As Michael worked on removing the hardware—an act that required more learning than doing, as if he were dismantling a ticking bomb from the future—he became so absorbed that when he lifted his head again, the sky outside his window possessed the pale orange tint of late evening.
He glanced at his clock. Three hours had gone by, yet he wasn’t even close to finishing. How many more sleepless nights could he endure before he went stir-crazy?
Michael resolved to work for another five hours, force down some food, and get a healthy night’s rest. He had to accept this would take a while. When he was done, the parts would fetch more money on the black market than the restaurant made in a year—enough, hopefully, to bribe the guards at the nearest checkpoint to maybe look the other way while he slipped past the wall and away from this messed-up country. He’d heard rumors about those bribes.
Goodbye Lanza’s. Forever.
Turning off the live-feed device, he breathed a sigh of relief. After a moment, he removed the electrical tape and began working on Handy Dan’s eyes.
Realistically, though, the money would probably end up going toward his radio business. It was a safer investment that would yield better returns. The profit would be more than enough to buy the parts necessary to make and sell radios for the rest of the year—a lucrative side business Michael had become fond of, and one which possessed only a fraction of the inherent danger of dismantling Handy Dans.
Michael’s radios weren’t the standard-issue entertainment devices he’d grown up with, limited to government propaganda and patriotic songs. Instead, they were wired to receive broadcasts from the New Dallas Republic thousands of miles east of the Line, which made them highly illegal.
And highly profitable.
The signal was mostly a fuzzy, crackling mess, but every now and then, if someone listened closely enough, they might hear a voice discussing a sporting event or a news story. For those like Michael who dreamed of escape, that occasional tidbit was enough to keep the fantasy alive.
Two weeks after finding the Handy Dan, Michael removed the last of the parts he needed. He’d also learned a hefty amount about the advanced technology the government kept secret from the masses. It was mind-boggling just how backward the rest of the country’s technical prowess appeared in comparison—like a sad little steam engine squatting in the shadow of a supersonic jet.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon. He hadn’t slept a wink the night before but still worked the breakfast and lunch shifts like a mindless robot with a failing charge in its battery. Afterward he’d gone upstairs and spent two more hours with Handy Dan, craving the moment when he could finally be done with it.
Too tired to do much else, he threw a bedsheet over the mess of electronics and shuffled, zombie-like, toward his mattress. He was about to collapse on top of it when someone banged on the door.
“Hey, Mikey, open up!”
It was his older brother, Benny.
“Spiteful wrath,” Michael said.
“Come on, buddy. I got something for you.”
“Go away.”
“Hey, I’m not messing around.”
Michael pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Fine, but I’m not working the dinner shift for you.”
“Come onnnn,” Benny whined. “Open the door. I got a present for you.”
Michael crossed the tiny room, stepping on his bed and piles of smelly aprons and socks to get to the door. The mattress covered most of the floor, making it easier to walk across it than to go around.
“You can save your breath,” he told Benny, undoing the locks. “I’m not working—”
The air was slammed out of his lungs as Benny, bent at the waist, charged straight into him and sent him sprawling onto the bed. Michael was sure his parents, who were probably in the kitchen preparing for dinner, would hear the noise and come up hollering.
“Who’s tough now?” Benny said, driving his fists into Michael’s ribs.
“Ben—stop—oof!”
Once Michael managed to get free, he curled into a ball. He knew better than to fight back. Any resistance would only end with Benny either giving him a black eye or forcing his younger, much skinnier brother into a wrestling match to amuse himself.
“Get away from me,” Michael said. “I mean it.”
“Aw, quit whining.” Benny stood over him, smiling and popping his knuckles. His slicked-back hair smelled terrible, like an oil spill. “When are you going to stop being such a wimp?”
Michael pushed off the bed, dreading whatever it was Benny was here to ask of him. When Benny pulled out the white, button-down shirt he’d tucked into the back of his belt, Michael considered shoving his brother aside and fleeing the building before anyone could stop him.
