Gated

by Amy Christine Parker

  “Go home,” Pioneer says. He doesn’t soften the edge of disappointment in his voice as he talks. My parents wince at this. “Get your minds and hearts right, because in a few hours we start preparing in earnest.”

  The Lord saw how great man’s wickedness on the earth had become, and that every inclination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil all the time. So the Lord said, “I will wipe mankind whom I have created from the face of the earth.”

  —Genesis 6:5, 7

  When we first moved into Mandrodage Meadows, the grown-ups hardly mentioned the end of the world to us at all. I can’t remember ever sitting down with my parents, Pioneer, or anyone else and discussing just why we were way out in the middle of nowhere digging the largest hole in the earth that I had ever seen. What I do remember is roaming the prairie and the hills beyond them with Will and the others. I remember picking wildflowers in the summer and sledding in the winter. I remember feeling like New York was a million miles away and that all the darkness that came before we moved here was no more than a fading nightmare. If it weren’t for Karen’s shoes still sitting by our front door, I might’ve chosen to forget that before time altogether.

  When I turned ten, that all changed. That was the year that Pioneer sat all of us down at school and showed us the taped newscasts our parents had seen but we hadn’t. He brought out charts and maps of space and taught us how to decipher them. I started to realize that the sky hid dangers far greater than I had ever imagined. Asteroids. Solar flares.

  He read us the story of Noah. He said that we were just like Noah and his family. Their god had told them that something was coming, something most of humanity wouldn’t survive, and so Noah prepared his people. He braved the chiding and disbelief of the rest of his community, gathered those few who did believe to him, and built them an ark to ride out the coming storm, just as Pioneer had us build the Silo. When Noah’s flood finally came, the scoffers finally saw the hand of Noah’s god on him and fought to enter the ark, but by then it was too late and they were lost, just as the people beyond Mandrodage Meadows would be one day.

  “You are all chosen, specially selected by the Brethren, the higher beings that have watched our planet’s progress since before humans occupied it. They chose me, gave me the visions of what’s coming, so that in return, according to their instructions, I could choose you, the people most worthy of surviving. My Community.”

  I had lots of questions, we all did—about the mysterious Brethren, about what Pioneer saw in his visions, about how our families were picked. Pioneer laughed, his deep booming one that always made us want to laugh too—even when we weren’t sure why he was laughing. He laid one of his hands on my shoulder and the other one on Will’s. Then he told us stories about the aliens that waited for us across the universe. He showed us drawings he’d made of their slim bodies and large black eyes, pointed to the galaxy where they lived on a map, and described how wonderful their world is. He said that he’d seen it all in visions the Brethren gave him. He spent the better parts of weeks and months showing us how to search the Bible for the messages that they had embedded inside for those clever enough to recognize them.

  We started walking around the development with a new lift to our shoulders and a secret smile playing on our lips. We were special. We were chosen. We would be the survivors.

  If you really love someone, you have to be prepared to do what’s necessary to help them learn and grow, even if it’s painful for the both of you.

  —Pioneer

  The air outside the Silo is sweet and not just because it’s laced with the aroma of apples and honeysuckle. It’s fresh, not recycled—unlike the air inside the Silo. I can’t stop taking deep breaths and holding the air in my lungs as we walk back home. All of us are silent, serious—as if we’re part of a funeral procession, as if we haven’t just been given the best gift we could possibly get: more time—time to do things differently, time to say goodbye again. Still, Pioneer’s speech has woken me up. It’s strange, but I think that up until now I haven’t thought enough about what it will really mean to let go of the sun, the sky, our development, the world. I’ve been so busy preparing for the end that I haven’t exactly stopped to consider what’s beyond it.

