We, The Lucky Few

by P. S. Lurie

  It explains why the homeless have kept away from the streets and not learnt about the killings. But the news is a lie, I know this first hand. I worry that if the Upperlanders have lied about the Rehousing process then what else have they lied about?

  I don’t need to wait much longer to find out because, as the static cuts out, the mammoth Fence gates open.

  Theia

  Ronan followed my instructions. He sits on Henry’s porch next to his small case. He has understood that much but looks towards me full of fear and I have to put my finger to my lips to instruct him to be quiet.

  The sun is already above the houses but low enough to dazzle everything in front of me. I have to strain to look around the neighbourhood. What was a night of violence was mostly kept behind closed doors so that, with the exception of the burnt car, the street appears no different than at this time yesterday.

  A quick tour through the houses would change that opinion.

  Ronan calls me to me. ‘Theia.’

  ‘Shh,’ I say, as quietly as I can so no one but him can hear me. No threat of that from the house to my other side. ‘We’ll talk soon.’

  I prop the suitcase gently on the edge of the step and sit beside it so that it blocks my view of Ronan, deciding that the obstruction may hinder his attempts to converse.

  I look ahead at a house opposite mine, the one I nearly blew up with the firework during Selene’s escape. A woman, about my mother’s age, sits in front of her door. She stares at me but as if I’m not there. I know her family well enough that she has a husband and a teenage son, younger than me. Or she did. Or she still does but not for much longer. I don’t know her story, and I’m not sure I would ever want to.

  My father’s words come back to me again. We cannot judge the decisions people make with or against their loved ones. I agree with my father for the most part but I think he forgot that people will have to live on with their conscience. I killed people I care about, both inadvertently and otherwise, and I will never forgive myself or let myself forget. I’d like to think I saved lives too but the number of living does not outweigh the number of dead. Too many people died so that I am here now and this will bear heavy on me for the rest of my life. For now I need to think about the imminent situation. I will allow myself to grieve the dead when I am settled. When the last of us are settled.

  From my vantage point, I can see some other people in the street but only half of the houses present someone. Mostly the survivors are my age or younger. There are few adults.

  I hear a noise from my left and a young girl, no older than eight, who attends the same school as Ronan but in a different class steps out of her house. Rather, she is pushed out of her house. Her cries fill the road and everyone turns to her. I am not sure the decision to leave her without her loved ones can amount to the right one but who am I to judge?

  She sees us, the despondent leftovers of our street, and continues to cry. She tries to open the door. A woman, who I assume is her mother, cracks the door open and shoos her away. With the girl stunned, the only sound to be heard is the click of the lock. She regains momentum and pounds on the door for a few moments longer but yields and takes her position on the step. I feel the pit in my stomach collapse in on itself. I thought anyone left alive would be outside, not willing to succumb to the policemen’s hands. But the killing is far from over; we are going to have to hear more people die.

  I haven’t braced myself to hear the police storm the houses and kill any stragglers.

  I put my arm around the suitcase and pull it towards me. This is not over.

  Selene

  Policemen, dressed the same as me, begin to appear from the circumference of the area leading up to the Fence. Now, all of them have their helmets on, even with the sun starting to make them feel unbearably stuffy. Once more the men, and I only saw men, become anonymous. I suppose that revealing themselves after what they have done is graver than sweltering in the heat. I’ll soon be proved wrong. It’s not what they’ve done. It’s what they’re about to do.

  The homeless don’t approach the open gate. Yesterday they wouldn’t have missed this rare opportunity but now they can hold on for a while longer under the belief that they will soon have access to the other side. The announcement repeats itself often, hypnotising and misleading in a way that our televised announcement couldn’t. We heard our rules once.

  Naive as this may seem, their hope is no different to the hope we held on to before last night. When all efforts to stay alive have failed, hope is all that is left.

  I watch as vans, seating about twenty each, stream out of the gate, identical and never-ending. It has been a long time since I have seen an operable land vehicle. I’m not surprised the Upperlands has a store of petrol to run these vans and my mind conjures up all the other luxuries its people have held back from us.

  Two guards, dressed the same as me but without the helmets and heat-sensitive glasses, sit in the front of each van but otherwise the vehicles are empty. They continue to spill out in single file, at least one hundred of them. The Upperlands must be larger than I thought. I’m relieved that at least they kept to their word of Rehousing some of us.

  The vans continue into the Middlelands, only spreading out when they pass the homeless, aiming for different neighbourhoods. As the final one leaves the Upperlands, the gates turn back in on themselves. A few of the more desperate homeless, angered at the thought that they had been forgotten about, make a beeline for the opening but don’t reach it in time. There’s nothing much they can do other than saunter around, continuing to hope that the announcement rings true.

  I have been so consumed with staring at the vans that I don’t notice the hundreds of policemen who have been patrolling the streets now stand in a line alongside me, spanning off in both directions and trapping the homeless between us and the Fence. The speakers blare out an alarm. Three discreet beeps. Immediately the policemen lift up their guns.

  The homeless only stare on, weaponless, as it dawns on them that they have been duped.

