Thalia speaks through a muffled sob, asking what happens now.
My hysterical, paranoid mind gives me four possibilities.
John committed suicide—a shameful act in a world where the average life expectancy is twenty and not a single person has lived past twenty three in the last fourteen years.
Or he was caught breaking a rule and, since he was a respected member of both the community and the physician’s circle, they’re making his death nobler than being shot in the head. They’ll say he was so dedicated to his work that, in the end, it just got the better of him. He could have broken a rule. He could have. But is the rest of this thought just hope? Would the military who rule over us really respect my adopted brother enough to do this?
No.
Then maybe he caught a Strain. He was gone less than twenty four hours, but Strain Twelve can kill someone in less than six hours. It’s extremely rare, but it has been known to happen. But why lie about it?
Which brings me to my most extreme and jumpiest of thoughts: the military killed him.
I stumble out of my thoughts long enough to hear that there’ll be a closed-coffin burial next week, which is weird. Another red flag. Civilian deaths are given a run-of-the-mill mass grave burial. This only encourages my thoughts. They’re keeping something secret, shut up. ?
I shouldn’t want to question John’s death. I should want to leave it alone because what’s done is done, but there’s a throbbing ache in the front of my head telling me that I need to know what happened to him. And, Thalia should know the real cause of her brother’s death. She deserves to know how and what he died for, not this made up toxic substance crap. He might be my brother, by circumstance and having lived together for years, but he’s Thalia’s biological brother and she’s known him all her life. I know they struggled, as kids, like me and Tia, and I know it made them closer like it did for us too.
When the Official leaves, Thalia just shuts the door and leans against it. She doesn’t say a word for five minutes and I stand there, awkward and unknowing what to say.
“They wrong,” she says, startling me. I thought she’d believe what they told her. “They’re wrong,” she repeats. “That would never happen. Never.”
“It could have been an accident.” But I’m trying to convince myself more than her.
“When did John ever have accidents?” She chokes on a laugh, her cheeks splotchy. “When?”
“I don’t—“
“Exactly. You don’t know. Because he didn’t make mistakes. They’ve made it up. I don’t know why but they’ve made it up.”
“Thalia … maybe you … shouldn’t say that so loud.” It’s one thing to think it but another altogether to say it. My heart jumps into my throat—if the Official is still hovering outside … the door is really thin wood. But he’ll have gone by now, off to deliver more crushing news. When I peer through the letter box, the path outside is empty.
“Yeah, well, you know what? I really don’t care. My brother’s dead so I’m allowed to say whatever the hell I want.”
I drop my eyes to the sparse carpet in the hall. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry he’s dead.”
She’s quiet for a while before she whispers, thanks, and goes down the hallway.
I stand there, my body slack and heart empty, and slowly it dawns on me that there’s no way we can leave Forgotten London now. I can’t tell Thalia about that I went beyond the border or my plans for us all to leave the town. I can’t take my family away when it’s broken. I’d never ask Thalia to pack up everything and leave the only place that she has a chance of feeling connected to her brother. I can’t ask that of Horaita either, she loved John as much as Thalia did. And there’s definitely no way I can tell them why we need to leave, not now. This shock, this grief, is going to be bad enough without me adding to it.
But we can’t stay, not forever, not for long.
I rest my back against the wall and slide down it, onto my knees. I’m pressed in on both sides by the need to save my family and the overwhelming presence of death. John’s gone—my brother, the only brother I’ve ever known. Gradually, I become aware of the numbness sweeping through me.
***
Yosiah
17:20. 18.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd’s Bush Zone.
I’ve followed the Officials all the way through Shepherd’s Bush, and now it’s obvious they’re marching towards Hammersmith. I hope I’m wrong. I hope they’re just cutting through and going to Fulham Zone, or one of the zones over the river; Richmond, Wimbledon, or Clapham. They could even turn suddenly and head into Kensington Zone, but I doubt it. They’d have changed direction already. We’re less than five minutes away from Hammersmith. They’ll be going to Fulham Zone, I say to myself, just cutting through. It makes sense; it’s directly below Hammersmith and there’s always some minor crime taking place there because it’s the smallest zone and the people are packed together like sardines in a tin.
Smaller crime doesn’t justify this large number of Officials, though. I wish there was a way to rationalise it.
I’m worried about Miya. I know she can take care of herself but she’s vulnerable under her fire and venom and I don’t like to think of her alone on the streets. My place is with her, where I can protect her and she can protect me. Where she can always draw me out of this heavy melancholy.
I pray to a forgotten God that she’ll be alright. If she’s not I don’t know what I’ll do.
Ever since I’ve been out on my own, since my family left me on a street corner because they couldn’t cope with me, since Miya and I found each other one night when we were both running for our lives, since she healed and cured me from a minor Strain—not that the Officials want people to know you can recover from one—ever since we became friends, I’ve never had to learn how to live without her.
And I never want to.
When the Officials go right past Hammersmith’s centre street, I start to think they’re definitely going into Fulham Zone. But then we hit the river, turn right, and walk alongside it. There’s no mistaking now that the feeling that told me Honour was in trouble was right. I’ve sensed things before—impending violence, Officials around the corner, a gang trying to break into our shed—but nothing like this. This is pure instinct. And so far my instincts haven’t been wrong.