  I hurry toward home even though I probably won’t be there for long. Pioneer will have to send for me soon. He didn’t need to announce that he would punish Will, Marie, Brian, and me for us to know that it’s coming. We broke the rules. We left the development without permission. We told no one where we were headed. We disobeyed our parents and, even worse, Pioneer. The false alarm was only part of our penance. Pioneer never lets something like what we’ve just done go. It will be extra painful, whatever it is. He’ll make sure that we’re not tempted to screw up like this ever again.

  By the time we reach our house, I’m restless with dread. I don’t want to wonder about what’s coming. I need to get past this night. I need to stare at the sky, paint the sunrise—memorize everything good about the world so that I won’t forget it.

  We don’t bother going inside the house. Instead we sit on the porch swing. I’m in the middle. My parents press in on either side of me. Mom sets Karen’s shoes on her lap, her hands still roaming them nervously. The suede’s been worn smooth across the top from all the years she’s spent handling them when she’s stressed. Holding them seems to be her default in a crisis. It used to make me sad to watch her, but now it worries me. Dad and I stare at the shoes as she rubs, but neither of us says anything. What is there to say, really?

  Even though Will’s house is across the street and up by the gate—too far to make out the faces of the people milling around out front—I know he is the person leaning against the porch rail. I watch as he turns his head in our direction. He doesn’t wave, though, and neither do I. This is not the time for casual greetings. Marie is two houses over in the other direction, pacing her porch like it’s a cage. Brian’s house is too far down the line for me to see clearly, but I’m sure he’s doing the same thing we are, waiting to be punished. People pass us on their way to their own homes, but they don’t stop to talk or even look up at us, save for the occasional furtive glance. We’re as good as marked right now, outcasts until the punishments have been doled out. Later, no one will speak of it. Things will go back to normal. But it doesn’t make their avoidance any less hurtful. In a way, it’s like the uncomfortable punishment appetizer before the more brutal main course.

  “Best to take it willingly and silently,” Dad finally says, his eyes focused on some point in the front yard. His foot pushes off of the porch and slowly sets the swing in motion. “Crying won’t help.”

  I feel my insides tremble, my breath catch.

  Mom says, “He loves you. Like we do. Sometimes when you love someone, you have to do things you don’t want to do—to teach them something they need to know. It’s that way with kids. You have to be firm.” Her fingers travel the shoes a little quicker. “If we’d done a better job of it with Karen …” Her voice trails off. She looks down the road in the direction of the front gate.

  Dad opens his mouth to say something, but then drops his head and shuts it again. He pats my leg. “I’m sure you won’t do anything like this again. Whatever happens now is just the consequence. The lesson’s already hit home, right?”

  I nod and he puts an arm around my back. His fingers rest lightly on my shoulder. I lean into him and we grow quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I’ve always tried to be good since Karen, to make up for leaving her alone. I’ve worked pretty hard not to worry Mom or Dad. They’ve worried enough already for a lifetime. It bothers me that I’m failing now.

  The night begins to fade around us by degrees, but we stay where we are. We swing silently, our legs pressing together and apart with the motion of the swing, and wait.

  Mr. Whitcomb and Mr. Brown are on our front porch just before dawn, before any of us have had a chance to really settle down. The Community’s doctor, Mr. Kincaid, is behind them, standing on
our sidewalk with a first-aid kit in his hand. My stomach clenches. I have an overwhelming urge to run. Whatever Pioneer’s got planned, it’s going to hurt.

  My mom walks me down the porch steps and hands me over to them without a word. I look over my shoulder at my dad. He stays where he is. He’s tensed but still. His hands grip the swing’s seat, but his face is set, determined.

  I bite my lip to keep from crying. I don’t want to be a baby about what’s coming. Still, my legs won’t move at first and Mr. Whitcomb has to nudge me toward the road. My mom makes these tiny sounds in her throat as we leave her behind and head up the street. I know she wants to get me out of whatever’s coming somehow, but she can’t and I won’t encourage her guilt by looking back.

