Type X

by M. A. Phipps

  My eyes scan the room, and a trembling breath escapes my lips when I take in the face of the man in front of me.

  “Father . . .”

  His aura pulls me forward. I take a cautious step as a strange feeling of terror catapults through my body. I can’t explain it—this apprehension.

  My gaze locks on his hunched figure. Leaning over the desk, he bows his head as his hand whips in furious repetition back and forth. I inch toward him, catching a glimpse of the book he’s writing in before glancing at his face. He looks so young—so different from how he was the day he was taken from me all those years ago.

  I study his expression, noticing the severe way he stares at the desk with his forehead scrunched into tiny wrinkles. A lump of uncertainty blocks my throat, but I swallow it back down.

  Hesitantly, I peer over his shoulder.

  For so long, it was only rumors. First, it was a simple shift in policy. A change in the way the government was run. Then, it became something more. Whispers about assassinations and about an insurgency that had somehow risen up from the inside, taking down everything without having to resort to the more brutal methods of war. I’m not sure how they did it. Hell, I don’t even know where they came from. No one does. All I know is that it was over before anyone knew it began. And now?

  Now, the State is in power.

  The strangest part is that there was never a catalyst. Never a single moment that indicated any of this was happening. They merely rose up like a phantom presence, weaving their intricate and controlling web through every facet of our society.

  At first, people weren’t concerned. They just saw it as nothing more than a newly elected government, but what they fail to grasp is that the State was never elected.

  It wasn’t long before they began to change us. Change the way we live and the way we function. Initially, it happened slowly. One minor adjustment at a time. Probably to avoid a panic more than anything else. Since then, things have happened more quickly. Our downfall is progressing at an alarming rate, and I’m worried no one notices that except for me.

  Horrific acts plague everyday news, but they hide their crimes behind promises of peace and prosperity. How easily people are fooled. I, however, see them for what they truly are and for what they’re trying to do. Rob everyone of their identity. Make every person the same in order to force them to conform. Frighten them until they obey. They’ve even introduced birth identification numbers and a sort of placement exam to help them achieve this end.

  The numbers are to keep track of us, and the exam is to transform us into a more efficient society. Or so they claim. They say it will eliminate the waste and urge everyone to contribute. That it’s in our best interest. Truthfully, it’s just another means for them to assert their control. To make us follow their rules and live the way they want us to. A place for everyone, and everyone in their place.

  He pauses, shifting his body a fraction of an inch as he laughs under his breath.

  No one has a say anymore. We have to do what we’re told or suffer the consequences—a trap that I’m concerned the majority will fall into. Something needs to be done before the people are too far gone to remember who they are. Before we’re all brainwashed by the promises of the State. By fear. Before we lose ourselves completely. Rodrick agrees with me, and so our mission to find like-minded individuals to join us and to battle this new evil begins. We already have the perfect starting point, so now all that’s left is to turn our thoughts into action.

  We’ve even chosen a name for ourselves. What better way to describe our determination than to name our rebellion after a creature that can never die? Our resolve burns like fire, and so, we will become like the great winged bird from legend. PHOENIX. Together, we will rise up from the ashes of this once great nation and liberate our people from the tyranny that threatens to destroy us.

  I glance up at him the moment his hand stops moving. When Nolan told me they were once friends, I didn’t believe him. Seeing this makes it real.

  My eyes glisten as I stare at my father in awe, feeling a newfound respect for the man in front of me. He leans back in the chair as I inspect his movements, only vaguely aware that the scene around me is changing.

  The fire behind me cracks like a whip, grabbing my attention. Looking over my shoulder, I’m surprised to see the stone mantelpiece is no longer there, supplanted by a glass and steel box positioned within the wall like a transparent drawer. My eyes dance along the interior of the room, taking in the other not-so-subtle changes.

  No paintings.

  No pictures.

  Just bare walls and muted colors. Gray, after gray, after gray.

  Turning, I find my father standing in front of the rounded window. His eyes stare out beyond the spotless panes, but his expression is blank and distant. I notice the wooden desk is gone now too, replaced with one constructed of steel.

  This representation of our cold society looms on the opposite side of the room like a warning. It no longer faces the window or the outside world. It no longer faces freedom. Instead, it faces a wall, perhaps to signify that there’s nowhere to go. That there’s nowhere to hide.

  Perhaps to tell him he’s trapped, just like the rest of us are in the future.

  My body quakes as I walk over to my father, wishing he could see me. Wishing for some way to comfort his obvious distress.

  Reaching out my hand, my fingers press against his arm, but he doesn’t feel my touch. Ignoring the painful clenching of my heart, I peek up at his face. When I do, I immediately register how much older he appears to be. Aged from stress and fear, no doubt.

  I watch as he takes a long, deep breath. A tremor runs over his fingers when he thumbs through the journal, searching for a blank page.

  Once again, I read the words over his shoulder.

