Filtered

by G. K. Lamb

  Farther down the street, the crooked shapes of soot-covered children buckle under the weight of chamber pots on their way to dump them in the street. The van filters the outside air but even so it is impossible for it to eliminate the entirety of the putrid smell. I feel tears welling in my eyes. All the days I shook out my ash-covered overcoat and thought how dirty I was, the shower was always there to take it away. I’ve never eaten a meal where I had to endure the harsh, burning taste of ash. I’ve always had plumbing and clean air. Their situation is worse than mine—I can’t deceive myself of that—but we are both victims of the same injustice. Damian believes that because I have lived a comfortable life that I am less committed, or less able, to fight for change. Most of these people probably feel the way he does. I have to find a way to convince them that for there to be any hope of rebuilding our society we need to be unified. Without unity our cause will be as futile as pushing a broom at the falling ash.

  The route is long and winding. Moving slowly to navigate the streets I have half an hour to silently gaze at the misery of the people of the Under City. Each new scene of suffering builds on the last and by the time we pull into their garage and the door closes behind us, I feel as brittle as glass. Any moment I feel that I might shatter and there would be no way to put the pieces together.

  We sit in silence for a moment. All of us seem to be dazed from the recent whirlwind. Victor’s steady tone breaks the tension.

  “Despite everything that just happened, and everything we’ve said,” said Victor as he turns toward Damian with a pained look on his face, but I know he’s speaking to me, “we are glad to have found you and we look forward to getting to know you.”

  Damian stares at me and after a long moment under his withering stare, he grunts in agreement. Without another moment’s pause, Damian and Victor exit the van in silence. Together they walk through the only door in the small garage and disappear. My head feels like a lead weight and nausea builds with every slight movement. I focus on each breath to take my attention away from the building bile and the throbbing wounds. Now alone with the images of the Under City, I allow a few tears to fall. I let them fall until I feel some stability return. Wiping my face with my jumper’s soiled sleeve, I slide the van door open and step into the garage. The stench hits me first. Bracing myself for what is to come, I turn the knob on the small door and enter the house.

  The rooms are small. The floor is black from the soot tracked in on soiled feet, but in a few places the dull orange floral design of the linoleum peeks through like a ray of sun in a storm. The walls are covered in wallpaper in a similar style as the floor but the colors have long since faded away leaving only grey. Hanging on the walls are elegantly framed black and white family portraits from a bygone era. As I walk down a short hallway, the sound of voices grows louder. Opening the narrow door at the end of the hallway, I step into a small kitchen. Damian and Victor stand in the middle of the room, glasses of murky water in their hands. The only other person in the room is a tall, lean man with a leathered and deeply wrinkled face. He is standing at the sink filling two glasses with the murky water flowing from the tap.

  “I’m glad you decided to join us,” Victor says, turning to face me.

  “This is just a lot to take in all at once so I hope you don’t mind if I take it a little slow.” I try and mask my pain and discomfort from my voice.

  “You aren’t the first person we’ve had down in the Under City for the first time. Take as much time as you need.”

  Turning the tap off, the old man at the sink turns to face Victor.

  “Victor, it’s rude to invite guests into my house without introducing them to me.”

  “My apologies, Mr. Herrington. We found this young woman crawling out of the subversive’s indoctrination center.”

  “Did you? And what, may I ask, is her name?”

  Victor lets out an embarrassed laugh.

  “In all the commotion I never thought to ask. What is your name?” Victor asks. His face turning darker shades of red under Mr. Herrington’s gaze.

  I step forward extending my hand. “Evelyn Brennen. Thank you for allowing me into your home Mr. Herrington. If it weren’t for Damian and Victor, I would be dead right now.”

  “In all the commotion she was able to learn both of your names but you didn’t have the decency to learn hers?”

  Shaking his head, Mr. Herrington crosses the small kitchen in two steps. He extends his hand toward me. I take it firmly, looking him square in the eye.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine young lady. Please have a glass of water. You look as if you’ve been through the wringer twice.”

  Mr. Herrington walks back to the sink and picks up the two glasses. I meet him halfway, taking the glass from his hand.

  “To new friends,” toasts Mr. Herrington.

  “To new friends,” we echo back.

  I raise the murky water to my lips and take a gulp. It tastes acrid, almost sour, but having been parched and borderline dehydrated for hours, I drink it down greedily. The water has an immediate rejuvenating effect. Despite the knot on my head, the gouges in my fingers, and the swelling bruises on my stomach, I almost feel good. Finishing his glass too, Mr. Herrington takes mine from me and sets it on the counter.

  “Let’s move into the sitting room, my joints need a little rest.”

  Victor, Damian, and I nod in agreement and follow Mr. Herrington out of the small kitchen into the adjacent sitting room. The room is larger than the kitchen but still cramped. The wallpaper continues, along with the floor, giving the whole house a cohesive feel. Two wing backed chairs sit across from a couch. In the corner, a small coal fire burns in the fireplace, filling the room with warmth.

