Boy 23

by Jim Carrington

  As I stand and pry at the fish, I think about the best way to do it. Yomp right in there and grab one with my hands? Try and stab one with my knife?

  Or maybe I could do what I saw in one of the fishing clips on The Screen – they had a net and they scooped the fish into it. The bag could be my net. I empty the contents on to the ground, and when the bag’s empty I take off my shoes and socks and roll my trousers up until they’re above my ankles.

  As soon as I step into the water, I realise it’s freezing cold and way deeper than I thought, coming up above my knees.

  But I’m in here now. And I have to do this. I roll my shirtsleeves up and stand still, letting the water settle again, squizzing for the fish. They’re still there, moving their tails but staying exactly where they are. They must be pretty stupid, if they don’t realise what I’m gonna do. But who cares? I get ready with the bag. And in my head I count:

  One

  Two

  Three . . .

  I break the surface of the water, plunging the bag down and swishing it in the direction of the fish, only it isn’t as easy as the big squawk made it seem, cos as soon as the bag’s in the river it doesn’t move so fast and I have to kind of drag it through the water.

  I lift the bag back out of the river. The water drains slowly out of it and all over me, until I hold it away from my body. When all the water’s gone, I squizz inside. There’s no fish in there, just a few little stones. I sigh, tip the bag up to let the stones plop back into the water. And then I try again. Plunge my bag in the river where the fish are, try to swish it through the water and then watch them all escape.

  I’ve gotta come up with a better plan, haven’t I? I’ve gotta outsmart the fish.

  I ready myself for another go. This time I sink the bag under the water and hold it there. I let the water settle before looking for the fish. And you know what? They must be even more stupid than anything, cos there they are again, swimming real close to me.

  I step just a little closer, so slow they don’t even seem to notice me. And then, when I’m within swooping distance, I steady myself, count to three in my head:

  One

  Two

  Three . . .

  I swoop, faster this time, bringing the bag up from underneath them, pulling it up to the surface so they can’t get away. And when it comes out of the river and all the water starts draining out, I can tell that it’s worked, cos there’s fish in there, flapping about as the water drains away.

  I yomp back through the river and climb on to the bank. As soon as the bag’s on the riverbank the fish skip in the air, flicking their tails, gasping, trying to get out. And it kind of makes me feel bad. Cos that’s them dying, isn’t it? I did that to them.

  I try and grab them up and they slip from my hands. But eventually I manage to get them all back in the bag at the same time and tighten the toggle, so they can’t get out and I can’t see them die.

  And I think about the clips on The Screen. I need a fire to cook the fish and to keep me warm, don’t I? Cos that water was cold and now my teeth are clacking against each other and my skin feels numb. So I start squizzing around for wood to make the fire, and a few minutes later I set to work with the firelighting kit. I’ve watched this so many times on The Screen. I sit cross-legged, place a small ball of cotton wool on the ground and bend over it, striking the metal key against the stone over and over again, sparks flying off it. Only it isn’t as easy as it looked on The Screen, cos although I can feel my hands and fingers again, they’re so cold that they’re clumsy and won’t do exactly what I want them to.

  It takes a while. But eventually a spark flies off and lands in the cotton wool ball. Immediately it starts to burn and smoke. I pick the cotton wool up, bring it towards my face and blow on the smouldering spark. The ball glows, then releases a great cloud of smoke when I stop. I blow again, until I feel dizzy and I can see spots dancing in front of my eyes. The spark glows brighter. I blow again until – WOOF – there’s a small flame.

  I place the cotton wool ball carefully amongst the leaves and twigs at the base of the fire and watch as the flames start to take hold. I feed the fire with tiny sticks and then bigger branches. And when the fire’s burning and it doesn’t look like it’s about to go out, I grab the blanket from the ground and wrap it around myself.