“You’re waiting tables tonight,” Benny said, as if it weren’t already obvious. “Dad crossed my name off the calendar and put in yours, so don’t even bother arguing.”
“Like hell I am. I worked the kitchen all day today. Where were you?”
Benny grinned his charming, con-artist smile. His sharp, Italian features were those of a fox, and he had a naturally confident and easygoing attitude that made him a favorite among the other kids on their block. Few girls could resist Benny’s charms, even those with serious boyfriends.
Michael was the opposite of his brother. Stooped, rangy, and quiet, he appeared almost pathetic in comparison, like how Benny would look if someone messed up his hair, stretched him like putty, and slapped a permanent frown on his face. When Michael was younger, the neighborhood kids called him “Vamp” thanks to his pale skin and brooding gaze. Now, only Benny called him that to get on his nerves.
“Waiting tables ain’t so bad, Vamp.” Benny fixed his gaze on the bedsheet Michael had draped over the remains of Handy Dan. “Hey, what’s that?”
“Fine, I’ll do it,” Michael said, almost tripping on his mattress to get between Benny and the table. “Are you deaf? I said I’ll do it.”
“Wait a second.” His brother pushed him aside. “What is that?”
“Benny, get lost. Seriously.”
Benny shoved Michael, sending him stumbling several steps, and gave him a threating look. “You know, you shouldn’t hide things from your dear big brother. I’m only looking out for you.”
Michael watched with a sinking feeling as his brother lifted the sheet. It took Benny several seconds to make sense of the mess. When he realized what it was, he dropped the fabric and jerked his now-wide eyes to Michael’s face.
“Spite me,” he said. “Mike, you can get in big trouble for this.”
“I know,” Michael said, dropping his gaze to his stained and lumpy mattress, wishing he could just sink into it and let sleep carry him away on silken wings, never to return. “But we need the money, right? I’m done being hungry all the time.”
“Is this how you’ve been getting the money you give Mom and Dad each month? From parting these things out on the black market?” Benny lifted his eyebrows in apprehension mixed with respect. “I always thought you sold drugs like everybody else. I know Mom and Dad appreciate the help, but we could all be shipped to the labor camps for stuff like this. This Handy is probably registered to someone else. Did you steal it?”
“I found it in a dumpster.”
“Yeah, but still…”
A strange sensation came over Michael. For a few seconds, it felt as if every thought rattling around in his head had instantly vanished, leaving only an empty space into which he could draw signals transmitting nearby. He became like one of his own radios, tuning itself to a clear station after a lifetime of dead air.
Was he that tired? No, this was more than exhaustion. What he sensed was a weird sort of elation, radiating toward him from Benny. It wasn’t laughter, nor was it a smell, but if laughter had a smell, it would have resembled this.
Sort of.
When Benny’s eyes crinkled slightly, promising one of his mischievous smiles, Michael immediately knew what his brother was u
p to. The weird feeling went away.
“Don’t do it,” he said, putting up his hands. “Come on, Benny.”
“What?” Benny spread his arms in a display of innocence. “I’m not going to tell on you.”
“I know,” Michael said. “But whatever else you’re thinking of doing, don’t. Please.”
Benny smirked. “What did you do, read my mind? You’re not a ment, are you, Mikey?”
The question caught Michael off guard. He wasn’t sure what the weird feeling had been, but he certainly didn’t want it to happen again. By law, all telepaths had to turn themselves in to the police or risk execution without a trial, with the bonus of having their families thrown into a labor camp. Those who did give themselves up were turned into slaves. They became, according to rumor, emotionless, spineless, human lie detectors with no memory of their former lives and no purpose but to help the police detect illegal inclinations.
These freaks of nature were called ments, mentals, and mutebrains—the last of which referred to a popular idea that the nuclear bombs which had decimated the Eastlands had somehow caused people to mutate into telepathic weirdos. No one knew exactly how they came about, only that they started being born a decade after the bombs, so maybe the mutant theory was true. Any ments not in captivity were considered thieves, liars, con artists, and sociopaths, despised almost universally throughout the WDPRA.
