Infraction

by Annie Oldham

  The soldiers hover over us for a few torturous minutes longer, and just as I'm bracing myself to jump up and run, ready to feel the bullets whiz by my head, they leave. The footsteps fade into the distance, and I finally let myself breathe deeply. Jack's arm relaxes around me, and I let my iron grip loosen on his arm.

  “That hurt, you know.” He tries to say it with a hint of laughter, but his tone is all wrong.

  I grab his hand. Is it safe?

  “Is it ever safe?”

  We wait at least ten minutes longer. We haven't heard anything, not even crickets, and the quiet is too much. I finally stretch my legs and groan as the cramps pinch every nerve I have. I'm shivering uncontrollably, and Jack chafes my arms with his hands.

  “You okay?”

  I nod. You?

  He shakes his head. “I know you're trying to be strong for me, Terra. But I'd rather you be honest. I deserve that much. I'm terrified, and sometimes I think there's something wrong with me when you're okay all the time.”

  I turn to him. I had no idea. How little we've talked about how we feel. I know it's my fault; I'm the one who's pushed him away. The darkness and the stillness and the fear still linger, and I can't do anything about it now. We have to get away as quickly as possible.

  We slide out of the hollow, and we've taken no more than ten steps when I hear the boots again, and they're coming fast.

  Chapter Three

  There's no time for me to even look at Jack. We run. We run faster than we did from the nomads, faster than we did only a short time ago from the gas station. I bless and curse the moonlight—a blessing as it lets me run through the trees without fear of careening into one of them, a curse because the soldiers won't even need their night-vision goggles to see us.

  The boots thunder behind me, and a deep, booming voice calls out.

  “Stop now and you won't be harmed.”

  It's a lie. I don't even have to look at Jack to know he's not tempted. But I am curious why they aren't shooting at us, why they haven't used more force to capture us.

  Another soldier appears to our left, rifle ready to fire, and he looks huge in the dark. We veer away until I'm sure we're running parallel to the road. Branches whip across my wet, cold legs and each slap burns worse than the one before. I will my legs to keep churning, and the adrenaline racing through me is in my favor. I'm sure I've never run this fast in my life, but I don't know how long my body will allow me to keep it up. Already Jack stumbles next to me. This can't go on forever.

  I hear water up ahead. If we're lucky, it'll be a river and we'll be able to swim across—maybe even float downstream—before the soldiers can even take off all the gear they can't get wet. I pray it's a river. With the way we've run up against trouble the past few days, we could use a break.

  Just as the pebbly, mossy bank comes into view, another soldier jumps out from the brush and we turn to the left. It feels all wrong, the soldiers jumping at us, driving us away. Part of me has already figured this out and knows something's not right, but I'm an animal now, all instinct to get away from the enemy that would have me as its prey. There's nowhere else to go. The soldiers press in on all sides, and Jack and I are herded back toward the road.

  The darkness fades as more light shines through the trees ahead of us. My lungs burn as I run toward the light wavering through the trees. I'm not going to like what the light leads me to, but running is all I can do.

  When I burst through the trees and out of the darkness, two trucks with tall sides and lots of wheels wait for us. There are also a dozen soldiers all with their guns pointed at our heads. I immediately throw my hands to the air, my legs wobbling underneath me. We walked right into their trap.

  “It should have been broken up,” Jack whispers. I look at him and raise my eyebrows.

  “Silence!” One of the soldiers turns toward us.

  “If it had been an abandoned road, it wouldn't have been so well maintained.”

  That explains the alarms that had gone off in my head, why I knew immediately that something wasn't right. I keep telling myself I'll figure these things out the longer I'm on the Burn, that these obvious things will make sense. Some consolation that is right now.

  One of the trucks faces away from us, its headlights shining into the distance, offering faint illumination in the clearing. All the soldiers are dim silhouettes against the light. From behind the line of soldiers, a short man in a charcoal suit and black tie steps out. An agent. They all wear those immaculate suits. He motions quickly with his right hand, and two soldiers step forward—one at me and one at Jack. They flick their guns quickly to the left, and we step that way toward the other truck.