  Gawping at the blaze, I remember how I used to stare at the clip of a fire for ages, watching the flames flicker, and how I’d start to feel sleepy. But what I saw on The Screen is nothing compared to the real thing – the heat coming off it, warming my skin and my bones. The smell as the wood burns. The sound as the fire crackles and spits. It’s amazing.

  I go back to the bag, open it up and the sight I see is horrible. Dead fish – glazed eyes, mouths open, bodies stiff and lifeless. Only I’m too hungry to feel bad for them. This is the only food I’ve got, isn’t it? If I don’t eat, I’ll end up as dead as the fish.

  The clip I saw on The Screen, the first thing they did to the fish before cooking them was they cut them open and took their guts out. Then they put them on sticks and cooked them over the fire.

  And that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.

  I grab the knife, flick up the sharp blade and start on the biggest fish, slitting its belly open and looking inside. Blood leaks out right away, and the air fills with a stink. I grab on to the most likely-looking thing inside the fish – something slippery and pink and tiny – and I pull. A whole load of shiny, slippery, bloody stuff comes flopping out and the stink gets ten times stronger.

  When the first fish is ready, I start on the next one and the next one and then the last tiny one. I give them a quick wash in the river. And then I find some sticks and sharpen them with the knife, before sticking them right through the middle of the little dead fishes.

  Not long after I’ve put the fish over the fire, they change colour and shrivel. I watch the dead eyes of the fish as they dry out and harden and don’t look like eyes any more. The air fills with the kind of food smells that make my belly feel like it needs feeding. And I can’t wait any longer; I have to eat them now, so I take them off the fire and lay them out on a rock.

  The skin peels off and the flesh comes easily away from the tiny bones. I grab up all the flesh, cram it into my mouth and scoff like I’ve never eaten before. One fish. Two fish. Three fish. Four fish. And it tastes better than any food I’ve ever had in my life. Juicy and meaty and smoky and hot and delicious. Almost as soon as I’ve started, it’s all gone. Just bones and skin and the heads and the tails remain. And even though I’m still hungry, I’m not eating that, so I toss it all on to the embers of the fire and watch it shrivel and blacken and slowly turn into ash and dust and smoke.

  I put my bag to dry on a branch over the fire and stare at the clouds of steam that rise from it. And as I’m staring I realise that maybe I can do this. I can survive out here. I can find my own food and cook it.

  When the bag’s dry, I leave it to cool for a while. And then I pack everything back into it and head north-west.

  Carina

  The wagon trundles along potholed roads right out to the edge of town. We stop when we reach two rows of bombed-out houses facing each other. The houses have been that way since New Dawn seized control. The people who lived here are either long dead or else they learned to shut up and agree with New Dawn and were housed elsewhere.

  We jump down from the wagon.

  ‘You all know what to do,’ Father Muller says as we stand around on the road. ‘Carry on working in the property you were in yesterday.’

  He claps his hands twice and everyone hurries off, taking gloves and saws from the back of the wagon and moving to a building.

  Everyone except me. I was working in the kitchens yesterday, so I stay where I am until Father Muller points me in the direction of the closest house on the right-hand side, with the instruction: ‘You’ll work with Hans. Make sure there isn’t a scrap of wood left inside that house. Load it all on to the wagon, then we take i
t to the power station.’

  Inside the house, I see evidence that someone’s stayed here recently – a scorched mark on the floor where they had a fire, and a few discarded items of clothing. I shift the clothing aside with my foot to inspect it. But then Hans calls me. ‘Come over here and help me with this.’

  I look over. He’s struggling to lift a large wooden beam that was once part of the roof and is now wedged across the room.

  ‘Grab the other end.’

  I rush over and take hold of the other end and together we lift. The beam is heavy and pretty much wedged in place. We lift and we turn, over and over again, until eventually, between us, we manage to move it and bring it to rest on the floor.

  ‘I’ll saw; you carry the pieces out to the wagon,’ Hans says.

