The crush of the crowd eases slightly as people spill out into the square. Out of the corner of one eye, I see the market traders hurriedly packing up their goods. I take that as a warning sign. If the traders are getting out, that means trouble’s ahead.
More people spill into the square from every side, most of them heading for the largest screen at the far end of the square. The screen that overlooks the spot where my mother was murdered. I let myself be carried along with the tide until I’m close enough to hear the newsreader’s voice and read the tagline that runs along the bottom of the screen.
The words scroll past a few times before I finish reading them. I have to turn the words over in my head a couple of times before they make sense. Leak of secret government files reveals plot to drug population.
I strain my ears to catch the newsreader’s voice over the hubbub around me.
“In a moment, we will speak to the President about this news. But, if you’ve just tuned in, here are the headlines again. Secret government files reveal that the government deliberately introduced the drug co-tronkpretine, commonly known as tronk, to government rations more than sixty years ago. An anonymous source within the government laboratories has stated that co-tronkpretine has been found to have a long-term impact on brain function and that prolonged ingestion of the drug over generations could negatively impact on intelligence levels and a person’s ability to carry out complex tasks.”
The newsreader pauses for a minute and glances off-screen. “And now we welcome the President to comment on these allegations. Can you confirm this shocking news?”
The President appears on the screen. His face is smooth and composed but a slight twitch at the corner of his eye reveals his anger. When I’d been brought before him in the government headquarters, he’d looked tired and worried. Now, his grey hair has been dyed dark again and it’s slicked back from his forehead. A few of the worry lines are gone – or maybe that’s just the cameras being kind – and his face wears a look of grim determination.
“Firstly, I must apologize for this breach in our internal security. The documents you’re referring to pre-date my term in office and that of my predecessor by many years but they were never supposed to be made public. I have instigated a full investigation and will find out who is responsible for this traitorous behaviour. They will be punished.”
His eyes bore into me from the other side of the screen.
“But is the information correct? Did the government use a drug that hadn’t been properly tested and is co-tronkpretine still part of the government rations that many citizens rely on today?” the newsreader presses.
The President smiles. A hard, cold smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “One question at a time, please. After the Great Flood and the dark time that followed, our country was left in a desperate situation. I am confident that the government of the time did everything in their power to keep their citizens alive. You have to understand that our country was very different then to now. People were fighting for survival!”
And we’re not now?
“I have spoken to my chief scientist and she has assured me that they will be carrying out tests on this substance immediately to determine if there are any negative side effects from its use decades ago—”
“But surely those tests would have already been carried out and recorded?” the newsreader interrupts. “Our source says—”
“I’m sure they were, back at the time of these papers. But unfortunately, the large fire we had at the government laboratory archives some years ago destroyed many of the records from that time. It was an oversight that the electronic records and films were held in the same place, but …” The President shrugs. “And it was so long ago that anyone working on that project would no longer be with the department. I’m afraid your ‘source’ is probably just someone eager for their five minutes of fame.” His smile is that of a parent humouring a child. “Of course, the government rations today are safe. We wouldn’t be giving them to people if they weren’t. We’re not about to poison our citizens!”
Poison our citizens.
“But tronk is a real issue in this city, one we have covered before. Its addictive nature and ability to take away hunger pangs—”
The newsreader’s voice is overwhelmed by the voice of the crowd. Shouts ring out around me.
“Poison?”
“They poisoned us!”
“It’s their fault we can’t get jobs.”
“My mother died from tronk …”
“It’s their fault!”
Gradually their cries come together in a single chant.
“Poison! Poison!”
The sound builds, swelling like the storm surges that rip up the river.
“Poison! Poison!”
Around me, people are pumping their fists in the air. Tears run down the face of the woman next to me as she screams the word. Poison.
The newsreader talks on, ignored and unheard. The anger in the crowd pulses, barely contained. My skin tingles with electricity.
This is it! This is why we did it. So that people would know the truth.
The government can’t ignore this.
“Poison! Poison!”
I’m dimly aware that I’m shouting along with the rest of the crowd. My fist punches the air, buoyed by the energy and passion around me. People’s anger at this injustice.
The thumping fills my head, a regular pounding that beats in time with my heart. And then, suddenly, I realize it’s not just the cries of the crowd that pound in my head. There’s another noise, equally rhythmic. The drum to accompany the chanting.
“Poison …”
The word falls from my lips and I’m left rooted to the spot. I can’t be the only one who’s heard it? But no, murmurings of fear spring up from every side. I cast my eyes around, seeking some way out of this crowd, but I’m right in the middle of it and we’re packed so close together that there’s no easy escape.
I lick my lips, unable to quell my rising panic. The pounding echoes in my skull but I’m not sure if it’s my heartbeat getting louder and louder or just them.
The Metz.
The crowd begins to move around me. Whispers reach me from people tall enough to see. But rather than the usual screams of fear and terror, the chanting around me just intensifies and gets stronger. And people aren’t moving away from the thumping beat but toward it.