  Theia

  The van turns the corner and parks outside my house, which approximates the halfway mark from either end of the street. There must be direct orders for how the two policemen deal with our stretch as their method of starting with the farthest houses seems counterintuitive. It will take forever this way but anyone taken to the van and is foolish enough to run off will have no luck whichever direction they choose. Anyway, there will only be other vans and policeman nearby. I will be one of the last to be Rehoused but I’m not sure if it will be better for Ronan to be escorted to the van before or after me, or whether seeing the Ethers’ broken door may lead to suspicion of foul play.

  The policemen walk away from one another and soon return with a survivor each and their luggage. A man, around my grandfather’s age, with little more than a rucksack slung over his shoulder, and a girl of about twelve with a smallish suitcase on wheels that she struggles to drag. Neither takes much; a compromise of memories to hold on to and experiences to leave behind.

  The police continue this as the sun rises so, by the time they are a few houses away from mine, they have darted both sides of the road and the van has seventeen people sitting in it in silence. They watch on in eagerness as to who will be accompanying them. Most are children. I know for a fact that there are at least three houses on my street with babies. Of course, they are too young to come with. I stop myself thinking about Leda. I have to remain strong.

  My heart only starts beating when one policeman looks towards Henry’s house, at Ronan, but then turns back on himself and enters the house opposite. He comes out and it is empty. No one will be Rehoused from there. I manage to see past the van as he moves to the next house and accompanies the girl into the van, throwing her suitcase into the back, and then returns to check if anyone is left alive inside. I brace myself, knowing that unless the mother has done something drastic in the last fifteen minutes she is out of time.

  He kicks the locked door a
few times and it gives way before he steps in. I hear a single gunshot but it is distant compared to some of the more recent and it doesn’t even cause me to stir. The girl, on the other hand, is traumatised and panics. She climbs out of the van and begins to run.

  I don’t scream as this will distract her or make her intentions known to the police. Instead I will her to turn back. Her mother has protected her all night and now fear has clouded her judgement. The girl doesn’t stop, not even when she runs into the other policeman, who aims his gun at her for the merest moment and ends her escape attempt. Not satisfied with her condition he stands over her and shoots again.

  Selene

  I shouldn't be here. Witnessing this. Partaking in this. Surviving this.

  But I am.

  All the homeless can do is cower behind each other but it only delays their eventual death. The policemen shoot relentlessly. People are blown back, their hope spilling alongside their blood.

  I watch on horrified and want to run, but I’ll only be targeted as weak and a traitor. I stop myself. I owe it to those who have died in my place to not give up yet. Curiosity does more to keep me going than anything. I need to know who survived and why Henry didn’t.

  I shut my eyes to shield myself from watching anymore but something nudges me from the side. I look over my shoulder and freeze when I recognise who it is: the malicious policeman from the beginning of the evening, with a trigger-happy smile across his face. I turn away to hide my face in case he notices who I am, if he isn’t too busy shooting people to remember.

  He taps me again. Over the din he shouts at me. ‘Shoot.’

  I lift the gun with fear that he’ll turn on me if I don’t. Pretending to shoot my weapon is not going to be convincing enough. Instead I point it in front of me and pull the trigger. I do as much as I can to miss anyone nearby. It should be impossible for him to know that I purposely avoid the targets. It seems good enough but I can’t help but feel responsible for being a part of this mass murder.

  Eventually, the noise dissipates and the distance between gunshots grows, until silence reigns. All around the Fence are tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of lifeless bodies. Innocent people. The only difference between us was where we used to live.

  Gradually the guards leave the line and proceed to the gate.

  Most keep their heads lowered, almost if they are ashamed of what they have done but I watch on as the vile policeman kicks a few of the bodies in his path. I am determined to settle the score when the time is right. I will keep my eye on him. The taste of violence lingers in me, impounded by the circumstances. But I tell myself I had no desire to shoot the homeless and I am grateful that my thirst is not without reason.

  I follow the stream of police. I am nervous that I will be expected to give identification, in which case my ruse will be up but somehow I can’t imagine this has crossed the Upperlanders' minds; they have given us far less respect than we deserve and I am sad that, on the whole, considering how quickly people killed their loved ones, they were right to.

  I am not sure who I will be reunited with on the other side of the Fence, and whether our relationships can move past this night. I don’t know what life will hold for me once I step through but there is nowhere to go but forwards. I reach the gates and turn back. I look past the bodies, towards the Middlelands, and doubt I will ever return. I hear the distant sound of vans Rehousing the lone survivors, and a distressing thought occurs that perhaps it was all a subterfuge, as it was with the homeless, and no one will be Rehoused. That the killings were an easier way for the authorities here to handle the numbers and that butchering only one member of each family will be hassle-free. I may be the only person who started off this night trapped in a house, with a death warrant above my head, to survive.

  I have to continue to hope that the Upperlanders will keep true to their word. It’s too late to regret not trying for the boat. Maybe one of them can, but Theia and her brother and sister will not all join me together. If it is Theia that survives then I will hold her responsible for Henry’s death and make her aware of it. But if I do see one of them again, whoever it is, I will reveal my secret that I stood by, after Theia saved me, and didn’t rescue them at the last hurdle. I will face whatever punishment they deem right.