  Victor takes a seat on the couch after helping Mr. Herrington down. Damian and I both take an empty chair. The chair is old, and the springs have long since stopped being supportive, but my tired body relishes in the comfort.

  “So, Miss Brennan, how did you come to be in the unfortunate circumstances my two friends found you in?”

  Over the next hour, I tell the events of the last few months that have led me to where I am. Beginning with the newscast, I spare no detail. When it came time to describe my experience in the Oracle Device, the images, sounds, and sensations I experienced in it returned to me with near-perfect clarity. Talking about my torture, however, is extremely difficult. My words trail off, and I murmur, having to repeat myself often to get it out.

  Victor and Mr. Herrington’s faces both ebb and flow with emotion as I tell my story, but never once did I see even a glimmer of empathy on Damian’s face. I tell them everything up until I walked willingly into the van. Then, leaning back into my chair, I take a deep breath. The fact that all of it actually happened to me in such a short span of time is a little overwhelming and feels almost like a delusion. Pain, however, reminds me it was all too real. With the story over, Mr. Herrington leans forward to address me.

  “That is quite the story. I’m sorry that at such a young age you have had to endure such hardships.”

  Damian scoffs loudly. Mr. Herrington throws him a sharp glare then refocuses on me.

  “But that being said, I’m glad it all happened. You have chosen a path so few ever do, and with such courage and determination too! Battered and beaten, you sit before me confident and ready to continue. I envy your youth and your burning desire for truth.”

  “I would say thank you, but I did not do what I have done for praise.”

  “And that is why you need to be thanked all the more. But I digress. What I’m really saying thank you for is viewing that storage device. We have been trying to convince Margaret to give it to us for years now, but we were never able to sway her. Seeing you reminds me of her in her younger days before they broke her.”

  Mr. Herrington’s eyes water up as he recalls a young
, vibrant Margaret.

  “They let her live but they murdered her soul. She was never the same after prison, and it didn’t take them long to force her to be their lackey.”

  “Margaret was working with them? I guess that makes sense, how else would they have pieced everything together so quickly?”

  “Correct.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes turning sad. “It’s all starting to come together. The subversives are a part of Caretaker’s state apparatus. The woman who tortured you is undersecretary to High Caretaker Domhnall, Ursula Fowler. Yours is not the first tale of torture and barbarity that I have heard concerning her. She was in charge of the last cycle of violence and I don’t think this city can endure that kind of terror and bloodshed again. The only reason she gets away with her handiwork is because she increased the number of new recruits and Peace Bonds so much that the Caretakers were willing to overlook the human cost. Every generation of overlords becomes more and more comfortable with spending human lives like currency.”

  “How close is she from starting the bombings and murders?” I ask.

  “It’s hard to tell. Victor and Damian are my eyes and ears and their people are also great information sleuths, but we’ve never been able to get inside to judge their strength for ourselves. It could be months, or tonight; it’s too hard to tell.”

  The swirling fragments of information begin to coalesce. As they fall into place, recent events take on a more solid dimension. I turn to face Victor. His eye is beginning to return to its normal size.

  “You were bugging them through that ventilation duct and that’s why I was able to kick it free.”

  He nods slowly. “We spent the last few nights scoping out a way in. When we found that ventilation cover, we removed the fasteners while still making it look un-tampered. Tonight was supposed to be the night we put a bug in, so you can imagine our surprise when you fell out.” He pauses for a breath. He looks at me with such intensity as if he is looking into me. “That was a stroke of luck for both of us.” The corner of his mouth turns up into a mischievous hook. A flash of warmth envelopes me. I feel roses form on my cheeks.

  “There is no doubt about that,” Mr. Herrington adds with genuine warmth in his words, interrupting the growing embarrassment between Victor and I.

  Thankful for his intervention, I shift back to face Mr. Herrington.

  “Has what I’ve told you helped any?”

  Sitting back in the couch Mr. Herrington looks up at the ceiling. A pensive look overtakes his kind face. He collects his thoughts before he speaks.

  “What troubles me is the Oracle Device. Fowler’s connection to it suggests that she’s using it on the subversive recruits. Peace Officers and Guardians go through a similar process, but in newer, less intrusive machines that are meant to reinforce loyalty to the Caretakers. She would surely have access to those facilities so her use of the Oracle Device is highly troubling.”

  Damian stirs from his long silence. “The only reason she would use it is if whatever she’s imprinting the recruits with is something she doesn’t want the Caretakers to know about. That would be the only reason for the secrecy.”

  Mr. Herrington reaches his hand up enthusiastically. His knobby, arthritic fingers dance with excitement. “You may have hit upon something Damian. That may also be why Fowler is using Margaret to disperse the devices instead of herself. That way she can insulate herself if any of her higher-ups find out.”

  “Whatever she’s up to, there is no doubt in my mind that it is nefarious,” Victor says.

  “We need to go talk to Margaret. She should be able to fill in the missing links,” I say.

  “That seems our best course of action. Hopefully Fowler has not done anything to her and she feels willing to talk.”