“Poison! Poison!”
I’m dragged along, stumbling over my own feet as I attempt to stay upright.
Need to get out of here.
I claw my way through the throng of people, twisting my body to squeeze through the gaps that open up as people move. An arm pushes me into a tall man who curses and lashes out. I duck but the blow catches me on the side of my head and sends me reeling with a ringing in my ear that momentarily drowns out the pounding feet of the Metz officers. I stumble forward until I trip and fall, sprawled on the steps that lead up to the monument, a stone spire put up to commemorate an ancient war.
Finally, space to breathe.
I gulp in air, my fingers digging into the gritty stone steps. Then I push myself up, scramble to the smooth stone column and gaze out across the crowd.
An army of Metz officers are marching in from the two main streets that feed into the north part of the square. Facing them is the crowd of ragged Outsiders. Some people wave pieces of wood and metal and there’s the odd knife, but most just beat the air with their fists.
Then, as if someone has flipped a switch, the regular chanting and monotonous pounding cease. What comes next is chaos.
The first wave of people hit the line of Metz officers. They bounce back as if they’ve run into a brick wall, but the press of the crowd is so strong that more people are forced to take their place. Slowly, they begin to penetrate the ranks of the Metz. The officers lash out. The hiss of tasers and the thumping of batons punctuate the screams of the crowd. Screams of pain and anger and fear.
Why don’t people run aw
ay? Don’t they see it’s useless? How can we defend ourselves against them?
But from my vantage point, I see the black figures spill like wasps into the square from all directions and I realize why people haven’t turned to run.
There is nowhere for them to go.
Nausea washes over me and I grip the stone column so tight that it feels as if I could crush it. I’m on a tiny island, surrounded by a raging sea. But I can’t stay here for long. It’s only a matter of time before the Metz spot me. Up here, I’m exposed.
People fall, their bodies crushed under the stampede. The Metz have the upper hand, but even some of them are brought down by the sheer weight and volume of people around them. A young man jumps onto a Metz officer’s back, wrapping his arms around its neck and pulling at its helmet. The officer tries to beat him off, but the man clings on and someone else raises half a brick and strikes at the black and yellow helmet, again and again. The officer is disarmed, and its own gun is pointed back at it.
Blood stains the ground and the smell of dirt and sweat mingles with vomit and blood, creating a heady cocktail that threatens to choke me. I slump against the monument, my legs feeling suddenly weak.
What would Trey think if he saw this?
We wondered what people would do if they found out about the truth. And here’s the answer I suspected and feared. They fight.
There’s a dull thump at my feet and I stare down into a pair of sightless eyes. Blood from the man’s cracked head trickles down the steps toward the feet of his assailant. But the attacker has already turned and is fighting his way back through the crowd. All around me Outsiders are fighting the Metz. And each other.
I take a deep breath and dive into the chaos. A Metz officer makes a grab for me, but I duck under its outstretched arm. I catch a glimpse of a baton looming over me just in time to run my shoulder into the man’s stomach. Winded, he pushes me away and I stumble forward, only to trip over a motionless figure and hit the ground.
My breath comes in gasps. I lift my hand and find it smeared with blood. The bright red blood of a fresh wound. I turn to the person I tripped over, but the woman is already beyond help. It’s her blood on my hand. In front of me is another man, no, barely a boy. I vaguely recognize him. He’s not one of the Snakes, but I think I’ve seen him around. A member of one of the other gangs perhaps. He, too, is dead.
I shakily get to my feet, but a glint of metal in the boy’s hand catches my eye. His fingers are still warm as I prize them apart to get at the knife. Quickly, I run my hands down his legs and find another blade concealed in a pocket. One in each hand, I get to my feet.
I lose one of the knives distracting a Metz officer who blocks my path, but eventually I make it to the edge of the square. I head down a narrow street, desperate to get away from the massacre behind me, and then dive into an alleyway on the right to avoid the black figures running up the street. Turning a corner, I skid to a halt.
Three pairs of terrified eyes look up at me. A girl of about eight shrinks back, pushing two younger boys behind her. They’re twins and can’t be more than four years old. On the ground beside them, a woman lies unconscious and bleeding. By the rise and fall of her chest, she’s alive, though from the amount of blood pooling around her, not for long. The alleyway stinks of trash and piss. Most dead-end alleyways do.
I lower my knife and kneel beside the woman, trying to work out where the blood is coming from. There’s so much of it.
Heavy footsteps sound in the alleyway behind me.
No.
I get to my feet and stand in front of the children, holding my knife up as if somehow this small, measly blade can defend us all.
It may not be …
But it is. The dark figure turns the corner and looms over us. I take a step backward. It’s so big! Behind me, the girl whimpers and one of the boys begins to cry.
I stare down the barrel of the officer’s gun and wonder if it’s shooting bullets or just the paralyzing taser.
“Aleesha Ramos.” It’s a statement, not a question. I stare up at the blank mask of the officer, wondering if there’s a person inside that suit or just a robot.