  To me that sounds like a good division of labour, so I nod. And as he saws and sweats, I pick up the sections of beam and take them out to the wagon, taking my time before tossing them on to the pile that’s starting to grow there. I ignore Father Muller’s disapproving glance.

  On the walk back to the house, after dumping another load of wood, something catches my eye. The wind carries a piece of paper fluttering into my path. I jog a couple of steps and pick it up before it blows away.

  I turn it over and my heart races. It’s a leaflet, and written right across the top are the words ‘The Spirit of Resistance’.

  My mind immediately fills with memories of Dad. He was leader of the Resistance in our town, a long time ago. New Dawn killed pretty much all the members though.

  I look closely at the leaflet. A defaced picture of Commander Brune – head of New Dawn – stares angrily out of the centre. I shiver.

  Being caught with a leaflet like this is enough to get me arrested. Or worse. I glance around and notice Father Muller looking my way. I quickly fold the leaflet, put it inside my coat pocket and get back to work.

  Jesper

  There’s a thought that pops into my mind every now and then. I used to think it in My Place, but I thought it was just a crazy thing to think. But as I’m walking through the forest, the thought comes back to me:

  Maybe I’m the only person in the whole world.

  It makes sense, doesn’t it? Cos that would explain why I’ve never seen anyone else.

  When I was in My Place it was just me and The Voice and Feathers, wasn’t it? And when I used to think the thought, I used to tell myself that I was wrong, that there were plenty of people in the outside world. Only now I’m in the outside world, aren’t I? And there’s no one around. Maybe my thought was right all along.

  I’m walking along, thinking that thought, when suddenly I see something up ahead.

  Amongst all the greens and browns and greys of leaves and trees and sky, I spot stone. Loads of it. Buildings. Like a village or something. I walk closer and find a sign, with the word ‘SCHWEILSZELDORF’ written on it. And stuck over that sign there’s another one – a faded yellow one, same as I saw at that building yesterday. ‘WARNUNG. NICHT BETRETEN. KONTAMINIERTER BEREICH’. And I’m thinking that Schweilszeldorf sounds like a place name, doesn’t it? But the other sign, well, I still don’t know what that means. I walk forward cautiously, remembering what The Voice said when he left me in the woods. Stay away from people and towns. But I walk on, don’t I? Cos I have to know what’s here.

  Only, when I get to the buildings, they’re just as empty and broken as the other place. Which is strange, isn’t it? Cos I thought the idea of buildings is that people built them to live in. That’s what The Voice said. So where are the people?

  But it gives me an idea. If these buildings are empty, maybe I can stay here tonight. They might look broken down, but they’ve gotta be better than sleeping out in the open with the animals, haven’t they? At least they have walls.

  The first building I get to looks like a house. There are metal panels screwed across where the windows should be. Some of the panels have faded writing scrawled on them in big white letters. Things like ‘New Dawn’ and ‘verpiss dich’. And even though I understand some of the words, I don’t understand why they’re written there.

  I find a window where a big sheet of metal’s fallen off and there’s a gap which I can get through.

  The inside’s kind of like the one I was in last night – nothing much except dust and dirt and squawk dung and burnt wood, like someone had a fire in here (or maybe it got hit by a bomb). But there’s more stuff in this one. There’s carpet on the floor and faded pictures of people on the walls – the same four people in each picture. I walk through into another room and my heart leaps. Cos the room is full of chairs and a little table (busted up and covered in dirt) and over in one corner there’s a screen sitting on a table.

  Straight away, millions of thoughts fizz around my brain. Cos if there’s a screen, maybe I can speak to The Voice. This is what I’ve been looking for the whole time. And thinking that thought makes my whole body feel light. I’m gonna speak to The Voice and find out what’s happening.

  I yomp across the room and reach my hand out to the screen. I run my hand across it to wake it. Only nothing happens except for my fingers getting dusty.

  I try again – swipe my fingers across the screen and wait.

