by M. E. Parker
In his lot today, a curious square ceramic plate with two intact hinges. Stamped on it were the words Biohazard, for genetic research purposes only below a symbol with three incomplete circles leading from a red center circle. The hinges still functioned. It would make the perfect flue vent for regulating the coal fire in his airship’s balloon, and since it wasn’t metal, he could chuck it into the reprocess bin, which got dumped if the salvage admin saw no use for it. Myron would just have to fish it out of the outtake after his shift.
For twelve hours he fidgeted through his shift with panic building for any ensuing treason investigation, which would involve stretcher time for everyone. When his shift ended, his focus returned to his escape. He shuffled through exit procedures and out into the frigid air where flakes of ash and brown snow drifted by the door. As he watched his fellow slogs fill the path to 14-C, he scanned the area first to see who might be watching him and then slipped to the south side of the factory where the furnace slag dumped into the canal. He just had to keep an eye out for that bright red biohazard symbol with the three rings circumscribing a middle circle, and he would find his prize: the perfect flue vent.
Where Myron stood, close to the bank of the Yarin, the numbing breeze whipped through the endless corridor of red-bricked factory walls. His arms and legs ached. As the slag trickled down the chute, among the other debris, Myron reached for the hinged ceramic plate and quickly tucked it into his smock.
Seconds later, he felt the squeeze of a hand on his shoulder. He stopped breathing. This time he knew he had taken too many chances. The hand on his shoulder yanked him about, and instead of a ghost with a discipline rod poised over his head that he expected, Rolf stood, alone, eye to eye with Myron in the shadows of the salvage factory.
Nothing he could say would justify standing near the furnace chute where a rush of hot slag and slurry cascaded into the Yarin. Rolf thrust his elbow into Myron’s throat, pressing his neck against the brick wall of the salvage factory. “What do you think you’re doing back here?” Rolf said.
Myron couldn’t swallow, could barely breathe. He tried to squirm free. Closer and closer to the furnace outtake, Rolf pushed Myron’s head until he could feel droplets of hot slag on his face, almost losing his footing on the slope of the chute. Myron pulled away from the gray sludge with all his power. Losing his balance, he grabbed Rolf by the smock, and they fought to keep from tumbling into the outtake.
“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but there’s a way things are done around here and you ain’t doing it. It’s simple: You come to work. You process what ends up in your station. You keep your mouth shut. You leave work.” Rolf glanced over his shoulder again. “You don’t sneak around. You don’t steal from the slag pit and you don’t putter along like some sort of ape making doe eyes with that carpie.”
“No, sir.”
“I’ve noticed.” Rolf straightened his smock and stood again up on his toes to be the same height as Myron. He thumped the industry tattoo on the back of his hand. “No one makes choices here. That’s the way of the world.”
Myron kept his eye on the furnace chute to keep from sliding down it. He stayed quiet, preserving his fate to muddle through another day in one piece.
“You think they don’t watch me too? You slogs don’t produce. I get the blame.” Rolf made a fist and pummeled the soft spot under Myron’s sternum, just above the hidden ceramic plate in his smock, an unexpected blow that doubled Myron over and emptied his winds. Rolf gave him another smack, this time on the head sending him to the frozen ground. “As sneaky as you are, it wouldn’t surprise me if you were the one that upended that ghost.”
Rolf’s accusation took Myron off guard, allowing him no time to think. “No, no. No.” Myron shook his head. No one would ever believe him that he hadn’t meant to kill the guard or that the guard had it coming. “There’s this wild man. Lives out on the rim.” The words came to him like a gift from the Great Above, a way to shift the blame and save his airship from Coyote Man at the same time. “He’s the one. I’ll bet he did it.”
“A wild man?” Rolf scoffed.
“When they find him, you’ll see.”
Rolf pointed a finger at Myron. “If you’re making this up,” he said, nodding to the slag trickling down the chute, “you’re going out with the garbage.” He grabbed Myron by the smock and hoisted him to his feet, giving him a shove between his shoulder blades to get him going. Relieved that the ceramic-hinged plate stayed out of sight during the scuffle, Myron returned to the path, hurrying to the domicile quad.
