Numb

by Isabelle Carey

  I crouch next to the body and watch as the medical examiner makes preliminary assessments before the corpse is taken to the morgue located in the bowels of HQ. I note the scar on Emerson's left cheek, a reminder of an altercation with a vagabond ten years ago. As far as I know, Emerson's attacker is still in prison. He would have received a fifty-year sentence if Emerson hadn't intervened. Leniency towards a criminal. I would call that sympathy for those who break the law but Emerson retained his seat in Parliament.

  A gold and purple eagle lapel pin affixed to his chest glimmers in the lighting of the suite. Some would rationalize that Emerson didn't deserve to wear the emblem of our government. His actions often strayed too close to the boundaries of criminal behavior. But I'm not here tonight to decide whether or not Emerson should have rotted in a prison cell instead of ending up dead inside of BioLife. I'm here to figure out who killed him and why.

  "Cause of death?" I ask the coroner.

  Dr. Audrey Glossner glances up at me, her face blank. Looking at her, you wouldn't be able to tell that a dead body lies between us. But then again, the sight of a corpse never freaked out coroners during the pre-Purge era because they were used to examining the dead. However, they would show signs of stress and even pity upon their faces while working. Dr. Glossner does not.

  Her gloved hands are stained with blood and her stringy brown hair is pulled up into a short ponytail. Her black eyes, almost like death themselves, are protuberant but doesn't give her a naturally surprised look.

  Before she speaks, she pulls apart Emerson's unbuttoned shirt, revealing the source of all the blood. A circular wound, about the size of a quarter and singed black around the edges, reveals that something pierced Emerson's chest prior to death.

  "I have to examine him further at the lab of course but it's obvious that a single gunshot wound did him in," she tells me in a hollow and raspy voice. "The bullet more than likely penetrated the heart. If it didn't outright kill him, then he must have suffered a microshock electrocution."

  One thing about Dr. Glossner other than her knowledge of human anatomy is that she understands how electricity works better than the average person. "Discharger bullet," I observe the burn marks around the wound.

  "Exactly," Dr. Glossner speaks with a nod. "The killer was either a rebel who managed to get his or her claws on a Discharger through a black market trader or something else."

  I know exactly what she means by "something else". It's almost blasphemous to openly suggest that someone within the government, the military, the agency, or the police force had something do with Emerson's murder. The act is comparable to expressing emotions—you know better and you just don't do it. It is our job to locate the culprit based upon discovered evidence, even if the killer turns out to be someone we never expected. But to consider the possibility of a murderer who shouldn't be a murderer seems wrong. That's why it's logical to assume that it was rebel scum who did this. It just makes sense.

  Only in this case it doesn't. Emerson was a politician sure enough and SAFE rebels should have hated him. But not all of them did since Emerson was the only politician brave enough, I suppose, to present legislature that threatened to change our society, as we know it. Most of the revolutionaries considered him a hero. Why would they want to kill him? What would they gain out of his murder, other than potentially making him a martyr?

  I rise back to a standing position and leave Dr. Glossner alone to finish her initial analysis of Emerson's body. She tells me to expect a full report determining the true cause of death that she will send to Ramos as soon as possible.

  Sophia and I separate from Ramos and we speak to those searching the suite for trace evidence. No one has found anything yet. So far, the killer has proven to be flawless, careful not to leave behind anything linking her to Emerson's murder. After ten minutes of finding out nothing, we resort to viewing the footage from all of the cameras present in the suite, by walking down the hall to the security room.

  All the while, the few representatives of the Amber Army stand in a shadowy corner of the hallway, observing everything. One of the soldiers even follows us.

  There are three cameras inside of the suite. One aims at the front door, one covers the left side of the main room, and the last displays the right half. All three cameras turn to cover a radius of forty-five degrees, while swiveling back and forth like a pendulum. We view the three camera monitors at the same time and as with the informant's digivid, there is no sound. Digital numbers on the bottom of each screen displays the time and date. At seven twenty this morning, about ten minutes after the Purge was dispersed, a woman with blond hair enters Emerson's suite before—

  "What was that?" Sophia questions immediately, after the images on the screen become briefly distorted, before clearing up again in almost the next instance. I watch as Emerson greets the woman at the door and I notice that the time and date is suddenly unavailable without warning.