  “Stop!” one of the soldiers barks. The soldier uses an iron hand to force me to my knees. “Hands behind your head!” he snaps. I thread my fingers behind my head and he clamps metal around both my wrists. He trains his gun on me.

  I close my eyes, seeing nothing but red nightmares. Nightmares of firelight flickering over trees, of a circle of us gathered at mealtime. Of the stranger that steps through that circle, and brings nothing but terror with him. Of the way the gun feels in my hand when it discharges. The soldiers' guns bring on the nightmares. I can't ever look at a gun or even think of one without the visions of blood coming back. I even think I smell gunpowder on my hands. It's all too real how much destruction I alone have caused with one of them. I want the soldier and his gun as far away from me as possible, but I can't move. I can only kneel here on the ground like I'm bowing before the agent in reverence. The bile rises in my throat.

  The agent puts something in his mouth. Then his eyes flash as the other truck's lights turn on, and I'm suddenly blinded. I turn my head. When I force my eyes open again, the agent has stepped forward. His hands are clasped behind his back, and he studies Jack and me. His breath comes out in shallow puffs, hang there a moment in the cold, and then melt away. I don't want to look at him—I don't want him studying me, prying into my brain with his sharp eyes—but I can't turn away.

  “Nomads,” he says with a smile. “It's a good night for nomads.”

  I don't know what that means, but the way he says it sends shivers over me.

  “The cities were set up to protect the citizens of New America. And while most citizens do follow the laws, I'm always amazed at the number of nomads just wandering through the wilderness as if you don't want the government's protection. Or don't trust us.”

  I try to keep my face neutral, but I blink. My eyes are too dry.

  His smile widens, baring glistening teeth. “Hmm. Trust is always an issue. I shouldn't tell you this, of course, but seeing as you have no future left, I think it's safe. The trust is what we're working on.” He leans down lower, and I can smell mint candy on his breath. “You'll be a good girl and help us with that.” He reaches for me, and I turn my head. He chuckles and pats my cheek.

  I've only seen an agent one other time, at the med drop, and that woman was a kitten compared to this man.

  “Into the trucks with them,” he growls.

  The soldiers spring at us. One grabs my arms and wrenches me to my feet. My shoulders blaze with pain, and I bite back a whimper. The soldiers and that agent will get no satisfaction from hearing me cry. My only consolation is that Jack is still with me, and the soldiers thrust us into the truck together.

  We stumble inside, and I fall to the floor of the truck, my cheek scraped up against hard metal. Murmurs fill my ears.

  “Get up before you get us all in trouble.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Don't look at them.”

  “Get up!”

  “It's them,” a voice hisses.

  My heart stops when I hear that voice. It belongs to one of the nomads who searched for us last night. I let my black hair fall between my face and the voice, willing myself to become invisible. Jack stumbles behind me. I hope he hasn't made eye contact.

  A soldier nudges me with the toe of his boot, and I get up. He shoves me onto a b
ench. The heavy back doors of the truck creak closed, and then the engine roars to life. I'm wedged between two women—all the men line the other side of the truck—and my arms are cramped and aching behind my back. In the faint light from the lamp at the roof of the truck, I see that some of the women's faces are damp with tears, and everyone's faces are stony. Maybe they've moved past sorrow on to something else entirely, something that makes them look not quite human. Maybe it helps them feel not quite alive. It could help. I suspect we're on our way to a labor camp, and from what I've heard, I'd rather be numb to it as well.

  The truck lurches as it finds its way back onto the road Jack and I followed. I bump shoulders with those around me, but I don't talk. I feel the eyes on me, the vicious stares of the nomads who hunted us. Fortunately, Jack sits three men down from them. There is one soldier just behind the cab of the truck and two soldiers by the doors. If those nomads try anything, I'd like to think the soldiers could stop them. I close my eyes, though, because the thought crosses my mind: why would they even care?

