by Jim Keen
She turned around, looking for movement. Time passed. At last there was a glint of light then a dust trail, a brick-red triangle that narrowed to the ground as the car approached.
It was long, low, and white with cop lights on top, the five-pointed star of the Arizona State Police along the sides. Makes sense, she thought. Police—the ideal cover job for a coyote, the smuggler of flesh. A low V8 burble sent tremors through the ground, small stones rattling on the hard surface. The stink of gasoline and rubber blew over her.
She stood and waited.
The car stopped ten feet away, its chrome grille snarling.
The door opened, and legs emerged, crisp gray pants ironed to a point over gleaming black shoes. Torso next, a cream shirt covered with badges and medallions. Head last under a wide hat, its tip wedged down toward her. The man stood and adjusted it to make sure the star badge sat dead center, eyes hidden behind mirror glasses.
“Arms up.” His deep voice was devoid of feeling, as if he were talking to a rock, not a human. Alice knew this tone, had heard it too many times from cops; emotionally exhausted, he no longer saw people, only objects to be moved from one spot to another.
She did as told and a drone buzzed around her checking for weapons. It did one circuit, two, then flew back to him.
“Strip.”
“What? I never—”
“Strip.”
Alice sighed and removed her T-shirt, skin flushed under the baking sun. Shorts and underwear next, shoes last, until she stood bare before him, her oddly colored left hand more fake than ever.
“Turn around.”
She did and said nothing more.
He stood back from the car and pulled a small gray object from his pants. “Bend over the car, hands on the hood.”
She walked across, the ground a molten metal plate beneath her feet, and placed her palms on the car, its plastic body soft in the heat. He came from behind, keys jingling as he walked, and pushed her head against the hood; the white paint dazzled in the light. His shadow fell across her, followed by a click and quiet metallic buzzing. He placed an object against the base of her skull and pushed upward; hair fell away in one long stream. She studied it as he worked, the last remnants of her old self shorn away in the sterile air.
At last, he was done. Being bald made her feel naked in a way losing her clothes hadn’t. She felt like a child again, lost.
“Stay still,” he ordered as he pressed a cold metal box to the rear of her skull; her body twitched in agony, then it was pulled away, and he stepped back. “Stand up.”
She did, unsteady on burning legs, and rubbed the back of her head. She knew there would be a barcode and DNA tag there now; she was logged into the system, just another person looking for a way out.
“Put these on.” He threw a set of blue-striped denim work clothes onto the hood next to her. She obeyed without turning around. “Get in the back of the car.”
She opened the door and slid into the rear section, small and cramped to make it hard for criminals to move. The black plastic was cold beneath her, its water-cooling keeping the vehicle a frigid box except for radiated heat pouring through the windows. The change made her shiver, body unable to adapt. She swung shut the door with a low thunk. Thick ceramic mesh separated her from the front, an array of non-service-issued shotguns taped to the ceiling. The driver door opened, and a wave of heat rolled into the car as he entered, wide shoulders blocking her view.
“So, how does this work?” she said.
He closed the door and started the car, the engine’s low throb shaking her.
“Do you take me to a station or a car or what?” she tried again.
He checked the console tablet then twisted to look over his shoulder, mirrored shades reflecting her distorted form. “My notes say you’re an ex-cop, got in trouble, and are looking for a way out. That true?”
She shrugged, then nodded.
“I’m speaking to you now, cop to cop. You’re owed that at least.”
“Thank you,” Alice said.
“Don’t go to the camp. Find another way.”
“I have to go.”
“You’re not hearing me. Don’t go to the camp. You go in, you’ll never come out.”
“Isn’t that the point? You go in, get scanned, and adios muchachos.”
He studied her, unmoving. “That’s what the papers say. I live here; I hear the rumors.”
“What rumors?”
“It’s not a place of hope. It’s a place of death.”
“Noted, but I’m out of options. Lead on, I got a train to catch.”
He sighed, tension twisting his body as he turned and set off. The landscape didn’t change as the car jostled up and across boulders and gravel pits, the crunch of the tires loud under her. They moved slow at first, but after an hour, they reached an old riverbed—its smooth floor baked as hard as concrete—and they sped up, hills and mountains blurred beside her.
She was thirsty and needed a cigarette.
She was scared.
At last, the feral red orb of the sun slid sideways, and long shadows grew across the ground, revealing details like a lunar photograph. A car stood ahead of them in the darkening light, body angled across the makeshift road, headlights accentuating the tips of thin shrubs. Alice thought it was another state trooper, but as they approached, the Homeland Security logo grew on its side—yet another orphaned eagle.
