We, The Lucky Few

by P. S. Lurie

Theia

  I should end Leda’s life now. I killed my grandparents and my mother and since Leda doesn’t even have the chance to be Rehoused it seems the next logical step in my family’s demise. It hits me that despite my attempts to save my family I’m the bringer of death, the one who has instigated every murder. I stand over my baby sister but, unlike my mother, she has not done anything wrong. I have a gun. My father couldn’t stop me. But she’s innocent even if there is no hope of rescue for her.

  Leda will never have to experience this miserable world, or find out about the family that was taken from her during one twisted night. She’ll never know that her sister, who pretended to love her more than anyone else, let her down the worst. Leda is peaceful and wide awake, as she always is whenever I approach. Our mother will never be the first person she sees upon waking and she’ll never cradle her again at night.

  ‘Oh baby, I’m sorry.’ She’ll never be held or comforted by my mother.

  My mother died being neither held nor comforted.

  Leda lifts a hand to signify she wants to be picked up. I rock her in my arms. I’ve never known a baby to cry less. She’s unaware that she should be distraught and innocently gurgles something that amounts to contentment. I sway but more to comfort myself.

  Ronan hurries into the room, taking up a position behind my leg, hiding himself away from the door. I nestle Leda in one arm and scoop the other around Ronan’s shoulders. For as little space as the three of us now take up in the vast world, only one of us is allowed to be Rehoused. ‘It’s my fault, Ro. Be mad at me.’

  He doesn’t acknowledge me. ‘Daddy hurt you. He hurt mummy too.’

  I put Leda back on the bed and kneel so Ronan and I are the same height. ‘No. Dad is upset. He didn’t hurt anyone.’

  My father enters the room and Ronan tenses. The remaining members of my family, four of the seven of us, are now in the same space and I can’t guarantee our private dilemma won’t be over imminently.

  ‘Ronan. Don’t be scared of me.’ The damage has been done and nothing my father can say will affect Ronan’s state. No six year old has the ability to reason these issues out.

  ‘I’ll sort it Dad,’ I say, if only to disperse us into separate rooms and neuter the chance of more violence. ‘Take Leda.’

  Ronan whimpers as my father approaches. I hand my sister over. ‘It’s ok.’

  ‘I’ll be downstairs,’ my father says. He leaves with Leda and I hope her smiling face will help with his loss. I’m pleased my father and I are civil for the sake of my siblings.

  ‘I want to go to your room,’ says Ronan. I try to walk him out of his bedroom but he clings to my leg so it is easier to pick him up and carry him. I sit him on the bed and crouch in front of him. ‘Tell me what you think is happening tonight,’ I ask, to gauge his understanding.

  Ronan glances at the door, too distracted to answer me, as if terrified for anyone to approach. I suppose this answers my question. He has this night figured out. We can wait as long as we like to delay the inevitable but, eventually, families will be forced to turn on themselves.

  Selene

  I have a few speculations about the lack of policemen, which is not so much concerning as odd. Theia’s distraction may have caused enough chaos to attract guards from all over but I don’t see smoke from above the houses so doubt that is it. Perhaps Henry and Theia and everyone on their street were randomly allocated one of a handful of recruits, fewer than we were led to believe. Maybe areas of the Middlelands have overpowered the patrol but that can’t be right or I’d surely hear about it. Or maybe I have been looking at this from the wrong point of view. It’s not just us who are fearful but the police may also want nothing to do with the killings and are in hiding, keeping themselves away from confrontation until dawn breaks through. The policeman outside Henry’s house could be the anomaly whilst the man outside my mother’s could better reflect the others. Maybe they too are hiding, avoiding any clashes. Whatever the reason for the absence on the streets, and as much as surges of hope rise inside me albeit briefly, it doesn’t matter because the deadline looms with or without the patrol. So for now the lack of passers-by is short term relief.