  Brian, Will, and Marie join us on the road. They’re being prodded along by several more adults. I try to say hello, but my voice is caught in the tightened muscles of my throat. Will moves to walk on one side of me and Marie positions herself on the other. Brian squeezes in on her other side. The adults bring up the rear.

  For a brief moment I imagine us linking arms like the characters did in The Wizard of Oz when they were preparing to meet the wizard. I’m the Cowardly Lion for sure. I can practically hear my knees knocking together. Will’s definitely the Scarecrow with his extra-long arms and legs; Marie, the ruby-lipped Dorothy; and Brian makes a perfect stiffly postured Tin Man. I wish we really were headed down that long hallway in the Emerald City, but instead we’re making our way around the stables to the corral. Pioneer is standing in the exact center and beside him are multiple buckets and wood beams.

  “Come here.”

  We walk as one. The adults linger by the corral gate where they can watch. None of our parents came with us. They’re being kept away on purpose so that they can’t intervene, a common practice for punishments.

  Lions and tigers and bears, oh my. These absurd words fill my head as we walk. I press my nails into my palms to keep from chanting it out loud. Somehow I don’t think Pioneer will find it funny.

  Pioneer waits until we’re directly in front of him before he picks up four of the beams one at a time and hands them to us. They’re notched on either end. We look at each other and then back at Pioneer.

  “Put them behind your necks.”

  Pioneer’s voice is harsh enough to get us moving immediately. The beams are heavy and awkward. I balance the wood on my shoulders and try to find a comfortable spot for it to rest on, but there is none. Pioneer picks up two buckets and puts one on either end of Will’s pole. They’re almost completely full of water and Will has to scramble to get them balanced before they can spill.

  “You will carry these buckets around the corral until I say you can stop. Keep the water in the buckets and today will be your only day of punishment. Spill too much and you’ll do this again tomorrow.”

  I can already feel the wood cutting into my neck, the roughness of it rubbing my skin raw. When Pioneer hangs my buckets, it only gets worse. I’m not sure I can do what he wants, but I don’t have a choice. I struggle to get my balance right, then start following Will. Together we begin walking along the fence that borders the corral.

  “Slow and steady, Lyla,” Will calls back to me.

  “No talking!” Pioneer shouts from behind us.

  I grit my teeth and take careful steps forward. We’re not even halfway around and already I’m sweaty and shaking. How long before the beam becomes too heavy for me?

  Pioneer and the others watch as we do lap after lap around the corral. I’ve lost count of how many we’ve done after a while, but the sun has slowly climbed a third of the way up the sky. The only thing I can concentrate on is balancing the pole. At first I was able to keep it steady enough that the buckets barely swayed, but now they’re slowly rocking back and forth. My entire back is cramped. I’m crying and so is Marie. I’m not sure if we’re going to make it. But I can’t do this again tomorrow, so I readjust the beam for the hundredth time and take another step. My neck seizes. I try desperately to stretch and still keep the beam steady.

  “Please. I can’t keep going. I need to stop.” Marie doesn’t wait for Pioneer to answer her before she stops walking. Her beam is listing back and forth. The buckets are sloshing violently. I suck in a breath. Marie lets out a little wail and drops to one knee.

  “Stand up!” Pioneer yells.

  “I can’t,” Marie cries.

  “You will stand up now!” Pioneer hops the fence and charges over to where she is. Marie closes her eyes. Tears stream down her cheeks. The back of her neck is bleeding. I can see the trail of blood along her collarbone, a gruesome necklace. I shudder and try not to think about what my own neck looks like. All I know is that it’s getting harder and harder to think about anything other than the pain I’m in.

  “Get up!” Pioneer pulls Marie to her feet. “You have no one to blame for this but yourself. You left without permission. You put yourselves and your families in danger. Our rules are not a joke, something you can blithely disregard. Did you think for one second that I wouldn’t find out? I always know where you are. I carry the Community in the same way that you are carrying these beams. If I can’t falter, then neither can you. Now walk!” He gives her a shove and water spills out of both buckets.