“I’m no ment,” Michael said, his voice wavering. “I just know how you think, that’s all.”
“If that’s true, then you know I’m no rat.” Benny squared his shoulders, glaring at Michael. “Take it back.”
“So you’re just going to forget what you saw?”
Benny burst out laughing. “Just like that? Are you kidding? And you thought you knew me.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Take over my Saturday night shift from now on, with a twenty-five-percent cut of your pay as a kickback. You see how nice I’m being? I could have asked for half.”
“How’s this for nice?” Michael said. “Go spite yourself.”
“Mike.” Benny gave him that sappy stare he used on girls. “Miiike.”
Michael thought about sucker-punching his brother in the gut. Benny could have demanded a lot more, though, and Michael didn’t want to give him a reason to do so. If he told their parents about the Handy Dan, his father would shut down the operation. He might even handcuff Michael to the kitchen sink to wash dishes every shift for the rest of his teenage years.
“Listen to me, Mikey. You’re seventeen. You’ve got no friends, no girlfriend. I’m pretty sure you’ve never even been laid. You got no social life at all, so I ask, what difference does it make? The extra shift means more money for you, and I get my Saturday nights to go out slumming. It’s a win-win arrangement.”
“You’re blackmailing your own brother,” Michael said. “Think about that.”
Benny waved away the accusation, smiling that oily, sleazeball grin. He’d won, and he knew it. “I’m doing you a favor. Besides, it’s two-for-one beer night at The Capitalist Pig on Saturdays. I’ll tell you what…” Benny crossed his arms and put on his most businesslike expression. “You take my Saturday night shift, and not only will I not tell Mom and Dad you’re putting this family in danger by breaking Federal Law, but I’ll also take you out once a week to the Pig and school you in the art of picking up girls. I know you need it. I’ve seen the pictures you keep under your mattress.”
Michael blushed, not meeting his brother’s knowing gaze.
“What do you say? Huh?”
“Fine.”
Benny reached over and pinched Michael’s cheek. “Thattaboy, Vamp. With me as your mentor, the girls in this neighborhood will dive into those skinny arms of yours.”
Michael swatted his brother’s hand away. Benny tossed him the white shirt he would need for waiting tables—their mother insisted on the uniforms—and made for the door.
“You’ll need a clean pair of pants to go with that shirt,” Benny said, “and make sure you brush your teeth. Your breath smells like a dead person’s foot.”
Michael exhaled into his hand, sniffing. Benny was right.
Chapter 3
Waiting tables was the height of boredom.
At least in the kitchen, Michael could read the newspaper or one of his brother’s textbooks while he waited for the dishes to pile up. But in the dining room, he had to look ready and presentable, even when the place was empty, just in case a customer happened to waltz in. It was his father’s rule, and Terry Lanza wielded as much authority over this restaurant as Harris Kole did over the nation.
Michael spent the majority of the dinner shift staring out the window, wondering why the restaurant no longer attracted customers. It wasn’t like people had to spend money to eat at Lanza’s. Only the drinks cost money. Everything else could be purchased using ration slips, which Michael’s family would then use to restock their inventory at the “disties,” which was what people called the government distribution centers on every street corner. They also called them “empties,” a name that required no explanation.
Lanza’s, like most restaurants, only profited from tips—which were nonexistent—and selling booze, which made so little as to be insignificant. There was only one brand of wine, liquor, and beer. It was called Unity, created by the Paradise Department of Luxury Goods and Services. However much a restaurant sold, half the profits went back to the department. If it weren’t for the meager business and living stipends his family—like everyone else—received, the place would have closed long ago.
At least Lanza’s was classier than most food joints, where the employees just stood around smoking Unity cigarettes, gazing into empty space, and treating the rare customer like a necessary evil that served only to drop ration slips.