  Whatever happens next, I owe it to my family and friends, and all the nameless strangers I have left behind, to continue on and live for them. To avenge them.

  Yes, I say to myself, I owe them that much. My life is destined for vengeance.

  I pass through the gate, and all my thoughts vanish because I am too consumed with what’s in front of me, astounded by what I see.

  Theia

  I wonder how indoctrinated this man must be to carry out the death of a young girl without the slightest hesitation. How could the future of the Upperlands possibly be better off without allowing her some leeway?

  The other policeman looks on for a brief moment before he turns towards Ronan.

  The killer, without pausing to process his victim, reaches the Ethers’ house and enters. It takes him a while to search inside and I visualise his route. Over the dead couple up the stairs, around the top floor, down again and around the lower ground, next to Jason’s body and onto the bloodstain in the kitchen where he was shot.

  If he spent more time in there he could have worked out that a few things don’t make sense. Why is the boy wearing the old man’s clothes? Why doesn’t he have a bedroom of his own? How would the three of them die in the way they did without external influences? Why is the door broken? But the policeman seems in a rush, and leaves the house satisfied that there is one fewer person to be Rehoused.

  He doubles back, meaning that once Ronan has been sorted out, I will be the last to be dealt with.

  I peer over the suitcase as Ronan is approached. ‘Name,’ the guard says.

  My brother doesn’t reply. He looks over to me, and the policeman follows his gaze.

  ‘Name.’

  I mouth the alias to Ronan.

  ‘Henry,’ he stammers.

  The policeman says the one thing I hoped he wouldn’t. ‘Identification.’

  ‘I don’t have it,’ my brother says.

  The policeman gives him the once over. ‘None of you kids do.’ He picks up Ronan’s bag and leads him towards the van. Ronan drags his feet along the path and the policeman gives him some forceful shoves. ‘Hurry up.’

  I watch Ronan climb into the van and stare back at me. He may appear safe, and it may be more than I thought feasible when this night began, but I can’t be complacent yet. There are still plenty of things that could go wrong.

  The policeman returns to Henry’s house but no one is alive inside. I hate that this man will be the last one to traipse through the house. It is sacrilegious to the family; it is awful that he will look at Henry and his family and judge them for all being dead. All of these families across the neighbourhood will be judged, whittled down in numbers, to be forgotten as weak.

  The other policeman sees that I am the last to be Rehoused and climbs into the van, leaving the man walking out of Henry’s to deal with me. He turns up my path. ‘First teenage girl,’ he says.

  ‘Only child,’ I lie. ‘Just my parents and grandparents.’

  ‘Must’ve loved you,’ he says, showing some humanity.

  I speak through gritted teeth. ‘They did what they had to.’ I haven’t quite worked out how last night unfolded and I’m not sure I want to. It feels odd to be speaking to this stranger. Against my expectations he drags out the conversation, as if he too is holding onto some last piece of normality before we leave. I wonder if he is a Middlelander or someone from behind the Fence but, without giving my insider knowledge away, I can’t ask.

  ‘Name.’

  ‘Theia Silverdale. Pleasure to meet you.’ The policeman stares at me. I must be the first person to answer back. It’s too late before I can stop myself but even though I shake with fear, the anger inside me rages deeper.

  ‘
Anyone alive inside?’

  ‘No, so don’t waste your time.’

  The policeman brushes past me, doesn’t even bother asking for identification. I guess that was a pointless exercise since most of us don’t have any. Did he think we holidayed? Do the Upperlanders travel?

  I worry that I have only aroused his suspicion. He comes out after what feels like hours.

  ‘Thought you said you were an only child.’

  I begin to panic but don’t reply.

  ‘There’s more than one child’s bedroom and sets of clothes.’

  I think fast. ‘My brother and sister died a few months ago from the sickness going around. My parents weren’t ready to let them go just yet. I guess it was a blessing in disguise.’

  The policeman tries to detect if I’m lying but he looks exhausted. Who knows if he has other roads to sort out or if he’s been up all night patrolling? ‘Is that all you’re taking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He bends down to reach for the handle but I lurch to stop him. ‘I’ll take it.’ I carry it in my arms, rather than dragging it.

  The zip is only half done up. ‘Things might fall out,’ he says, pointing.

  ‘It’s fine.’

  He leads me down my path, away from my house, past the gate that creaks unless you lift it as you push. At the back of the van, he tries to take the suitcase to place it on top of the others. I resist but he is stronger and grabs it out of my hands. The pile is high so he swings to throw it.

  ‘Please don’t,’ I say, as calmly as I can even though he is getting fed up with me. ‘I have valuables in there. Respect that at least.’

  He sighs and places it gently on top of the other pile. ‘Will that do?’

  I stare at the suitcase, hoping that he doesn’t detect a thing. ‘Thank you.’

  I am marched to the side of the van and climb in. The chill of deathly silence fills this vehicle. We are all that remains of this street, mostly scared and lonely children, with the rest left behind to be consumed by the tide. No proper funeral or ritual or farewell, the houses eroding with our memories of those inside.