  Marie cries out again and stumbles forward. Pioneer wheels around, comes to each of us in turn. “You will follow each and every rule that I set down from now on. Without question. Step out of line again and this punishment will seem like a light scolding compared with what comes next. I will not have troublemakers in the Community.”

  “We honestly didn’t mean to cause a problem,” Brian says.

  Pioneer stops beside him. “Neither did Adam and Eve, but their god still kicked them out of Eden, didn’t he? The Brethren demand more from you—and so do I.”

  I’ve never seen Pioneer so worked up and angry. It scares me. Is he threatening to kick us out of the Community if we mess up again? Where would we go?

  Pioneer continues to walk beside us for the remainder of our laps. He talks on and on about the Brethren’s plan for us, our duty to them, but I can’t concentrate. I hurt too much. We do three laps more before he finally lets us stop. When the beam comes off my shoulders, I struggle not to throw up. I try to put my fingers on the sticky, wet skin just beneath my hair, but the slightest touch makes me want to pass out. I look at Will’s neck instead. It’s bloody and raw—so are Brian’s and Marie’s.

  Mr. Kincaid enters the corral with an armful of towels and medical supplies. He places them on the top of the fence post next to Pioneer, but before he can come over and examine us, Pioneer waves him away. Without a word, Pioneer motions me forward and then begins gently tending to my neck. He makes little clucking noises as he works.

  “I hate this. More than you do. I love you all so much. It kills me when I have to help you learn such a lesson.” He smooths my hair and kisses the top of my head. “But you’ll never learn, will you, Little Owl, if the lesson isn’t memorable?”

  I swallow hard. I can’t say anything. Right now I’m pretty sure that I hate him and what he’s done to us. If I open my mouth, I’m not sure that I won’t tell him so.

  “Be a good girl now, Little Owl. Please don’t make me do this to you again.” He’s obviously sensed my rage, because he’s looking at me intently now.

  After a moment, he puts a hand on the center of my back and rubs it in a slow circle the way my mom sometimes does when I’m sick; then he moves on to Marie. Marie hasn’t stopped crying yet. I watch Pioneer whisper in her ear and kiss the top of her head like he did with me. Her eyes meet mine, but there’s no anger in them, just pain mixed with relief. Does she think our punishment was just?

  We spend the rest of the day on work duty, first at the stables and then in the kitchen. Bandages cover our neck wounds, but everyone stares at them. Many of the adults shoot disapproving looks our way. I can almost hear them chastising us.

  Will keeps his head down as we pass everyone, his hand wo
und tightly around mine. Marie covers her face with her hands. I don’t hide. I stare right back. We’ve already been punished. We’ve bled. What more do they want?

  We’re excused from dinner with the rest of the Community that night. We have to eat our dinners alone in our rooms. I can’t stomach the food, even though it’s my favorite stew. My body hurts everywhere. I ease my way onto my bed and stare out the window at the sky. The stars are clear and bright above the trees, twinkling portals. Are the Brethren up there watching me now? When they finally travel here after we’ve survived the end, will they say I’m worthy to be with them or leave me here alone, a survivor of humanity but an outcast of its successor?

  The nations and kingdoms will proclaim war against each other, and there will be famines and earthquakes in many parts of the world. But all this will be only the beginning of the horrors to come.

  —Matthew 24:7–8

  Pioneer sets the Community siren off—four short bursts just after we’ve woken up the next day. It’s a call to gather in the clubhouse. There’s some kind of important news to share.

  I grab some aspirin on my way out of the house and walk toward the clubhouse with my parents. I have to alternate squishing my eyes shut to keep out as much of the harsh sunlight as I can and opening them so I can still manage to not fall on my face. I can’t help yawning over and over. It makes my neck and back tense up—which is painful to the point of unbearable. Yesterday’s punishment didn’t stop out in the corral; it followed me home. It still feels like the wood beam is on my shoulders, weighing me down.