This was their way of life, always had been. According to the One President, it was way worse everywhere else, especially in the Eastlands, where savage beasts roamed the hills like monsters from a child’s fairy tale. He never came right out and said things were bad in the People’s Republic—no, this country was a utopia no matter what—but Michael could tell from the man’s speeches he knew exactly how miserable his citizens were, and he was glad not be among them. His bad habit of flashing a fake, condescending smile at the end of every speech gave it away.
Sometimes, when Michael was bored at work, he fantasized about punching that spiteful asshole in his arrogant, smirking mouth, hard enough to knock out teeth.
This evening was especially depressing. Three customers showed for dinner. Three separate parties of one, all over the age of sixty and regulars who never tipped. They sat alone by the windows, sipping coffee and picking at their tomato-and-salt soup and the hard stick of bread that came with it. Mrs. Francessa, an elderly woman who had been coming to the restaurant since Michael was twelve, was still there.
“Mrs. Francessa,” he said, going over to refill her coffee.
She’d been peering blankly out the window for the past hour, eyes red and puffy, dressed in the same threadbare coat she always wore. Once upon a time, she’d been friendly with Michael, even slipping him a few bucks for a tip, which was extravagant for soup and coffee. When she couldn’t tip, she always explained why and how hard it was, and never failed to smile at Michael. But today, there were no smiles, not even a hint of one.
“Everything okay?”
She gave Michael a look that made his skin want to crawl right off his bones.
“My son,” she said in a quavering voice. “My… My boy…”
Michael stiffened. He already knew what she was going to say. “You mean Bobby? Is he okay?”
He’d met Bobby Francessa many times. He was an excitable kid around Michael’s age who was always running his mouth, talking about starting his own business and how he wouldn’t let the government touch it because it would be his business and his alone. He didn’t seem to care that private property didn’t exist in the Western Democratic People’s Republi
c of America.
“He’s been relocated,” Mrs. Francessa whispered, tears welling before she hastily looked down at her drink.
Michael put the coffee pot on the table, steadying himself. That was what everyone called it, being relocated, as if government officials had simply come by with a moving van to take the person in question to a nice new home in the countryside.
What it really meant was that Bobby had been taken away with a bag over his face to a labor camp in the mountains. Someone must have rolled on him. It was his own damned fault, always going off about having his own business. It was dangerous to even be around people like that. Right now, Bobby was probably hanging from a hook in a dank chamber filled with the distant screams of others like him.
Handy Dan, Michael thought. My radios… I could end up like Bobby someday.
“I’m sorry,” he said, picking up the pot. “Bobby was a good kid.”
Mrs. Francessa turned back to the window, a steely expression coming over her. “He was a dissenter. A shameful disappointment to his family and his country.”
Michael felt a sharp tickling sensation all over his chest, like mice trapped in his shirt. He could no longer look at the old woman. Her words had been a betrayal, a slap in the face, yet he wasn’t angry—no, what he wanted was to wrap his arms around her, so he could sob into the wrinkly flesh of her neck.
“No charge for the coffee,” he said, leaving the pot and heading straight for the bathroom to release a sudden pressure in his bladder.
By the time he returned, Mrs. Francessa was gone.
Michael didn’t have to work the next day, so he spent it cleaning the Handy Dan to get rid of any fingerprints or traces of skin or hair. He stuffed it into an old knapsack before lugging it to a dumpster halfway across town to finally be rid of it.
The recording devices he’d stuffed into a pouch, which he deposited beneath the loose floorboard where he kept his life’s savings, about ninety million koles. It was enough to keep a family fed for a year on expensive, black-market meats, cheeses, and fruit—or enough to pay a Line security officer to look the other way for five minutes so Michael could sneak himself and his family past the checkpoint. He wasn’t even sure it was possible, and he would have to convince his parents first, which seemed even less likely.
Bloodcrier: The Complete Two-Book Series Page 3