They’re not wrong now, because sure enough, the troop of military Officials turn up Honour’s road. My gut churns and I swallow, nervous not only to be so close to this many Officials but dreading what might happen now, to Honour.
I stay back and slip into the alley that runs along the backside of the houses. I can’t go marching into Honour’s house and tell him that I think the military are coming for him. He’d think I was mad if I explained why. And it’d just make him look nervous and suspicious to the Officials.
Anyway, I tell myself with stupid hope, there’s still a chance that they’re going to another house.
I crouch behind a low wall and watch through a gap in the bricks as the Officials stop three houses away. I’m confused, watching them, before something clicks. They’re going to try and pass off whatever this is as a routine house check. Stupid. This is so far from routine and the military procedure I learned in training that it’s ridiculous. It stands out a mile that this isn’t normal. If it was routine, there’d be fifteen Officials, they’d start at the house at the end of the road and work their way up.
I sit by the wall until they finish doing the checks on the other houses, then I inch forward and crouch under the kitchen window so that I can hear what goes on inside. A knock like thunder on Honour’s front door. Several male voices, then a woman talking, high pitched and wavering confused. Horatia? Thalia?
I flinch, startled at the sound of breaking glass. I want to jump into action, defend Honour, several years of muscle memory itching for me to fight, but I’d only make things worse.
I crouch there, tense, and listen to the sound of a home being destroyed.
&
nbsp; ***
Honour
17:27. 18.09.2040. Forgotten London, Shepherd’s Bush Zone.
There are Officials on our road. A whole troop of them in their sleek black uniforms and matching sleek hairstyles. Judging by the length of time they spend in each house leading up to our, it’s a house check. Or that’s what they’ll say. I’d put any sum of money on them leaving the road unchecked after they’ve done our house.
Time blurs, moving faster than normal, and then for the second time today there’s military hammering down our door. This time, it’s not just one guy. This time there’s so many they spill down the path and down the road. This time I answer it, and Thalia stays hidden in her bedroom.
I open the door and my breath gets stuck in my throat. I freeze. It’s different seeing them out of a window than seeing them amassed in front of me. I’d never be able to work my way out of a group this big. I’d be dead for sure if I put even a toe out of line. Horatia would be dead, and Thalia and her husband Wes, and the two families that live on the upper floor, their stairs walled off inside to separate the two floors. Or maybe they’d be lucky, spared.
The Official closest to me looks amused, his eyes a sparkling blue. He must have seen my distress. And he thinks it’s funny. Asshole. “Routine house check,” he announces in an airy tone, and then he barges his way into my house and begins to shout, “Routine house check, everyone out front.”
This is screwed up.
We’ve never had to leave the house before—we usually hover in the hallway while they bang about, looking for illegal stuff and searching us discreetly for signs of the Strains—but an Official grips my bicep hard and pulls me into the middle of the road. I stand there, my arms crossed over my chest, trying not to stare at the black-clad figures around me, trying not to look suspicious. I glue my eyes to our door, watching for my sister, wanting to run inside and protect her. But again, I need to not look suspicious. A kid running is enough cause for Officials to pull them aside, let alone a black kid.
Tia joins me a minute later, in a pair of loose cotton trousers and a holey cardigan that she’d never be seen dead out in. We may have a laughable amount of money but Horatia makes an effort to look well put together when she leaves the house. I think it’s her way of showing people she doesn’t care what they think. The more they sneer or throw wary glances, the higher she stands just to defy them.
Thalia’s out next, tear stained and slumped, her dark head bowed, followed by Wes who looks bigger and more uncomfortable than normal—and he usually looks big and uncomfortable. He crosses his eyes over his chest, clearly pissed off, but scared enough to not look any military in the eye. He tries to tuck Thalia under his arm but an Official moves them apart with cruel hands. The Officials are giving Thalia a wide berth for some reason.
With us secured in the middle of a swarm of Officials, thirty of them crash into our home and turn it upside down. The sound of them destroying our stuff is loud in the silent street. I hold my breath, and I swear the rest of the world does. None of our neighbours come past their front doors to see what’s happening, but I see curtains shifting and I know we’re being watched.
I want to grab Horatia’s hand and bring her close but don’t attempt it—they won’t let me, if they won’t let Wes and Thalia hold each other. But Tia stays close to me, her body stiff and her jaw clenched. She’s been home for barely twenty minutes, had to deal with the news that John is dead, and has now been turfed out of her home while it’s being trashed. I watch it wear on her, watch her fight tears.
A house check should take fifteen minutes at the most. This one takes more than double that. They’re looking for something. Something of John’s? I remember the papers all over the living room, still in my back pocket, and feel like a light just fixed on me, showing the Officials what I have. I make my hands unclench, my shoulders relax; it’s not easy.
It’s too big a coincidence, isn’t it, that they tell us John has died and search our house on the same day. They’re connected, this to his murder.