  The situation has become increasingly dire. We’re struggling to get hold of the needed weapons and supplies. It’s been difficult, nearly impossible, to find support, especially with the newly instated identification chips that are now mandated by law. They’re tracking our every movement, hoping to flesh out anyone who might pose a threat to the utopia they’re attempting to build.

  Utopia.

  This place is more like Hell.

  Walls have been erected around the city, cutting off access to the outside world. Travel is strictly prohibited without special clearance, and the city has been separated into zones with the outlying areas now nothing more than one giant slum. A place for them to deposit the waste until they find a way to eradicate it completely.

  For the time being, we’re allowed to stay in our home, but it won’t be long until they decide to move us too. Where we live will coincide with the jobs we’re given, which will only lead to segregation and inevitably distance us from one another. Every move the State makes is intended to force us to conform—to disconnect us until the relationships we once shared no longer exist.

  Families.

  Friends.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if fear eliminates them altogether.

  The State has broken off ties with our trade partners as well, but they’ve managed to calm the impending hysteria with promises of advancements in hydroponics and genetically grown meat. A daily cap has been put in place on almost everything, though. Food, medicine, and even water. It’s all limited. Some products, like alcohol, are being phased out entirely. They claim it’s only temporary, and with a little time and effort, we’ll be able to create everything we could possibly need for ourselves, right here inside these walls.

  At first, I thought this was just another way to prevent outside interference, but now I know it’s meant to keep everyone in. At this rate, the next generation won’t even know an outside world exists.

  Placing his pen on the desk, he stops to rub his tired eyes. He looks exhausted and stares blankly at the page for at least a minute before continuing.

  Another big shift concerns the State’s supply of Enforcers. It’s grown to an extraordinary level. Nearly te
nfold compared to what it was less than a year ago. The “join us or die” mentality has taken over, and more are enlisting every day, eager to show their cooperation and loyalty to the tyrants who have overthrown us. Loyalists, as they’re now called, are being rewarded while those who stand against this new rule are gradually weeded out and exterminated like bugs. Soon, there won’t be any of us left. A curfew has also been put in place in an effort to keep illegal activities to a minimum, making our goals that much harder to attain.

  Then there’s the State’s latest conquest. With the placement exam and the tracking chips, all that’s left is to take away everything that makes us different from one another. Only by making us the same can they oppress us completely. They claim this is meant to make way for the advances of the future. A future they say we will build together.

  More lies.

  The State feels threatened by history and by anything that counterbalances the conformity they’ve been working so hard to put in place. Pyres light up the streets as Enforcers raid homes, burning any objects they consider to be in direct contradiction to their new, “improved ” society. Their new world. They’ll destroy the slightest reminder of what life was like before they arrived, even something as simple as a piece of furniture. Anything that suggests another way of life existed before they did.

  People are feeding this ridiculous venture by accepting it, making the situation worse. I can see the extent of the State’s reach in the things I hear said in passing on the streets. Individuals I’ve known my entire life are now preaching false truths that are inconsistent with the world we grew up in. It’s as if they’re in denial that society was ever different from what we know now. They’ve been brainwashed. There’s no other way to put it.

  I tear my gaze away from the journal, overwhelmed by the description coming to life inside my head. I’m able to imagine it with such clarity. The way the Enforcers barged into peoples’ homes. How whole identities were ripped away as possessions were burned before their owners’ eyes.

  Memories.

  Talents.

  It was all taken away.

  Make everyone the same, just as my father said.

  For the first time, I truly appreciate what he showed me when I was a child. The books and instruments, as well as the piano he used to spend countless hours teaching me how to play. It never occurred to me how many people had to suffer for the privileges I took for granted.

  How my father had to suffer.

  I remember when we used to go on our “secret missions” as he called them. They often took us far away from home, and each time we traveled along a different route. A method, I now realize, meant to prevent me from being able to give the details of our excursions to anyone who might ask.

  He always made me close my eyes when we got close, and I used to stumble along in the dark until he told me I could look. The only thing I can remember about that part of our journey is the smell. The musty odor and dampness clinging to the air around us. Father always made me change my clothes before going home. Probably to avoid Mother finding out what we were up to.

  Thinking about it now, I can’t help wondering if the place he used to take me to was one of PHOENIX’s first hideaways. Where else could he have concealed something as large as a piano? Where else could he have taught me how to play it without fear of being caught?

  Perhaps they used to gather such relics in the hopes that, one day, they might be put to use again.

  In the hope that our history wouldn’t totally be forgotten.

  The scratching of his pen grabs my full attention, returning me to this moment. Locking my eyes back on the desk, I continue to digest my father’s story.