  "Some kind of glitch," one of the cops tells her. "The power cuts out in a moment. The glitch is a precursor."

  "For the entire facility or just Emerson's suite?" I ask.

  "Emerson's suite."

  Another snag in the investigation. Silencing the Grid in such a small area is unheard of. Buildings occasionally lose power because of upgrades to the Catalyst or whenever the government decides to do so, but never a single room. Something is going on here.

  "For what purpose?" Sophia requires clarity.

  "None," the cop responds. "The Grid should have remained active inside the suite. The only plausible explanation is that someone hacked the system."

  "Impossible," I say automatically. Hacking the Grid can't be done unless the person knows the system backwards and forwards. Only an electrical engineer serving the Core could possess such knowledge and none of them would betray one of the best privileges given to a citizen of Paradise. My dad served the Core and he worshipped the laws of Paradise like a religion. His colleagues were all like him, devoted to perfection.

  No one says anything else and we continue to watch the digital recordings. Emerson and the woman pretending to be Ava Suarez enter the sitting area where both cameras spy upon them. They sit and have a conversation for about six or seven minutes. I don't know for sure because the clock on the screen still isn't working. Suddenly, the woman rises to her feet and advances on Emerson, brandishing a Rain Discharger, a pistol akin to the Lightning Discharger.

  The images on both screens not displaying the front door flicker a second time, before going dead.

  "And that's the power cutting off," the cop informs me in case I hadn't realized it.

  I stare at two black screens, waiting but not anticipating. Minutes pass and nothing happens. Power from the Grid went out right when the killer struck, shooting Emerson in the chest with a single deadly bullet. There could have been a scuffle first but I didn't notice any other wounds on Emerson's body other than the gunshot.

  Then—

  The power is restored. The eyes of both cameras rotate to find the killer pinned up against the wall, almost in shock at what she's done. Emerson's body lies unmoving on the floor behind the sofa. The time clock returns as well, displaying 7:25 in blue numerals. That doesn't make any sense. More than five minutes had to have elapsed between the killer's arrival, her conversation with Emerson, and the power cutting off. The clock must have malfunctioned after the power outage.

  The Discharger pistol has vanished. I suspect that she stuffed it into her purse to conceal it. She didn't drop it or anything incriminating like that. We would have found it by now.

  I watch as the girl yanks her hair free from the ornate frame of the Chancellor's photograph. It must have entangled itself somehow. Before I can say anything, believing this to be a crack in the case, another cop tells me.

  "We found a couple of hair follicles but none of them contain any DNA."

  "How is that—" I start to say.

  "The hair strands are composed of synthetic silk."

  "A
wig." Sophia hits the screw on the back, or whatever the saying is.

  The girl on digivid runs out of the suite in a panicked frenzy. She passes in front of the camera directed at the front door, turns and disappears. Not many seconds pass before she returns, dashing like a madwoman back into the suite. She closes the door behind her and she locks it. I note the way that she moves, fluid and graceful, even though she's clearly alarmed. She's definitely someone who's off the Purge. She has to be a rebel then. Perhaps Emerson wasn't precious to all of the blights upon civilization. But why is she regretting her decision to murder him?

  She runs and darts by the two cameras in the sitting room, leaping over Emerson's body. The left camera continues to track her movements, like a hunter observing a deer from the underbrush of a forest. She rips back the curtains standing before a sliding door, which exits onto the balcony I saw earlier when we were outside. She steps out onto the balcony and she vanishes from sight again.

  Not even half a minute goes by before six cops emerge into the suite, one of them having kicked open the front door. The cops walk up the hallway and into the main area, Dischargers drawn and raised. One of the cops speaks but the words come out as nothing more than silence. Then, they start shooting. The killer must still be on the balcony. They could have had her, if she hadn't jumped.