  Damian stands up abruptly. “I’ll gas up the van and put the seats back in for you two.”

  “We’ll head out as soon as you’re done, Damian.”

  Damian nods to Mr. Herrington then leaves the room silently. Victor stands and helps Mr. Herrington up. Victor stabilizes Mr. Herrington for a moment as he gains his legs.

  “Wait here a moment, Miss Brennan, Victor and I will scrounge up a change of clothes, shoes, and a mask for you. They’ll be looking for you, but if you’re dressed differently and wearing a mask, we should be able to pass through the city unnoticed.”

  I smile for the first time in a long while. Mr. Herrington smiles back. They head off back toward the kitchen, leaving me alone in the sitting room. I shift in the chair to get comfortable and it responds with a noisy groan. I look at the coal fire smoldering dimly in the fireplace and hope Margaret is still ok.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Driving out of the Under City onto the main roads proves a starker contrast than I imagined. The sun has risen, illuminating the shadows, and the world is lit in its omnipresent glow. The buildings above are also tightly packed, but with alleys separating them, open space seems abundant in comparison. Ash still falls, but with the constant presence of street sweepers it never accumulates more than a few centimeters before it is whisked away. Even the most run-down and poor neighborhoods have air filters and plumbing. It’s hard to imagine that only a few hours ago I had never known this world beneath my feet and I had taken its hardships and the efforts of its people for granted.

  Mr. Herrington and Victor were able to find me clothes and an overcoat that fit, although the shoes and mask are both a size too large; my toes wiggle freely in the end of my boots and the rubber of the mask fails to make a seal. Good thing I don’t actually need it. The idea of wearing a mask is repulsive but it’s a necessary disguise so I tolerate its restricting presence on my face. The ride in the van is much more pleasant with a seat. Damian drives at a leisurely pace, following traffic laws to the letter. We do nothing to distinguish us from the sea of other soot-covered vans obediently waiting in line.

  The roads are congested, as usual, and what would have taken half an hour on foot takes twice as long in traffic. This lengthy rest is a welcome change from the running and constant physical exertion I’ve done over the last few days but it is nerve wracking not knowing what may be happening to Margaret. I try not to think of the worst but I can’t imagine Fowler doing anything else. I sigh out loud, catching Mr. Herrington’s attention. As he sits next to me, I see his warm, old face in more detail. His nose shows signs of having been broken multiple times and his right ear is missing a piece of the lobe. His eyes are a rich brown with speckles of green.

  “What’s wrong, Miss Brennan? We should be there shortly.” His words soothe like water.

  “I’m worried that we’re too late. I have a bad feeling that Fowler did more than reprimand her. That woman is paranoid and sadistic and she’s capable of unspeakable things.”

  “I share your distress, but there was nothing we could have done earlier. Hopefully she is still there, but if not, and if they’ve taken her, I know where she would have left a note.”

  “Do you know Margaret well?”

  “Back when we were both young, I was her first real boyfriend. We shared a fire, much like yours, that burned for truth. We wrote pamphlets, hung up posters, and dreamed of the utopia our actions would bring about. When the Caretakers finally found us, they tortured us. They extinguished her flame. After prison she wanted to try and live her life oblivious of the oppression and tyranny of the Caretakers, but I was still young and full of fire, so we drifted apart. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret my decision to walk away from her.”

  I place my hand on Mr. Herrington’s leg. He smiles at me warmly; tears pool in his brown-green eyes. Damian’s voice snaps us back to the present task.

  “Pay attention, we’re getting close. I’ll make a pass before we commit to stopping. Look for Peace Officers, subversives, anyone out of place. If it looks too hot, we’ll come back later.”

  Taking my eyes off of Mr. Herrington, I begin s
canning the street. At first the street seems normal. An endless throng of trench coat-wearing, mask-covered people push and pull their way through in an endless swarm. Looking closer, between the momentary pauses in the stream, I see that Peace Officers stand sentinel. They are perched against walls and behind lamp posts and are easily missed at first glance.

  “I see at least three Peace Officers across the street from the front door,” I say.

  “They’re watching this place too close. We’d never make it past the front door,” Damian says.

  “Agreed,” says Mr. Herrington. “I’m too old to run or fight. I say we wait until they leave.”

  “We can still make it in,” I say. “If you drop me off up the street I can find my way through the alley and slip through the window.”

  “I’m sure they’ve closed that by now. Besides, there are probably Peace Officers in the alley,” Victor says.

  “We can’t risk you getting caught. They already have you on their radar from earlier, and once Fowler finds out you’re in custody they’ll either lock you away the rest of your life or execute you. I don’t want your blood on my hands,” says Mr. Herrington.

  “We need to know what happened,” I say. “We can’t wait much longer. I’m willing to take the risk, and no disrespect, but I will do this with or without your permission.”

  Damian turns around from the driver’s seat seething. “Damn it, girl! We’re not your enemies. We want to find out what is going on just as badly as you do, but something has already happened to Margaret, and we can’t afford to lose anyone else. There are so few of us.”