Murder—because now I’m sure. It wasn’t the Strains that took him, and he didn’t commit suicide, or have a damn chemical accident. The military killed him because he knew something or did something or broke a rule. My chest burns with anger but also a bit of gratitude—to myself for pocketing John’s papers, to Thalia for making me clear the living room. If she hadn’t, the Officials would have found everything. Maybe we’d even be incriminated for whatever John’s crime was; guilty by association. Whatever John’s crime was.
What the hell is in these notes?
Minutes pass, and the Official in charge comes back into the street and shakes his head at a man I take to be his second in command. He tells the four of us—me, Tia, Wes, and Thalia—to stand in a line. I shuffle into place, my gut roiling. From a large plastic box, the man with slimy hair and a slimier expression removes four clear wallets with a load of unfamiliar objects inside. Fear grips my chest, squeezes tight.
He says, “You may be aware that The Forgotten London Census is in the process of updating their records.” This is a lie. The census is only updated when someone dies or is born. “An aid worker will take a record of your fingerprints and a blood sample, and then you’re free to return to your home. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Only when I’m looking do I see that scattered amongst the soldiers who enforce laws and deal with criminals are seven aid workers, not as muscular or as mean as the rest. They’re dressed in black, like the military, but their coats drop to the knee instead of mid-thigh, and the lapels are different. Their hats are practically the same except the States flag embroidered on the side has a white cross emblem in the corner instead of stars. The Officials scare me, but the aid workers send a pure bolt of terror chasing through my veins as they come near.
One approaches me, and three others step up to Tia, Wes, and Thalia. I fight for breath, my vision wavering for a second. The woman in front of me, blond hair poking from beneath her hat and a flat expression on her face, takes a clear wallet—which I now notice has a personal label on with my name, I.D. photo, citizen number, address, and risk factor on. My risk factor is 48%. I’m about fifty percent at risk of catching one of the Strains, not bad for my age. A few years ago it was sixty percent; I’m not quite sure why it went down when it usually goes up the older you get, but I’m hardly complaining. People with lower risk factors live longer.
The aid worker takes my left index finger, her cold hand a shock, and pushes it onto an ink pad and then onto a miniature book of paper. She does the same with my right thumb, and then I’m required to write my signature on a separate page, my name in lowercase on another, and the finally my name in full capitals. I feel sick. The census is really going to town on this. If they’re not careful it might become obvious that they’re collecting evidence for a trial.
Not that anyone gets trials in this town—we just get executed. So why all the fingerprints?
After the prints and the handwriting, the aid worker pricks my left middle finger with a needle and then covers the head of a cotton bud in my blood. I’m genuinely surprised they don’t ask to swab the inside of my cheek. Maybe that would make what they’re doing a bit too obvious. Or maybe I shouldn’t read—and reread—the crime novels I stole from a library when I was a kid.
The aid worker puts everything back in the wallet, even the needle which I suppose will come in handy if they somehow manage to contaminate my blood sample, and then gives me a tissue for my bleeding finger.
When the woman moves away, I breathe a bit easier. The tightness in my chest doesn’t ease, but it does let up. I look outside my bubble of fear to my sister; she meets my eyes, hers filled with apprehension and something sharper, as the aid worker finishes taking her samples.
When it’s done, and the aid workers move back to their places in the troop of Officials enclosed around us, the guy in charge tells us we can return to our house. I reach for Horatia’s hand, and she grips mine as tightly
as I do hers.
The curtains in the houses around us flutter as everyone realises that the entertainment’s over. The military get back into formation when we scuttle out of the way and they march away. By this point all our neighbours know that we, and only we, have just been investigated.
I meet Wes’s eyes, see my own suspicion and fear there. Thalia lets out a soft swear word and trudges back to our house. Even from a few feet away I can see her hands shaking.
“What will I say at work?” Tia sighs as we get back to the destruction that was our room. She runs a hand over her face, down her braid. She looked as tired as I feel on the inside—like I could fall asleep and my body, used up and with nothing left, could just shut down overnight.
I sink onto the bed, dropping my head into my hands. At least the mattress is where we left it, and the curtains still in place. “Tell them John died of the Strains, and we were searched for disease and cleared. Everyone saw the Officials just leave. If any of us had one of the Strains, they’d have taken us into custody.”
“Don’t say it like that,” she scolds, kicking aside a fragment of our wardrobe. “They don’t take us into custody. It’s not like being arrested. They take us to the hospital so we’re comfortable before we die.”
A muscle in my jaw twitches. “They take us to the labs where they can study us before we’re put down.”
Her eyes flash but her voice has none of that fire. “You don’t know that.”
My laugh tears up my throat. I feel like I’ve been screaming for hours. “It doesn’t take a genius to work it out, Horatia.”
She opens her mouth to say something and then snaps it shut. Instead she directs her gaze to the doorway.
“Sorry to interrupt your argument,” Thalia says, and she really does look sorry. Wow, two apologies from her in such a short space of time. She’s really changing her life around. “I need to tell you something.”
“What is it?” Tia asks. She’s gone stock still. No good conversation begins with I need to tell you something.
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