by T. C. Edge
I spend the next hour attempting to gather more intel about the latest explosion. The reports on TV only give me so much, but I learn that it was a production and storage warehouse for food products that was destroyed.
It hardly makes sense. Up to this point, the Fanatics have been spraying their graffiti over art installations, primarily in the southern quarter. The attack at Culture Corner, terrible as it was, made sense: it was a public attack, an attack on art and emotion, an escalation of their war against our civil liberties.
But this? Blowing up a food warehouse over in the eastern quarter at night. It doesn’t exactly fall in line with what they appear to be about.
Fresh evidence, however, points the finger squarely at them. As the flames are extinguished and the scene investigated, the same graffiti we’ve seen elsewhere begins to appear, scattered over broken bits of wall. As the macabre puzzle is put back together, it becomes clear that the Fanatics were, in fact, to blame.
I guess it could have been no one else. It must simply be that their hatred of our liberties is now extending to our consumption of food. I suppose it’s another expression of freedom and pleasure, creating all manner of foods that the wealthier residents enjoy. If they had it their way, we’d all be on gruel and nothing else.
As I sit and watch the latest reports, Mrs Carmichael appears through the door.
“Ah, Brie, I thought you’d be in here…”
“Have you heard about this?” I ask hurriedly.
“Yes, I have. I guess you were right last night. I wish you weren’t.”
She looks at me, my eyes glued to the screen.
“Now don’t be getting any ideas about going over there, Brie,” she says. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“I wasn’t thinking that,” I say, honestly. “I have work to do, right?”
According to my rota, today was supposed to be a clean up job at an office not far from here.
“Oh, no. I’ve assigned that to someone else. You and Tess should take a couple of days off, let things die down a bit. You’ll only be harassed out there.”
“So…stay here at the academy? I’ll be harassed just as much here as anywhere. Probably more.”
“Yes, well stick to your room and you’ll be OK. Now let me check that cut.”
She comes in and quickly inspects my wound. There’s little point. It’s absolutely fine. Frankly, she’s been acting overly caring recently, a far cry from her usual stoic self.
Before she leaves the room, she pulls a little bag from her pocket.
“Here you go, fresh supplies,” she says, handing it to me.
More pills.
Then she’s off, disappearing to deliver fresh orders for the day to the youngsters, always keen to maintain a tight ship. She’ll have them doing chores, running errands, learning some of the core skills that will hopefully help them find employment when they reach working age.
It’ll work for some, but not for others. That’s just the nature of things here.
The thought brings Drum back into my mind. As the common room begins to fill with more bodies, I take my leave without being pestered too heavily. Given what’s happening on the TV, their attention is already moving off elsewhere.
I move up the first floor and back to Drum’s room. When I knock this time, I receive an answer. It’s not Drum’s voice that calls back, but one of his roommates.
I go in to find Fred, a small red-headed child with a face littered with freckles and a spindly frame that’s in stark contrast to his oversized roommate. He’s a nice kid, though, as is the third of their little crew, Ziggy, who appears to be absent.
Mrs Carmichael has always put like-minded kids together where she can. Quite what happened with Tess and me I don’t know…
I quickly scan the room and see that Drum is also absent.
“He’s not here,” says Fred, without being prompted.
“Where is he?”
“Working. Clean up I think. Mrs Carmichael had two spots spare, she told us. Gave them to Drum and Ziggy.” There’s an air of resignation in his voice.
“Ah, OK,” I say. “Chin up, Fred, you’ll get work eventually.”
He nods feebly and dips his long nose back into a book on his lap. The poor kid looks upset. His days are very much numbered here.
As I shut the door, however, I think it fortunate that Drum’s got some work. And it was clearly Tess and me who made way. If I could, I’d happily sacrifice half my work if it meant Drum got to take it on.
With a smile, I return to my room to find Tess still curled up in a mess. It’s dark inside, the sharp light from the corridor cutting in across her bed.
“Oh God,” she says, shielding her eyes. “Shut it…please.”
I draw it to a close, nice and slow.
“I’m never drinking again,” she mutters, pulling the blanket over her eyes.
“That’s what they all say,” comes my standard response. “You’ll be happy to know that we have the day off, maybe more.”
“Awesome…thank you Mrs Carmichael,” she groans. “What you been doing today?”
She peeks from below her blanket, the room dim.
I consider telling her the latest news, but deduce that she’s probably not in the best state to hear about it right now.
So I merely shrug and tell her nothing, before slipping onto my bed.
And set my eyes back on my parents, staring at me as a baby.
17
The following couple of days trickle by like a slow moving stream.
Days off are rare enough. Having several in a row is unheard of, and something I’m not conditioned to. I can already feel myself getting restless.
Under strict orders from Mrs Carmichael, however, Tess and I spend our time within the academy, keeping to our room for much of it and feverishly discussing the events of the previous few days.
When I tell her about my little night-time walk after getting back from Inner Haven, she suggests that it was little more than my mind playing tricks on me.
“Brie, you were drunk, it was probably just a shadow or something.”