Back in the swill pen, at least six people hovered next to Saul, gnawing their rations, engaged in the most spirited conversation Myron had seen in his time in Jonesbridge. His stomach jumped when he noticed one of them was Sindra, and when their eyes met, she looked away.
“I’m not surprised something like this happened,” Saul said, his eyes narrowing. “I’ve seen some strange things, lately.” He glared right at Myron as he joined the group. His gaze then moved over to Sindra.
“What kind of things?” A woman asked. She worked textiles for their block, which meant fashioning burlap such that it could be worn. Myron rarely saw her, and when he did, he never heard her speak.
Still glaring at Sindra, Saul said, “I aim to figure out who this traitor is before we all get questioned in the stretcher. You think orientation was bad—”
An older, one-legged man limped on a crutch over to Saul. He pulled to a stop, face-to-face, like an ammo train butting up to a depot buffer. “If you’re accusing someone, come right out with it.”
Saul backed up, holding a hand up toward the one-legged man. “You’re new to this quad. Makes you a suspect already. I’d keep quiet.”
“A suspect,” the textile woman scoffed. “He’s a war veteran.” She pointed to the man’s missing leg.
“For all we know, he could’ve been born a gimp,” Saul said.
The one-legged man lifted his burlap smock. A stump, severed at mid-thigh, dangled beneath his protruding pelvis. “Lost in some God-forgotten swamp to an E'ster piss whistle not six months ago.“ He reached down and tugged at his good leg as though he were mired in bog water. “Name’s Errol, by the way.”
The gathering crowd at the swill pen drew nearer, ears drinking every word, long parched for anything out of the ordinary. It reminded Myron of children watching a traveling magician transform scarves into live rats on the bed of a wagon, a spectacle Myron had witnessed as a kid on the road to Copper Creek.
Saul reached for Errol’s hand, twisting it to show the tattoo on the back. “That’s an Agriculture tattoo.”
Errol pulled his hand back, giving it a rub. “Okay, so I got pretty good with mules.” He pointed his finger at the crowd. “When the last of your machines fall apart, the mule tenders, well, let’s just say I’ll be on top for a change.”
Myron glanced at Sindra again, who still would not look at him.
The textile woman approached the stranger. “I’ve been here in Jonesbridge since I was old enough to pull a lever,” she said, her hair in a brown bun twisted tightly on top of her head. “Always dreamed of seeing someplace else, maybe with thatch-roofed houses and dogs barking, whistle of a teakettle calling me home. See anything like that out there?”
Errol laughed. “Best keep your dreams, then, because that’s all they are. There’s nothing out there worth seeing. Not one damn thing.”
Like the woman, even though his six months couldn’t compare to her thirty years, Myron had already lived in Jonesbridge too long, but unlike Errol, Myron knew there had to be something out there, something worth fighting for.
“Too much dying over nothing,” the woman said, gazing through the swill pen as though she could see something other than an ochrous mountain behind a gray veil.
“All right, break it up,” one of the nearby ghosts snapped, heading to the small group beside the one-legged man. “Due to recent events, curfew is in effect.” He waved his jerry-rod
through the crowd, striking slogs at random. “Get your ration and get to your room.”
Myron and Sindra locked eyes. He cast his gaze toward the tunnel behind the domicile. Sindra’s jaw bulged, her shoulders squared, and her eyes moved in Saul’s direction. Myron turned toward the commissary slowly and got a look at Saul’s face. He was staring right at Sindra.
“If you’ve got your ration, get going,” a ghost snapped, prodding Saul with his discipline rod. Myron had already made his way to the commissary door. Saul kept glaring at Sindra and then at Myron.
“It’s them,” Saul yelled, walking backward toward the stairs. “I’ve seen them sneaking around. I’ll bet they’re the ones.”