  Nothing but dust.

  I try again and again and again. But the screen stays black.

  I give it a bang on the side.

  And I wait.

  But nothing happens, does it?

  It stays blank. Useless. Dead.

  And suddenly something inside me snaps. I’ve had enough of it all.

  I pick the screen up and lift it over my head and smash it to the floor.

  And if it wasn’t dead before, it sure is now. It’s just a mess of broken glass and wires and plastic amongst the squawk dung and dirt and dust.

  Straight away I wish I hadn’t done that. I feel stupid.

  But I can’t change it now, can I? It’s done.

  So I leave it behind me, go to another room.

  The next room I find myself in is dark and gloomy and dirty like the others. When my eyes get used to the dim light, I see there’s a sink and some cupboards. It’s the kitchen. I go straight to the sink, getting my empty bottle out of the bag as I go.

  I turn the tap. Only it doesn’t really want to turn. And even when I do manage to turn it, nothing comes out except a squeak and then a thunking sound. I try the other tap and that doesn’t work either.

  I decide to search for food instead and try the cupboards. Cos there must be some food, mustn’t there? The first one I look in is full of cups and glasses and bowls – all broken. The next is the same. And the next too. And in the last cupboard, when I open it, all I see is emptiness.

  So I abandon the kitchen and start to climb some steps that lead up to another part of the house. I get the torch out of the bag and give it a wind, counting to a hundred in my head as I do it, and then use the torch beam to light the way.

  And as I climb I realise my heart’s thudding and my hands feel all sweaty. My body’s telling me I should be careful. There could be something dangerous up here.

  Except, when I get up there, it’s just more of the same. There’s a room with a toilet and a sink and a tap in it. So I use the toilet – cos I haven’t seen one since I left My Place and I need to go – and it isn’t until it’s too late that I see there isn’t any water in the toilet bowl, and when I flush nothing happens except for a clunking noise. No water. And none in the taps either.

  I squizz around the other rooms up here too, but there isn’t anything except smashed-up wardrobes and a bed that’s collapsed.

  I go back downstairs and back out of the window I came in through.

  And I search the other houses, finding nothing that works, nothing I can use.

  It doesn’t make sense – all these houses, filled with people’s things but no people. I can’t figure it out. And every time I try, my mind fills with that thought again, the one that I know can’t be true: what if I’m the only person left in
the world? What if I’m dead and this is me in heaven or hell or whatever, just yomping around on my own forever?

  And I’m yomping around, trying to dodge all the confusing thoughts, when I stumble on something.

  An answer.

  The first one I’ve had in two days.

  But it isn’t a nice one. It’s one that sets my heart thudding faster than ever.

  It’s a man. And he’s holding a gun. And beside him there’s a great big hound, baring its teeth like it wants to eat me.

  Blake

  The sensor beeps as I press my pass against it. The lock clunks open. I push the door and enter the building, heading straight for the stairs to my quarters on the first floor. After I’ve climbed a few steps, I stop though. Voices echo down the stairwell from the floors above, making me suspicious. I take the remaining steps cautiously.

  When I reach the first floor, I discover that’s where the voices are coming from. The door to my quarters stands open, the lanky figure of Henwood blocking the doorway. He watches as I walk towards him, taking a step to his left to block my way.

  ‘What’s going on, Henwood?’

  ‘I can’t let you in.’

  ‘Why not? These are my quarters. I need to get in.’

  He sighs. ‘I’m sorry, Blake. Mr Huber’s instructions.’

  I run my hand through my hair. ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Boy 23’s disappearance. They’re carrying out searches of everyone’s quarters.’

  I stand for a second, saying nothing, thinking what to do. Demand to be let in? Barge past Henwood?

  No.

  I turn on my heel and head back down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  At the main facility, armed men still stand guard. I scan my pass and the doors swish open, and then I hurry along the corridors to Huber’s office. His door’s closed. I open it and walk inside.