“I wasn’t drunk, Tess. That was you. And I think I can distinguish between a shadow and a creepy human under a coat.”
“Fine. Just a Disposable then who’d come down from the northern quarter. You’re asking for trouble if you wander those alleys at night.”
“You should have led with that,” I say. “Makes more sense than being chased by a shadow.”
“Chased? Don’t be so dramatic, Brie. You just got spooked and ran into a bin. Serves you right for being such a wimp!”
Her comment warrants a pillow to the face. I just wish it was something harder.
Across the city, the latest attack sends a real shudder through the ranks of the population. A fear begins to spread, and we learn that people are beginning to stay in their homes, afraid of being caught in a blast. Mostly, it’s illogical to think like that – in a city this vast, the chance of being anywhere near an attack is extremely slim – and yet that’s the nature of fear.
It warps the logical mind, wipes out rational thought.
All over, reports come in that more City Guards are being spotted on patrol, and that the Con-Cops are truly out in force, casting their dead and Savant-like eyes across the city streets, vigilantly looking out for any hint of a new attack.
The number of dead from the warehouse bombing is also reported. It’s the opposite picture from what we saw at Culture Corner. There, the number of dead was vastly outstripped by the number of injured. At the warehouse, however, more were killed, with only a handful of people left alive.
Across the city, the regular sound of funeral bells can be heard, a sorrowful soundtrack that fills the air each day. From early morning until late evening, the bells are regularly rung, families and friends saying goodbye to the dead, their loved ones consumed by fire at one of the many crematoriums scattered throughout Outer Haven.
Cremation is the only means
of disposing of the dead now. There’s no space for burials, not even for headstones. Many years ago, such customs were lost. Now, it’s even rare for ashes to be kept, urns a rarity and found only in the homes of the more devout and spiritual families living here.
It’s one of the many policies of the Savants that has spread among our own people. For them, the dead serve no purpose. They feel no sentimentality for those no longer able to contribute to the living world, their minds directed at nothing else but re-building the species, recolonizing the world; looking forward, not back.
Now, even Unenhanced have learned to think in the same way. When the dead are gone, they’re gone. You honour them with a quick funeral, and then that’s that. Life goes on.
Only, for some of us, we never got that funeral. We never got to know those we lost. Here at the orphanage, the concept of loss takes a different form. It’s what binds us all together.
As our second day of captivity ensues, fresh reports tell of new waves of graffiti popping up across the city, the southern quarter in particular being besieged.
Promises of new attacks are written in bold print, warning the people to change their ways or face the consequences. A spokesman from the Council of the Unenhanced comes forward and tells us that everything is in order, and that all is being done to apprehend these Fanatics and prevent any further atrocities.
No one believes them.
That night, I go in search of Drum once more. This time I find him, hunched on his bed, covered in dust and dirt. He’s alone.
“Been keeping busy?” I ask as I enter, shutting the door behind me.
Since taking over my job for the last few days, he’s been almost entirely absent from the academy, returning only to sleep and eat before setting out again.
He nods wearily. A boy of his size will be expected to work hard. I’m sure his client is working him like a mule.
“I made a few mistakes,” he mumbles. “Broke some furniture when I was moving it. They said they’d take it out of my pay.”
“Is that why you’ve been working so late? To make up for it?”
He nods again. I can tell he’s worried. He’s had a few jobs before, but the clients are rarely satisfied. This might just be his last chance.
“I wouldn’t even have this job if it wasn’t for you,” he says. “When Mrs Carmichael lets you out again, I’ll be back here…I know it.”
“You don’t know that, Drum.” I move in and lay an arm around his wide shoulders. “It’s good that Mrs Carmichael thought of you first…and who knows, maybe I’ll be stuck here a little longer.”
“She only did it cos she owes me,” he says.
He cuts himself off, twisting his neck to look a little away from me.
“What do you mean, owes you?” I ask.
It’s unlike Drum to say such a thing. He’s always been so grateful for being here, and has never spoken a word against our guardian.
“Nothing,” he says, closing off.
It’s not nothing. I know it’s about what he saw…
“Where were you the other night?” I ask him. “When I got back from Inner Haven, you weren’t here.”
“Oh, yeah…how was that, by the way? I haven’t seen you since then.”
He’s trying to change the topic. He’s not usually so crafty.
“Boring,” is all I say. “You were out with Mrs Carmichael weren’t you?”
His bushy eyebrows lower.
“No,” he says.
It’s so obvious when he’s lying.
“Drum, I can see right through you. I know you were out with her, because I heard you in her room. She told you to keep quiet about what you saw. Don’t lie to me now, Drum.”
He shuffles uncomfortably, and the entire bedframe shifts a few inches across the floor.
“I, um…fine, I was with her.”
He stops short, trying to give himself time to form some sort of story.
“I went to the black market with her,” he says eventually, suddenly speaking with more confidence. “She needed to get some things, and asked me to go too.”
“You mean, to the northern quarter?”