The four ghosts overseeing the commons glanced at the end of the ration line where Myron and Sindra stood and convened near the benches, where they spoke amongst themselves for several seconds, growing agitated. “You!” One of the ghosts called to Saul. “Come over here.”
When Saul arrived, the head ghost whipped Saul’s hand over and jotted down his tattoo number onto her clipboard. “You will be expected to report to salvage administration for questioning, first thing in the morning before your shift.”
Sindra lined up behind Myron. “We have to get out of here,” she whispered without moving her lips. “Tonight.”
The head ghost marched toward them. She held a finger above each head in line until she reached Myron. Saul nodded from across the commons. The ghost grabbed Myron’s hand and added his tattoo number to the list before moving to Sindra.
“You,” the ghost said to Myron, “report to salvage administration for questioning prior to your shift. And you.” She turned to Sindra tapping her clipboard, examining her through narrow eyes, looking her up and down. “Report to re-orientation for interrogation.”
The skin around Sindra’s eyes grew pale along with her lips, and her eyes welled with tears at the mere thought of a stint in the stretcher, but she kept her composure. It reminded Myron of seeing someone choke, unable to speak or breathe. He made sure he showed no emotion whatsoever, no pity, or shame, and swallowed his desire to take the blame immediately to keep Sindra out of a stretcher interrogation. Neither of them moved or breathed until the the ghost continued up the line, scrutinizing the hungry slogs who also held their breath and kept their eyes straight forward as she passed.
The line dwindled as each slog approached the counter where Millie cross-referenced tattoos with ration distribution, doling out protein and bread as appropriate, each ration costing exactly what the worker had made that day in wages. Sindra took her ration and headed for the door, again making brief, insistent eye contact with Myron, who waited at the counter, the last slog in line.
Millie frowned, scanning the ration book, checking under the counter and studying her cart. “I’m sorry, Myron.” Her mouth hung open in disbelief as she checked the ration book a second time. “We—we’re short today. We’re never short. I’m sorry.” She extended her empty hands toward Myron.
“Okay, commissary’s closed.” The two ghosts standing guard at the door approached Myron and ushered him into the swill pen.
He headed for the stairs, intermingling with other slogs in the group to keep inconspicuous. He had already timed the patrols at the rear of the courtyard, so he nudged Sindra in the direction of the grate behind the quad.
With the courtyard emptying for curfew, they had no time to go one ahead of the other like they did last time, so they slipped into the shadow of the stairs together and through the narrow space between the domicile buildings. Myron held up his hand for her to stop. When he reached thirty in his count, two ghosts meandered past in the opposite direction.
As they tiptoed in the direction of the tunnel, Myron’s empty stomach threatened to heave. With the grate gone from last night’s incident, and the dead ghost found next to the hole, someone had filled the hole completely with heavy stones. He should have assumed that, but his desire to get Sindra out of Jonesbridge had clouded his judgment.
“They’ve sealed the tunnel. There’s no way in.”
“No, no. My star.”
“Keep track of our time. Count to thirty,” Myron knelt down. Under the dim light from the domicile quad security lamp, he scratched out a map in the dirt. Sindra bent down beside him.
“Can’t go now. Wait until the night shift break whistle. When ghosts do shift change, sneak out,” he spoke as fast as he could as he drew in the dirt. “Follow the dark bank of the Yarin. Do not cross the bridge. Follow until you reach the salvage outtake. Cross through the water under the bridge.”
Myron cast her a quick glance to quash her protest. “Twenty-one, Twenty-two,” she whispered reminding Myron how much longer they had.
“Snake around to the furnace chute. Follow up along the opposite side wall to an old wooden grate like this one.” Myron sped through the instructions. “Got it?”
Sindra nodded, her lips moving as she counted. “Twenty-eight,” Sindra whispered.
Myron wiped his map clean, grabbed Sindra’s hand and headed for the the domiciles.