  The cops cease fire almost immediately thereafter and charge towards the balcony exit. Half of them rush through the open doorway, while the others watch from inside the suite. The cop in the room with Sophia, the Amber Army soldier, and me cuts the feed suddenly.

  "That's all," he says.

  My mind lingers on the glitches in the camera and the minor power outage as we return to the suite. All thoughts fade to the back of my mind however when I hear the conversation between Ramos and another Amber Army soldier.

  "—do you mean that you will be taking over the investigation?" Ramos was saying, with no inflections in his voice that suggests anger. "This is a Secret Police matter."

  "Not anymore," the Amber Army soldier contradicts Ramos, his voice sounding bizarre coming through a mechanical filter inside of his armored helm. "This is an Amber Army matter now, per orders of our glorious Chancellor."

  Ramos doesn't argue, as that would be viewed as treason. So. There it is. The real reason why the Amber Army is here, watching us work. They will now head the investigation into the murder of Noah Emerson. They are here at the Chancellor's bidding. All I can think about is the three deaths of politicians, a recent epidemic. SAFE rebels are continuing to grow more and more bold and the Chancellor has sent the Amber Army to suppress them once more. Like they did in the northern ruins several years ago.

  Chapter Nine, Part One

  Charlotte

  Currently Listening To: "Stand in the Rain" by Superchick

  In the moment it takes for me to turn to face the cops, I remember vividly the day that Scarlett was arrested.

  Agents for the Secret Police came calling at a half past eleven that evening. It was a dark night, the moon barely visible behind a wall of clouds blacker than shadow. Rain poured from those clouds, drenching everything in its path to the core. It was a cold, freezing rain that turned the ground to slush. Black ice covered the streets in a thick layer. I was surprised that the agents had managed to navigate to my home when I pulled open the front door.

  If I had to do it over again, I wouldn't have answered the knock.

  But I did answer. I was the one who opened the door and stepped outside into the downpour to speak with the agents.

  "What can I do for you?" I asked the two agents. One was male and the other was female, both with vacant expressions and dressed in the familiar white, pristine uniforms. Agents seemed to always travel like this—in opposite pairs.

  "My name is Agent Jackson Ramos," the man introduced himself in that dull voice of the Purge lovers that I despise so much. He was a big man, not fat but very ripped. He reminded me one of those guys who used to toss others around in a ring a long time ago, when wrestling (I think it's called) was a popular sport.

  Agent Ramos turned to his partner, a girl with sleek black hair tied up in a bun. She couldn't have been more than a few years older than me. "And this is Agent Sophia Bailey," he continued with no emotion whatsoever. I hated the Purge then as much as I do now. It has turned most people into colorless machines that are only capable of thinking rationally. Sometimes thinking with feeling, thinking irrationally is okay. It can save your life. If I hadn't taken the risk of jumping from that balcony at BioLife, then I would have been imprisoned for a crime I did not commit.

  "What can I do for you?" I repeated, fighting hard to suppress the dread I felt. Receiving a personal visit from two Special Police agents was usually not a good thing. They only made house calls to arrest someone or worse, recruit a new member.

  "We're here for Scarlett Tatum," the one called Agent Ramos said. It almost amused me that his voice could sound so booming yet retain the same tone as everyone else addicted to the Purge.

  "She's one of our junior agents," Agent Bailey chimed in, as if I didn't know already. She appeared fresh from her training as a junior agent herself. The agency liked to induct kids into their cult at a young age, brainwashing them with their apathetic outlook on life. Scarlett fell victim to them. But I never did and I never would. Freedom truly comes with a price here in Paradise and it's a price I'm always willing to pay.

  "What do you want with her?" I dared to ask.

  Agent Ramos' eyes bore into me. He was searching for an excuse to arrest me but I wouldn't give him that satisfaction. "Our business is our own," he said. Either I was imagining things or there was a hint of coldness in his voice.