The officer twitches the gun. “Come with me.”
I glance back at the children behind me and realization finally hits. Three children. One mother.
I lower my knife and take a step forward. “Fine, let’s go.” I’m impressed at how calm my voice sounds.
“Wait.”
The officer turns its head toward the children. “Helen Gollin.”
The girl utters a squeak, her eyes wide.
“I do not have any data on you two.” It motions to the two boys who cower behind their sister. “You will come with me.”
“No!” I lift the knife in what I hope is a threatening stance, but my hand shakes, and I can’t keep the tremor from my voice. “They’re only children. Just leave them. I’m the one you want.”
The officer pulls a pair of cuffs from its belt. “All illegal persons must be apprehended,” it intones in that dry, gravelly voice.
I step back and feel the girl’s breath on the back of my arms. “If I can distract him, you have to make a run for it,” I whisper. “Get your brothers out of here.”
I scan the Metz uniform. Plates of impenetrable material, interlocked to give no point of weakness. Apart from one. Yesterday, when Trey and I had been trapped in the alleyway, I’d stabbed my knife desperately in the crease of the officer’s elbow and felt the material give under the point of my blade.
The officer opens its arm and I take my chance. Lunging forward, I aim my knife at the tiny gap between the plates at the elbow joint. Instead of bouncing off the hard uniform, the tip of my blade penetrates something soft.
There’s a cry, an almost human cry, of pain. Then a blur of movement and I’m flying across the alley. My body slams into the wall and I slump down, the breath knocked from my lungs.
Run! I want to shout at the girl, but I can barely breathe, let alone speak. The kids stand frozen in place. Then as if waking up, the girl seems to remember what she’s supposed to be doing and tugs her brothers forward. But it’s too late. The officer blocks their path.
I crawl forward, barely able to move. Pain racks my body, but I’m pretty sure that nothing is actually broken. I look around for my knife, but it’s nowhere to be seen. I must have dropped it when I hit the wall. Above me, the Metz officer blocks out the little light that filters down between the tall buildings.
All three children are now crying. The girl pushes back her mop of dark curly hair. The curls remind me of Lily, but Lily’s hair had been blonde. Like a baby angel.
And I let her die. Like these children will die.
I clench my fists and push myself slowly to my feet. I sway slightly, trying to get my balance on legs that feel weak and wobbly.
“Please.” My voice is thin and cracked. I cough and wince as the movement washes a new wave of pain through my chest. Maybe I’ve cracked a rib. “Please. They’re innocent children. They’ve done nothing wrong.”
My legs give out and I fall to my knees. More pain. I open my hands. “Take me but leave them. Please?”
I stare up at the officer. Was it my imagination or did it hesitate slightly? For the first time, I notice a tiny label on the top left of its chest. There’s something written on it. A number.
“ML486.” I read out. “Is that your name?” I look up into the blank mask. “Or do you have a real name? Is there a person in there or are you just a machine?”
The officer lifts its arm and blood drips from its elbow to the floor. Blood.
Machines don’t bleed.
“You are under arrest—”
Without thinking, I stumble to my feet and rest my hand on its chest. His chest. He’s so big, even for the Metz, that I think he’s male, though I could be wrong. I crane my neck to search his face, but all I see is my own face reflected in the visor.
“Innocent,” I say quietly.
“You
are …” The voice trails off and the arm holding the gun falls to the officer’s side. I hold my breath, wondering what to do next. But before I can decide, the other arm, the one whose elbow bleeds, comes up to my head. I flinch but the blow I’m expecting doesn’t come.
A gloved finger reaches out and gently touches my hair. “Innocent?”
“Yes.” I swallow to moisten my mouth. Every muscle in me is tense.
“Go.”
The word bounces around inside my skull. It takes me a moment to register what he’s said.
The officer takes a step back and turns away. “Go,” he says again, more quietly this time.
I don’t wait to be told again. Grabbing the twins’ chubby hands, I drag them down the alleyway. The girl follows, sobbing loudly. Back on the street, we turn away from Rose Square and join the other people stumbling away from the carnage. There are no more shouts of anger coming from there now. Just screams of pain.
But as we get to the end of the road and turn a corner, I can’t help but look back. And when I do, I see the outline of a black Metz officer silhouetted against the light. For a moment I feel as if our eyes meet. Then he turns and walks up the street away from us.
6
Trey
The moment Aleesha barrels into the kitchen pulling three small children behind her, I know something is wrong. She’s limping slightly, and blood is smeared across her cheek and hands. But it’s the haunted look in her eyes that makes the breath catch in my throat.
My fingers fall from the strings of the guitar and the final notes of the simple melody I’d been playing linger for a moment in the silence between us.
“Aleesha, what’s happened?” Abby looks up from the dough she’s been kneading and takes a step toward the children who stand awkwardly in the doorway. She beckons at them. “Come in and close the door behind you.”
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