  I sit that way, with my eyes closed, not wanting to see the people around me, not wanting to see the soldiers' guns. Then closing my eyes brings on all kinds of new horrors: what the soldiers look like when they take their masks off. Do they have human faces, or are they like the fish that live at the bottom of the ocean floor—colorless eyes, gaping mouths with long, spiny teeth? Sometimes seeing the truth is better than what I'm able to dream up.

  When I open my eyes, the nomads are watching me. Who knows where our packs are, the ones the nomads took. Searched probably, but then just left wherever the nomads were picked up? Discarded as common garbage? Jessa's letter is out there somewhere, my last physical reminder of my sister and my past life. Like a relic, I guess. I don't think I'll ever find it again. I have the most important parts memorized, however, and that will never be taken from me.

  I just wish you would have told me so that I could understand. I want to understand. I love you.

  Would Jessa understand this? That my dream was to come here, and now I'm being taken by these men and shipped off as a slave? No, she wouldn't have and neither do I. Yes, the colony has flaws, but they treat people humanely. Not everyone saw the colony as the prison I did. I glance at Jack. His head hangs from his shoulders and bobs with the motion of the truck. He looks inconsolable. People like Jack belong in the colony; people who are too gentle for this world. People like Nell. They deserve to be taken there and given a chance at a different life. But that will never happen. As far as I know, I am the only colonist on the Burn, and if I'm in a labor camp, no one will ever find the colony. Hopeless as it may be, though, a small fire flares in my heart. If only I could take a handful of these people to the colony and offer them a chance at peace and rest.

  The first light of dawn filters in through the windows on the doors of the truck. The woman next to me slumps, and her head dips down to touch my shoulder. She jerks awake and refuses to look at me. Even the soldiers look exhausted. I wonder when they last slept. How long have they been out rounding us up and shoving us around?

  When Jack's eyes meet mine, they are red-rimmed and wide. Somehow, we both know we're close to our destination, and we both know we won't like it.

  Through the truck's back windows, I see nothing but a twist of road banked by trees. Then a chain-link fence topped with coils of barbed wire crops up behind us. Two soldiers flank the gate we drive through, and they swing it closed, locking it tight. The paved road gives way to dirt, gravel, and dust curling behind us. I can't see anything more.

  The truck stops, forcing us all toward the soldier at the front, and we shy away from him, unwilling to get any closer. The woman next to me flicks her eyes at mine for just a moment as I back away from the front of the truck, and her look chills me. Her eyes are nothing more than hollow pools in the dim light. It's like there's nothing inside her.

  Voices start up outside. They're muffled, so I can't hear everything, but I hear enough.

  “How many?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Males?”

  “Six.”

  “Nine females?”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “Children?”

  “None, sir.”

  Then the first voice says something that sounds like “Detox,” and I brace myself against the side of the truck. We're crammed too close and the smell is awful, but here I feel almost safe compared to what could be out there.

  The truck doors swing open, and I squint into the morning sunlight. The soldiers prod us out with the ends of their guns, and I stumble over myself and the others around me. Rough hands grab my arms and lift me out of the back of the truck and set me on the ground. Finally I blink my eyes open and look around. I'm in some kind of compound. Three concrete buildings form a square with the gate behind me. They surround a large patch of grass, and the whole compound is riddled with fencing and barbed wire. A line of fencing runs down the center of the grassy area almost to where we stand. Guard towers fill each corner of the square, and soldiers patrol the perimeter of the fence. Besides this small ragtag group of nomads and the soldiers, I can't see anyone else. The sky is perfectly blue overhead—not a cloud in sight—and it's too beautiful a day for where we are.

  I look around for Jack. I lost sight of him when the truck doors opened, and I feel like I've lost my anchor when I can't see him.