  The presence of light from the streetlamps overhead is misleading. The night is at its darkest but it doesn’t appear to be that way, at least not for every few paces. But it is freezing out and even with the full-body uniform I have to trot every few minutes to keep myself from shivering.

  I reach the market, congratulating myself on achieving one more goal before dying. If I pace myself like this, focusing only on what is immediately in front of me and within my control, I may have a better prospect of making it to morning than dropping my defences and thinking too far ahead. The glasses suggest the area in front of the market is clear. A few faint patches around the west entrance indicate small fires that have burnt out. It’s unlikely the homeless had anything but scraps to eat so they were probably made for warmth. Whoever lit them is long gone.

  I approach one of the piles of ash and I see bones. And feathers. I underestimated the homeless. I don’t know how they caught birds but desperation has resulted in resourcefulness. I wonder if this has been a long-standing habit but I have never heard of it, which doesn’t mean much as I closed my eyes to the homeless problem as instructed by those in the Middlelands many years ago.

  The market entrance is wide open, which it shouldn’t be. At night the converted factory is locked up. At least it used to be. The building only has small windows, circling the tops of the walls so visibility inside is low even during the day. It makes unattractive-looking fish passable. Inside are makeshift walls dividing off areas for different goods: fish and shellfish and any other protein sourced from the sea, vegetables, clothes, kitchen goods and other miscellany, and finally toys. Regardless, the whole place smells rotten. There is little hygiene here; my stomach may have adjusted to the substandard food we rely on but my nose still turns at the smell of days-old guts.

  There is a simple ethos to trading implemented across the market: bargain all you want but the stall owner has the final say and the final price is not going to be far off what they started at. It works out to be pretty fair because no market worker has a monopoly and is also a customer to the other stalls like the rest of us.

  I have never heard of a homeless person breaking in. They only huddle near the outer walls for protection from the elements. There’s not much here for them but, apart from the Fence, it seems to be a popular spot in which to camp. No one is in charge but security rotas keep the place secure. In exchange for the homeless people’s compliance, off-cuts and unsellable items are left in a far corner of the compound as freebies.

  I debate whether to go inside. Since it’s warmer from the trapped air and should help bring up my body temperature my mind is made up for me. I use the heat sensitive glasses. I can’t be sure due to the corrugated dividers but it looks safe to enter.

  It’s much darker in here than outside as the windows do little to let the sun and moon in and there has been no electricity for lighting since before I can remember. I leave the glasses on but the trade-off for seeing any living object is that I bump into stalls and piles of tat repeatedly. Even with the floors scrubbed with seawater each evening the smell of decomposing fish is overwhelming. There is little wind travelling through and the stench wafts around me.

  I take baby steps, with my hands outstretched, feeling for any collisions. I look behind, with my glasses raised, but the door is out of sight and I am in pitch black. All I hear are my own footsteps and deep breathing and I’ve never been more scared. The darkness disorientates me and I feel some fabric that I work out to be clothing, which tells me I have already travelled far into the market and navigating my way out could be a problem. In the absence of light I can’t remember why I was determined to come here. Oh yeah, water.

  My thirst has to wait as I hear a scuttle. I freeze. I hear it again, somewhere to my right. Not my footsteps. More than one new set. I shouldn�
��t be the one who is afraid; I have the uniform on that indicates I am the person who should be out of harm’s way. None of that encourages me to do anything but hide. I crouch down but remind myself that if it is another policeman they will identify me through the glasses without difficulty.

  I stand upright and it is the best decision I have made so far. Any later and it would have looked incriminating because a light shines on me, revealing my presence.

  Henry

  Theia carries Ronan into her room. If anyone can comfort him it’s her. Who comforts Theia is a different matter. She’s never once asked for support from her parents or me and I pity anyone who tries. Then I consider that Theia not only returned to my house to vent but to talk through her situation. That’s quite a breakthrough for her typical self-reliant disposition. If she doesn’t want to talk about her mother she’s better distracting herself by consoling Ronan.

  I don’t want to interrupt them and drop the pen on my desk.