Hunkered at the base of the stairs, Myron timed the guards in the swill pen. “I’ve never done what we’re about to do. I don’t know if it’s possible. I don’t even know where the other tunnel leads, if anywhere. But just in case something happens to me, at least you know how to get to the other grate,” he whispered almost inaudibly, though he had doubts she would be able to find it without him based on the hurried directions he’d given her. Sindra pulled Myron’s empty ration sack open and peered inside. Then she dropped in her protein stick with a smile. They looked at each other the remaining five seconds before heading their separate ways, slipping back into their proper rooms before bed check.
Chapter 6
Myron sat on his cot and stared at the spent coals in his stove, trying not to fall asleep. All day he had sensed an illness coming on with intermittent fever and chills. Three pieces of torn fabric draped across his knee. He pulled his needle, fashioned from a splinter of pine, through one piece of cloth and aligned the other so it overlapped. His hands shaking from the cold, wanting to save his last piece of coal, he pierced the other fabric, sewing the swatches together with as tight of a stitch as he could make.
The fabric was sheer and lightweight, women’s undergarments that had been soiled or worn through and discarded in the burn heap to generate steam for mine trolleys. Women were afforded such luxuries as a matter of necessary hygiene given their regularities. His first attempt to handle these garments a few months ago made his stomach turn, but he could find no other material suitable. The burlap they wore on the factory floor was too porous, everything else, too heavy. After four hundred or so pairs and months of sewing, he finally got used to it.
So far, he had fashioned fourteen panels of fabric to make seven gores total of his airship balloon, completing the envelope with each one in the case he had to go quickly and had no time to sew. For thread he’d pulled apart discarded burlap strand by strand. Myron figured there would be leaks in the balloon, but if he got his fire hot enough, without setting the whole contraption ablaze, he banked that he could at least get across the Gorge. The last bit he held in his hand would comprise the deflation port at the top. Once attached, he would have his balloon, much smaller than he’d planned, but it might work. The other pieces—what made it a real airship instead of just a balloon—Myron admitted made his contraption look more like a pouncing insect with a coal pan for a thorax than an airship, but he had faith in the scientific principles he’d learned from his grandfather.
After he finished connecting the three swatches, Myron gathered a handful of metal nuts and bolts of various sizes, his ration of coal, and the hinged ceramic plate he smuggled out today. He pulled the loose bricks out behind his cot and retrieved the Atlas of the Modern World and The Physics of Flight, another ancient textbook from the Old Age that described great flying machines that floated on airfoils powered by turbine jets, something he could hardly imagine.
> He cinched it all in the last piece of stitched fabric he would have for his airship and set it aside, waiting for the night shift break whistle to sound so he and Sindra could make their escape. Each time his head nodded, Myron perked up to keep awake, but his whole body had begun to ache. He tried pacing but his fatigue overcame him, so he sat on the edge of his cot, ears tuned to the distant whistle, his mind wandering.
Most slogs stuck in the Jonesbridge Industrial Complex had spent much longer there than Myron or Sindra. Some had toiled away nearly a lifetime and never knew or understood or remembered that life was more than sacrifice. Myron often wondered if his memories were real. They seemed so distant, as though they had to burrow through the wall of smoke and gray snow to find them. The memories of his grandfather were the clearest, their conversations and his advice. Myron treated these recollections as he did the rare pastries in his ration—afraid to consume them, as though he could relive the moment only once and then it would be gone, the way his grandfather told him a bee dies after it stings.
Myron had loved the books, the smell of leather and the crackle of flipping paper late at night, a candle flame so close it threatened to hop right onto the page there with his grandfather’s gaze. His grandfather also loved kites, especially the boxy kind, kites as rectangular as Block 14-C. He and his grandfather flew them when the wind allowed. But Myron’s grandfather used to say that a good bicycle could take a man to the ends of the earth and back, that he could pedal until the shackles dropped from his ankles and then go some more, the narrow wheels bobbing over rocks, sliding through ruts, chain muscling through the gears, that a man can feel the countryside he’s crossing on a bicycle. Riding across a hilltop near Richterville, he could see his grandfather waving.