It was empty; the coyote dragged her across and into the rear. They didn’t speak, the process well rehearsed. The coyote lifted the car straight into the dark blue sky until the landscape became nothing but a black velvet sheet. The lights of the cop car disappeared as they banked left, flew for a few moments, then stopped, hovering. She had no idea if Xavi had followed them; as her eyes adjusted, she saw a line of soft red lights that crossed the blackness to fade in the distance. The rail line.
The coyote tapped something into the car’s MI system and set it on autonomous. They accelerated, the Dyson engine’s whine contrasting with the ancient burble of the land car. The rail lights blurred together to form a thin red line, which the Homeland Security vehicle tracked like an arrow. The acceleration pushed her hard into the seat’s thin padding, her spine compressing. A whistling roar grew behind her, then moved underneath. The train’s pressure wave tossed the car around as if it was a scrap of paper; it was far larger than she imagined, the metal tube a solid blur as its shockwave started a series of earth slides into the concrete canyon.
The car accelerated again as the rear of the train slid by, then descended to dock with the faintest of bumps to the flat rear wall. A Homeland Security guard opened an armored door and flashed a light twice; the coyote climbed out and opened Alice’s door, helping her out.
“Thanks for the heads up,” she said and stepped into the train.
41
The train’s guard motioned her into a small security station where he took a DNA tag reader and ran it over her head. It beeped, and he hung it back on his belt.
“Got a cigarette?” Alice asked.
“Fuck I look like?”
“Can’t a girl ask a question anymore?”
“Shut up. Your number is 13563318KA-T. Memorize that. Everyone on this train knows theirs.”
She grinned. “You said that a bit fast. Can you write it down?”
He sighed, complied, and handed it over. Their hands touched, and he made a show of checking her out. “Someone like you can make a good living out here. Don’t need to go into the scanners.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll take my chances.”
“Anyone offers you pleasure work, take it, is my advice. Stay away from the big hall.” His eyes crawled over her again.
“Never in a million years, pal. Anything else?”
He gave her a cruel look that was half knowing smile, half pout. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer girl. I’ll toast your passing with a shot of whiskey.” His radio beeped. “All right, Miss Wonderful, we arrive in a few hou
rs. Stay out of trouble, keep your head down. If you see anyone sick or unconscious, leave them alone.”
“What?”
“The sick will be streamlined out when you arrive. People think if they’re ill they miss their spot in line, so they hide it then drop dead in the sun. It’s annoying.”
“I can see how it must be.”
“For you, special delivery.” He produced a brass metal clip twice the size of her thumb; it was the package Four had promised. “No one is allowed possessions in the camp so get that hidden.”
Alice slid it down the front of her pants.
He pushed past, unlocked the door, and faced her. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
He opened the door a crack and pushed her through. The repaired skin on her chest flared with pain as it scraped the doorframe, then she found herself pressed into the back of an unconscious man held upright by the crush of people. His head was loose on his neck, open mouth and closed eyes facing the ceiling. It was hard to see the far end of the carriage through the crowd of unemployed; they all wore the same blue-striped denim overalls and stood pressed together. Thin grab handles hung, useless, from the ceiling. No arms reached up—there was no point; they couldn’t fall over. The smell was terrible, the stink of sweat, urine, and blood overpowering in the still air. She saw a hierarchy to the mob: the young and strong to the sides—shaved heads angled up to air vents; the old and infirm in the middle. She’d only been inside a few moments, but she was sweating, her body shedding vital liquid. Even a short ride in these conditions would be a test, and some people had travelled all the way from New York. Desperate for a new life they left on a bus to a round of applause only to find themselves crushed into this tube and flung across country.
The ride was smooth and the cabin quiet, with only the occasional moan over the faint wind roar from outside. Alice spread her feet and assumed the Marines guard position to minimize fatigue. New York, and what little life she had there, was dead to her now. Her apartment, Jeanie, Paul—all of it were echoes from a different person.
She realized she didn’t mind shedding her skin like this and damned if she would spend her final years making other people rich. She’d had enough of being used, had learned that from Julia if nothing else. That woman had taken charge of her life, refused to let her father’s crushing disappointment buckle her, and Alice wanted to find the killer now for revenge as much as absolution. Maybe she and Xavi were more alike than she knew. Thinking about Julia made Alice miss the other woman; she had shown her the eternal truth: if you’re not in charge, you’re a slave.
She closed her eyes and searched inside for the strength and courage to deal with her future.
She would need it.