  As predicted, my parents sit in the corner of the living room, away from the extremities of the house. They rustle through a pile of books. ‘What’s all that?’ I ask.

  ‘We want you to take these.’

  ‘Books?’ I know my parents take pride in our collection but this is ridiculous.

  ‘You’re allowed a full suitcase. Take some clothes and fill the rest with some of these. We’re choosing which you should pack but they’re heavy.’

  ‘Stop talking like it’s decided I’m going.’

  ‘You are,’ my mother says fixedly.

  ‘What do I want with books?’ My parents have pulled some ridiculous stunts in their time but this is bizarre even for them. I’m well-versed in literature and there are many others in the neighbourhood who don’t read but I’m pretty sure snobbery is not going to be the most effective means for any of us settling into a new community.

  My father explains. ‘These are our most valuable possessions. We tried to trade a few at the market but no one wanted them. However, the people at the Upperlands might be better educated and respect you above the others or at least want to purchase them.’

  Their logic makes sense. I’m actually impressed. That is assuming the Upperlanders have a demand for the books. Otherwise they’re nothing but glorified firewood.

  ‘The photos are for you,’ my mother says, and I note a small pile of pictures. I only then realise my inattentional blindness to the empty frames that are now back on the walls. I wonder what purpose the effort to re-hang the frames serves. They are few and far between but have pride of place on the wall above where my parents sit. With this odd decor the room resembles a show home although it has been over a decade since anyone bought or moved house.

  A feeling of admiration for my mother washes over me. Despite the horrors surrounding her she has not lost her calm. I kiss her on the cheek then, for fairness, I kiss my father too. He puts his arm around me and, after a moment’s hesitation, pulls me into his bulk and holds me tight. I hear his voice distort under the emotion. ‘We love you so much.’

  ‘I love you. But don’t think this means I’m happy about going.’ I pull back from them and wipe my eyes. ‘Theia’s mum is dead.’

  My mother looks surprised, although she can’t have been deaf to the helicopter. ‘How?’

  ‘Her garden. It’s a long story.’ It’s not that long but I don’t want to talk details.

  ‘And Theia?’ she asks. My parents know how much she means to me.

  I shrug. She’s alive but hardly living. What can I say?

  ‘Poor girl.’ My mother is wide of the mark. She’d be a poor girl if she was the one who had to kill her mother. Theia’s mother killed herself for her daughter. It’s only what my parents are planning for me.

  I swing a chair round to face my parents and sit. ‘Ok. Let’s talk about this.’

  ‘It’s up to you what happens to us,’ my father says. ‘I know it’s not easy but it’s right.’

  I solemnly imagine the ways my parents can die but my father mistakes my mental list for a refusal to answer.

  ‘The police could come in after you leave and...’

  ‘No,’ I interrupt. ‘I’m not going to sit on the stoop outside and wait for you to be executed.’ I grimace at my word, a sharp contrast to my parents, whom nod in silence.

  ‘I can end your mother’s life and then my own.’

  It’s a disturbing thing to hear but I’m becoming less distressed by it and I worry that I will soon be immune enough to agree to the idea.

  ‘Or...’

  ‘There is no or.’

  ‘Or you do it for us,’ my mother says. ‘I know that doesn’t sound like something you’d consider.’

  ‘No,’ I snap back.

  ‘But it may be the only way that works.’

  I sit in silence, losing myself in a fantasy that allows me to be somewhere else, and I start to imagine I’m back at the sea. Henry? The word filters through my stream of consciousness but I let it fade away. My mind locks onto another memory, one where escape actually was on the horizon.

  I’d convinced Theia to accompany me down to the coast. I’d saved up enough by starving myself for days so that, as the market opened, I stocked up on enough snacks to resemble a picnic, choosing the morning of her birthday to make sure it was all fresh, even though evening is a better time for the deals. Theia wasn’t keen at first but after handing over Ronan to the Ethers she acquiesced.