  I glanced out into the rain-sloshed street beyond the two agents. I didn't see any patrol cars parked nearby. I could only make out the bubble shaped car of the two agents, sitting idly in the driveway. I've witnessed many arrests during my life and usually beat cops secured an area before agents arrived to investigate a scene.

  I relaxed a hair but my animosity for the Secret Police remained. I don't like these two agents being here, especially since my father wasn't. He was at the hospital for a routine check up. He would be released in a few days.

  I allowed the agents to enter the house. They stood in the center of the room. I don't offer them a seat.

  "I'll go and tell Scarlett she has visitors," I said faster than I intended. I couldn't bear to be in the same room as the agents. It was like they were producing a horrible stench. I had to get away from them quickly. I feared saying or doing something that would reveal my independence from the Purge.

  I climbed the stairs, leaving the agents alone. They would probably perform a sweep of the living room in my absence. I made the mistake of inviting them inside so they're free to poke around without a warrant. All of our illegal items were pretty well hidden so I was confident they wouldn't find anything we shouldn't have.

  I hurried into the room that I shared with Scarlett. The first thing I heard was a cascade of water coming from the bathroom. Abigail was still in the shower.

  The second thing I heard was light sobs coming from Scarlett's bed.

  "Scarlett?" I called tentatively. The lights were off, so Scarlett was obscured by the shadows dancing all around her in the moonlight penetrating the window. I could barely make out the lump that was her, as she lied sprawled across her bed. She was crying? Why was she crying? Scarlett was the only member of our family who was still on the Purge. I tried to convince her to stop taking the gas but she never did because of her unyielding loyalty to the ideals of the government. We disagreed on a lot of issues and sometimes I disliked her for being so different that the rest of our family. But she was my sister and she turned a blind eye to the fact that my father, Abigail, and I had decided to end our misguided addiction to the Purge. Deep down inside, she cared about all of us even though she would never openly show it.

  I was in shock as I drew nearer to her, navigating the room in the dark. Scarlett
didn't say anything. She continued to cry, her head buried into her pillow.

  "How long?" I demanded, as everything clicked into place. I would have been happy for her if the situation wasn't dire. She was balling her eyes out, while two agents were downstairs waiting to meet with her. Something about the current circumstances made my flesh bubble up with goosebumps.

  Scarlett sobbed once more and then lifted up her head slowly. Even in the dark, I could see that her face was stained with tears, her eyes redder than blood. "For what?" She responded with a question of her own. She knew what I was referring to but she decided to play dumb.

  "How long have you been off the Purge?" I cut right the chase. I had to hurry and force her to pull herself together. She had visitors downstairs who wouldn't view her tears as a reason to comfort her. I was grateful that Abigail was currently in the shower. Perhaps the agents would consider that Scarlett was the one in the bathroom, the reason for our delay.

  Scarlett hesitated. She swallowed hard. "A few months now," she responded quickly.

  My eyes bulged. "Why didn't you tell me? I noticed that you were acting a little differently lately but I never . . . How do you do it? You always take the Purge in my presence. I think I would have noticed if you employed a homemade gas mask like me."

  Scarlett didn't reply right away. She reached beneath her pillow and fumbled around for something. Moments later, she held up a tiny device. Moonlight reflected off of the metal object that resembled a mouthpiece worn by athletes to protect their teeth during sporting event. I recognized the object at once—a mechanical filter.

  I stared at the filter silently in disbelief. I never dreamed in a million years that Scarlett would abandon the Purge. It was then that I realized that my sister was a brave soul, far braver than I could ever be. She had risked everything to protect her family when society would deem our actions as wrong. She knew that I was a Messenger because she alone was my only confidant, in case something terrible happened to me. But she never betrayed me. Everyday she continued her training to become a special agent, wearing a mask that concealed much more than the secrets I hid myself. I always had to pretend to be a law-abiding citizen, even though I had stopped taking the Purge. Scarlett had to pretend to be a law-abiding citizen while taking the Purge regularly and knowing that her family wasn't. That knowledge meant that she was just as guilty as all of us.