pulled her arms behind her back, one at a time, and zip-tied them together.

  There were no guards outside.

  “I don’t know if today is your lucky day or not. You’re going on a 36,000 kilometer trip.”

  Shit.

  LOS ANGELES LEVEL 5—TUESDAY, JULY 4, 2141 1:42 P.M.

  The first up-ramp I rode to had a line at least a hundred cars long waiting to go through the new security checkpoints SoCal had set up. I wasn’t in the mood for hanging around and went back down to Level 3 to find an express up-ramp that, with some luck, had a shorter line. As I rode I kept looking down side streets for SoCal military. With all of the drafts going on, I was constantly on edge. Working for SoCal wasn’t on the top of my list of things to do.

  Some late lunch traffic slowed me down—people pretending there was nothing wrong. That they or someone they knew couldn’t be drafted at any time. That the world was normal.

  I was still uneasy about this morning’s close call. It had been out of the ordinary, mainly because of its location. The thought of being locked down here, away from Ian, burned like a fire in my chest, and my vision blurred. I blinked and shook my head in an attempt to push the feelings away.

  It didn’t work.

  Forcing my grip to loosen on the handlebars, I twisted the throttle and accelerated toward the up-
ramp. SoCal had set up here as well. I’d expected that. The line only held a few vehicles though. I stopped before I got there and double-checked my tracker ID using my comm unit, just to make sure it was set to show me as a standard courier.

  When I hit the line, they scanned me and asked where I was going. I gave them an address on Level 5 I knew was a SoCal one. If they thought I was on a run for their bosses, I figured it would be easier for me to get through. They made notes on their pads before letting me pass. If they had asked to look at my paperwork, I would have been screwed. How long would it be before they stopped couriers from going through?

  I had kept up my regular scans in the mirrors, always calculating the traffic around me. Had I seen that silver car before? Did the driver of the one passing me look familiar? It was exhausting, keeping up the hypervigilance, but it had become a habit well before I went through the checkpoint.

  There was no use in hiding where I was going, so I rode the most direct route and turned onto the right street to Doc Searls’ office.

  Even though I wasn’t a courier anymore, the bike and the changed tracker ID helped me get into places without a second glance. A blue compact car got closer, staying in the curb lane. I was pretty sure I’d seen it before, but how many blue compacts were on the road? I pulled over and watched it drive past. The passenger was on his comm unit and the driver kept her eyes straight ahead. I honked the bike’s horn, but the driver’s stare never wavered. She was either obsessive about keeping her eyes on the truck in front of her, or she was studiously trying not to look in my direction.

  I rode past the office, watching the parking lot, before doing a U-turn and pulling in. It was the same thing Ian had done last year at Doc’s Level 6 offices, and what I had been taught to do by ACE. Survey the area before committing.

  There was a small spot right by the front door. I zipped in, turning the bike so it faced outward, ready for a fast exit if I needed it. I thumbed the lock and walked in.

  The building was a single floor, a simple strip mall with one section converted to a doctor’s office. A waste of vertical space, which meant it wasn’t cheap. I was surprised there was a receptionist behind the front desk. I’d never seen one in the Doc’s offices before, but then, I was never there when there could have been one. I guess I didn’t expect him to have regular patients.