  The world as we know it, the old world, no longer exists. Truth be told, I’m beyond lucky that they haven’t found this journal. I shudder to think what will happen if they do. Execution, no doubt. Or torture at the hands of the DSD. Another irony of the State. Atrocities hidden behind the guise of scientific research. It’s no wonder so many people are falling into line and becoming nothing more than mindless sheep. Between the public executions and the very real likelihood of a stay at the DSD, everyone is frightened. It’s impossible to know who to trust anymore, and the State is nurturing that paranoia each second of every day. Whoever is running this show has positioned their pieces nicely. The people are turning on each other without them having to lift a finger.

  The world has gone to hell, and I’m not so sure how much more of this I can handle.

  Pausing again, he licks his lips. When the pen touches back down on the paper, his hand shakes so violently that I’m unable to read what he wrote. Leaning forward, I narrow my eyes to decipher the scribbles.

  My heart plummets into my feet when I make out the words.

  At least I still have Evandra.

  My stomach drops when he mentions my mother, and the anger I’ve felt toward her re-emerges, burning me in a wildfire of hatred and rage. Her betrayal toward me. Her betrayal toward my father.

  If only he’d known what she was like.

  How did it happen? I wonder. How did she find out his secret?

  Before I can determine an answer, the vision begins to shift, taking me forward to another point in time. As my surroundings settle, a sudden darkness veils the room. The only light now comes from the diminishing fire.

  In a panic, I search for my father.

  Turning in place, I find him sitting immobile in front of the steel desk. My heart pounds as I take my place by his side. Bending over to look at his face, I’m alarmed by what I find there. Prominent bags hang under his eyes, and his skin is sallow. His cheeks are sunken, and it appears he’s tried, unsuccessfully, to hide them with facial hair.

  My fingers tingle as I reach out for him, desperate to touch his shoulder.

  They only find air.

  I watch in horror as he pens a new entry.

  I always thought love was the greatest force in this world. That nothing and no one could ever come between us.

  But I was wrong. Our damaged society has done the very thing I thought impossible. It has divided us.

  I suspect she doesn’t realize this. If she did, I would already be dead. After all, she has made it abundantly clear where her allegiance now lies. I’m not sure if it’s fear or if she’s simply been brainwashed by propaganda like so many others. Whatever the cause, Eva is no longer the woman I fell in love with.

  It breaks my heart to write these words, but I must put my feelings and inhibitions aside. I must assume a new identity and pretend to be someone I’m not. I must abandon the progress I’ve made—all the work I’ve done in an attempt to right the wrongs committed by those who cast their menacing shadow over our lives.

  For the sake of my unborn child, I must stay. Even if it goes against everything I believe in. Perhaps, one day, I will escape from this torment, but until then

  He stops writing, leaving the sentence unfinished. Glancing down, I notice that his hands are shaking again. Mine tremble in response to the visible anguish tormenting him. Many seconds pass before he carries on writing.

  This will be my last entry. With the world we live in now, even our thoughts are no longer safe. To those who were depending on me

  I watch as a tear trails along his cheek and lands in the middle of the words written below.

  With a careful movement, he closes the journal. Rising to his feet, his stride is steady but broken as he crosses the room. The glare from the burning embers casts an ominous glow across his face, and without a second of hesitation, he throws the book into the fire.

  The vision ends as the pages burn.

  My lungs seize, stripping me of oxygen as the comprehension of what I’ve seen wraps its vengeful hand around my throat. Tears burn my dry, cracked lips, and my heart falters, bowing under the strain of the tiny fissures forming along its edges. They work their way inwards, breaking me.

  My knees buckle, and I’m aware of the concrete floor as it rises up to meet them. The room is distorte
d as if time has slowed, causing my suffering to be drawn out and amplified. As I collapse, my eyes stare blankly ahead, seeing only the ghost of my father’s face.

  I don’t move. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. My tear ducts are the sole functioning part of my body, tormenting me with physical reminders of my pain.

  A pain that’s now so much greater than it ever was before.

  A soft whimper parts my lips as the hand that was suffocating me now squeezes my chest. For a moment, I wish for it to end my agony.

  To end this. Once and for all.

  Through the fog of despair shrouding my existence, I notice the sound of voices on the other side of the door. I can only just make out what one of them is saying.

  “Something’s not right.”

  A familiar voice.

  Ezra’s voice.

  “Open the door,” he pleads.

  A pause. Then a reply, protesting his demand.

  “I said open it!” he yells, refusing to back down.

  Within a matter of seconds, the metallic slab is forced open. Retreating footsteps echo along the length of the hallway—more than likely belonging to whoever was guarding the door. I’m sure it won’t be long until they return with reinforcements.

  Although I don’t turn to look at him, I can sense Ezra rushing toward me. I can feel his body heat as he squats beside me on the floor. I can hear his voice as he tries to coax me back from my inevitable descent into madness.

  “Wynter.”

  His hand is warm on my shoulder, and his touch is gentle. Words form in my throat, but I can’t find the means to speak. Running his hand along my back, he brings his face close to mine. His breath is warm as it tickles my lips.