  It was an overcast day and her mood was just as gloomy. She didn’t want to admit she was upset that I was the only person to remember her birthday but the farther we walked the better her affect, as if the pressure of caring for her brother whilst her father idly sat by had anchored her but the distance had set her free. We hit the coast by midday and, as usual, we had no idea what the shore would resemble. It wasn’t as terrible as other times. The water was struggling to climb a hill so there was a natural descent to its surface, which meant that the houses the sea had already taken hold of were almost entirely submerged and the next in its path would be safe for quite a while yet. There would be no additional homeless for at least a few more weeks.

  From the vantage point of being up high the horizon stretched as far as we cared to see. Working fishing boats were few and far between, most men choosing to go early morning and a few opted for the evening. With the fishermen and women out first thing or late, and with the commute, it meant that families rarely spent time together but it was a necessity to allow for trading of the freshest fish during the daylight hours. My father had always been long gone by the time I rose for breakfast whilst Theia’s father remained in her house.

  The boats were tied up as best they could, to anything sturdy and out of immediate peril. We scrambled down the hill up to the shore and away from view of anyone above us. Hardly anyone other than the fishermen ventured to the coast, with the exception of school trips that were designed as warnings for exactly what we were doing: using the water as a destination to visit. Despite its sharp reminder of our fate, Theia and I liked to go there to escape our lives farther inland. Whilst Selene and I were happy in my room, as that was far enough for her to remove herself from her mother, Theia dreamt big, and together we imagined all sorts of possibilities across the ocean.

  I presented the food hamper to Theia and she was impressed. We settled down to eat and shared out what I had managed to gather even though it wasn’t much and we were far from full by the last mouthfuls. ‘Thank you,’ she said. She kicked off her shoes and rested her head. It was one of the few times I’d seen her relax. She took a deep sigh. ‘I could get used to this.’

  ‘I wouldn’t stay there for too long,’ I joked but it passed over her.

  ‘What difference? Here or back home, it’s going to get us eventually.’

  ‘Don’t think like that. I heard it’s slowing.’

  ‘When? Three years ago? Last week? It’s the same story.’ Her bitterness was cruel.

  ‘So let’s not wait. Let’s get out of here.’ I’d
said it before - everyone had claimed they’d set sail - but something about this time made me thing it wasn’t just empty words.

  Theia looked over at me, down her nose. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Come on.’ I jumped to my feet and trotted over to the nearest rowboat. I don’t know what I was thinking other than wanting to impress her.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Leaving. With you. Now.’

  ‘Where?’

  I don’t know. Anywhere but here. You don’t think the water’s going to stop. If that’s true then why wait around? Let’s discover a floating island.’

  It’s something we’d discussed often whilst passing the time. Selene and Ruskin enjoyed just the knowledge of being far from the water, but Theia thought about the long game. Maybe it was the frustration that no one remembered her birthday or burnout from caring for Ronan but she did what I least expected. She stood up and brushed the dirt off her legs, then calmly walked over and climbed into the boat. ‘Let’s go.’

  I didn’t need telling twice, something about Theia’s expression told me she wasn’t joking. I unhooked the rope that anchored the boat and it drifted out. It wasn’t a brilliant plan because no sooner had we left the shore than we both started to doubt ourselves. We had no food or water or direction or knowledge of sailing, and my rowing skills were lousy at best. I was capable of lifting the oars but they took some getting used to, and I found myself dragging them against the water to no avail. Still, there was a tranquillity to just floating along although we could’ve been in serious trouble had we been caught.

  I was careful to keep near the shore but already we were some distance away and the water was pulling us out. Theia was quiet, as if stuck between the guilt of wanting to go and the excitement. Her remorse won over and we agreed to head back to land but, in the process of turning the boat, the bottom grated against something under the surface, a hidden rooftop or a pylon or streetlamp. Whatever it was, it was enough to jerk the boat to the side and tip us over. We struggled to hold onto the side but the force sent us flying and we were thrown into the icy water.