“Yeah, exactly. You know how she takes me with her sometimes. It’s dangerous there. She likes to have a bodyguard.”
Now this isn’t a lie. In the past, she has been known to take Drum with her when she heads to the market. Mostly, it’s where she picks up her stocks of cigarettes and alcohol, as well as the diabetes pills she gives me.
Carrying that sort of load home can make you a target for thieves, especially if you’re just an old woman. And taking Drum along for the ride is a way to deter anyone from mugging her.
Personally, I’ve never liked it much. Drum, for all his size, is only a boy, and a timid one at that. When he goes along, it only means I have two people to worry about, rather than one.
I’ve never complained to her directly, though. I mean, she’s getting my medication after all, so I can’t be ungrateful. I’d just prefer to go myself, to be honest, rather than putting either of them in harm’s way.
“So, that’s what you were talking about?” I ask him. “In her room…that’s what she told you not to tell me?”
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “She knows you don’t approve, and told me not to tell you. That’s all it was.”
He’s lying.
For one, he’s doing that shifty-eye thing that he does when he’s not telling me the truth, his murky brown eyes dancing around the room, looking at just about everything but me.
Secondly, it just doesn’t make any sense. Sure, she knows I don’t approve of her taking Drum, but that’s never stopped her before, and it won’t in the future. Frankly, she does what she deems right, and doesn’t care two hoots for anyone’s opinion.
“So, you two just went to the market, that’s all?” I ask. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you Drum? You know you’re like a brother to me, don’t you?”
I lay on the sentiment nice and thick. I can see the battle raging behind his eyes.
“I’m…I’m not lying, Brie.”
“Promise me.”
“Promise,” he mumbles, looking at his giant feet.
I have no choice but to accept it. Frankly, if it were that important, Mrs Carmichael would surely tell me.
More to the point, I heard Drum promise to keep the secret, and don’t really want to make him break it. In a way, it’s nice to know that he can be so loyal to the woman who gave him sanctuary.
And on top of that, I suspect that he’s only got this job right now because he’s willing to prove that loyalty. If he should tell me, his last chance at keeping his spot here might well be gone.
And above all else, that’s the last thing I want to see happen.
So I accept, and tell him I believe him. The relief in him is obvious, a long breath let out from his lips.
I guess, if I want to know, I’m going to have to find out another way…
18
“I’ve had enough of this. I’m going out for a walk.”
I’ve reached the end of my tether. I can only stay cooped up inside for so long.
“You can’t,” says Tess. “Brenda said…”
“Oh…really, you’re going to use that line now!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you didn’t seem to mind last week when we went down to Culture Corner. You were all for just going and not telling Brenda then…”
“That was different. We’re all, you know, famous now. It might be dangerous.”
“Dangerous? How? It’s daylight! And since when did you care about that?”
She shrugs, all snuggled up in bed with her nose in an old book. Clearly, she’s just being lazy. Unlike me, she’s been thoroughly enjoying this time off.
“Look, I’m not asking for your permission, Tess. Just…cover for me if someone comes calling. Unless you wanna come too?”
I don’t know why I bother asking. She looks about as comfy as it’s possible for a per
son to be, and outside it’s bitter cold.
“I think I’ll stay here,” she says, to no one’s surprise.
“Suit yourself.”
I pull on another jumper to protect against the cold, and head downstairs to grab my jacket from the closet. Since being blasted by the acid rain several nights ago, I haven’t taken a look at the damage. Other than a few extra burn marks where the anti-toxic wax had worn off, it’s not too bad.
With the hall clear, I quickly slip out and pass onto the street, the surge of cold air immediately wrapping itself around me. Dragging my hood over my head to ensure I remain hidden from prying eyes, I set off on a stroll towards the market, several blocks west towards the boundary wall of the city.
The market, unlike the black market in the northern quarter, is an official place of trade, and is therefore heavily monitored. As I go, I note the additional security on the ground, and in the air, Con-Cops and City Guards stationed at populous areas, and armed security drones buzzing about in the sky.
It’s all on another level from what I saw the day after the attack at Culture Corner, an impressive show of strength for sure. Yet, it begs the question of just how these Fanatics are operating under their nose.
Surely, with such a presence, a few crazed Unenhanced should find it impossible to function? You can barely walk more than a few metres without coming under the scrutiny of some sentry or security drone, hovering above your head and scanning the world below for any hint of revolt.
It certainly makes one thing clear: these Fanatics are far more organised and dangerous than anyone gave them credit for.
And in my head, the words of the mystery man once more spread.
The Fanatics are not who you think they are…
I press on, sucking in cool air from underneath my cowl, noting how the streets have changed in my brief absence. It’s not a physical change, per se, but one of atmosphere. It’s as if there’s a blanket over the city, trapping in the sense of fear that shivers and hovers about the streets.
People walk around with wary eyes and sunken faces, checking and re-checking anyone who appears suspicious. There’s a questioning, probing ambiance, no one quite sure who might be a Fanatic or where another attack might come. Even with such security measures on show, that sense of fear remains fixed to people’s hearts and souls.