  There he is in the small line of six men. He's the youngest, and the oldest is probably sixty. The older man makes me think of Red, and I pray that he and Nell are still at the settlement and safe from the world. Jack keeps his eyes trained on the ground, but the nomad who was hunting us the night before last stares hard at him. I will him to look away, to ignore Jack, but he doesn't.

  Then there's an agent in front of me, and she flicks my face with her thumb and forefinger. It stings fiercely, and I put a hand to my cheek.

  “Hand down.”

  I drop my arm to my side.

  “Eyes down.”

  I study the scraggly grass by her shiny patent pumps.

  “You women will be taken to detox. You will shower and be treated for any communicable diseases. This is for your own safety as well as the safety of the others here. If you had been law-abiding citizens and followed the protocol to live within sanctioned cities, these measures would not need to be taken. Follow me.”

  As she turns, I look up. A male agent approaches the men. Where will they go?

  The woman next to me nods toward them. “What about the men?”

  The agent leading us stops, and the grass quivers under her feet. She doesn't even look back as she speaks. “You are not allowed to speak unless it is requested. Another infraction like this and you will be punished.”

  Then she resumes her pace, and we follow dumbly behind her. A soldier marches behind us. My cheek burns where the agent flicked me, and I wonder who is worse—the agent we follow or the soldier with his gun.

  The agent leads us to the concrete building on the right, and I glance sideways and see the men have gone to the building on the left. My stomach sinks as Jack disappears into the doorway. How much of him do I remember, and will memories be all I have now?

  We pass through the doors, and the smell of bleach, soap, and antiseptic burns my nostrils. The floors and walls are all tile, and we stop before a window set into the wall. An old woman stands there, and she looks more tired than anyone else I've ever seen in my life. Her thin, gray hair is loosely pulled back, and limp strands hang down around her face.

  “This is Worker 143,” the agent says, barely acknowledging the old woman. “If you show model behavior, you will be rewarded with positions like this one. Worker 143 is very happy here, aren't you?”

  The old woman's gaze never wavers from the one discolored tile on the wall. Her eyes are dull, her hair is dull, and her skin is dull. She could never pass as happy.

  “The detox procedure is as follows: first, hair. A breeding ground for lice and other vermin. Your hair will be s
haved.” As she says this, some of the women around me shift their weight, the most outrage they can safely express. The agent ignores them. “Second, shower. You will be hosed off and washed with antibacterial, antimicrobial soap. It may be harsh on your skin. Third, medical examination. A medical professional will examine each of you to ensure your physical health and determine if any inoculations are necessary.” She clasps her hands behind her back. “Take off all your clothing and give it to Worker 143. No outside materials are allowed inside our facility. After showering, you will receive approved clothing.”

  I glance around at the nine women. About half of their eyes hold nothing—no emotion at what's being asked of them, no outrage at being treated this way. Two of them look more exhausted than angry. The rest look the way I imagine I look right now. Livid. I'm to strip naked in front of these people I don't even know? Get rid of these clothes that are my only possessions in the world right now? Wear something the government tells me I have to?

  Anger flashes through my eyes. I'm sure the agent has seen it before because she crosses her arms over her chest, tilts her chin, and her eyes dare me to defy her. I'm not cowed by her look, but I know resisting is useless.

  I take my clothes off. I try not to look at the others around me; I try to give them that little scrap of privacy. As I unzip my pants, I remember the single crimson thread from the rug in the cabin. It's too small and hardly significant, but it's one thing I'm sure I can hide and keep. Some small way I can claim something as my own. My eyes find the agent. She's not looking at me; she's watching one of the hollow women who fumbles with her buttons. I slip my hand in my pocket and hide the string between two of my fingers.

  I give my clothes to Worker 143. As I pass them through the window, the first wave of expression passes over her face. Sadness. She takes my clothes and caresses them, as if she knows what they represent, and turns around, opens a metal grate, and dumps them down a chute. A blast of heat and a faint orange flicker tell me I'll never see those clothes again. I clutch the thread tighter, clinging to my last souvenir of the outside.