42
Two hours later, the train started its deceleration. The force pushed Alice into the unconscious man in front of her, lungs moving under thin overalls. People moaned and the smell of vomit filled the carriage. New noises came from outside—sirens and what sounded like gunfire.
The train stopped with a bump, and a speaker crackled to life. “Disembark at the front of each carriage. Transmission priority was assigned at your departure city, and any refusal to follow instructions will result in cancelation of your transmit status.”
People were too tired to talk, but a fatigued buzz filled the air. There was a clunk, then a hiss, and the press of people shuffled forward. Alice followed, stepping over unconscious or dead people strewn across the floor. A hand reached up to circle her ankle. She looked into the upturned face of an old woman, bloodshot eyes wet in a mass of wrinkles.
“Help me,” she croaked through blistered lips.
“I … I can’t.” Alice hesitated then tugged her foot free. She made herself move on, tears blurring as she struggled toward the exit.
At the door, an armored guard manhandled her to the station platform—a wide concrete strip that ran the full length of the train with yellow-numbered lines painted on the ground.
Another guard grabbed her and scanned the back of her head. His device chattered then beeped. He shook it, tried again, same result.
Alice hung in his grip and waited while her heart thudded so hard she was sure he would hear it. Had the coyote been lying? Was this how he worked? It made no difference to him if she made it in or not. She looked for a place to run but guards surrounded her.
A hand grabbed her head and pushed it down, stretching the skin, then the machine was run again. This time it emitted a low buzz.
“Line T34.” The voice sounded more machine than human.
Alice followed the instruction and walked left to reach the marker. In her line were all types: tall, short, white, black, unified by their unemployment overalls and shaved heads. She moved to the back and stood in silence.
The train was empty now, doors closing to leave thousands of people arranged in ragged lines perpendicular to its gleaming perfection. The air held the last remnants of the desert night, but the sun was rising, a feverish red glow sneaking into the sky above. Uniformed guards dressed in outfits that resembled riot police more than wardens were everywhere. They patrolled in glossy black armor, circular shields on their left arms, stun batons on their right, chrome visors hiding their faces, removing their humanity. A peculiar smell hung in the background that combined chemicals and disinfectant with something organic, like burned meat. Alice’s parched mouth filled with its taste. She risked a look behind her but saw nothing except a metal wall topped with barbed wire and received a smack on her head from a passing guard.
“Eyes to the front,” he demanded.
The sun continued its ascent, the heat ramping up and reflecting from the concrete until Alice found it hard to breathe, panting for air through cracked lips. She had been hungry, but now thirst dominated her mind, her whole body aching for water. She saw people collapse—the elderly at first, but as hours passed, the young followed.
Still, no one spoke, the thought of losing their slot in the transmission queue forcing silence. Alice wanted to shout at the surrounding guards but knew her fake ID wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny. The guards patrolled on foot, armor hissing as cooling systems struggled with the increasing load.
The ground became a baking white slab, her thin paper shoes useless. She tried to shift weight from one foot to the other, but a guard, who knew just where to hit, spotted every move. Her Marines training saved her; she dug into the depths of her mind and remembered the drills, the determination to not break no matter how terrible the situation.
She had no idea how others did it.
Her scalp burned, the naked skin raw in the dry air.
Time became a force to be endured as a buzzing rose in the distance, followed by screams.
“Stay in your lanes. Decontamination has begun,” the voice barked from speakers atop metal poles that glittered like needles in the furnace.
A large drone with wings the width of the platform flew toward them, a yellow liquid spraying from its underside. It was on her in seconds, and she just had time to gulp air and squeeze her eyes shut as the burning, toxic liquid showered her. Her skin shivered with pain as the oil found every crack and crevice. She tried to wipe it off, lungs filled with the stink of industrial solvents, everyone around her doing the same. Yet more had collapsed, half of the train survivors being carted away on autonomous stretchers.
The train moved with a metallic hiss, its machined perfection blurring with building momentum until they stood in a gale of its making, dust and ripped clothing swirling around them and away. It passed to reveal their destination. The Arizona camp as described by the government was no larger than a small town; this version resembled a metropolitan city larger than New York. The architecture reminded her of the Hudson unemployment camp, but on an industrialized scale. Square, ten-story buildings marched away on the flat ground to disappear in the haze. Alice had no way to judge length, but the roads at least matched Manhattan’s six-mile avenues. The city could hold millions of people.
Her row sh
uffled forward, and she resisted every urge to turn and fight as the guards pushed her to follow. They crossed the rail line, went through the tall wire fence, and a big steel gate boomed shut behind.
She was in.
43
Alice’s line trudged to a small rail hub. From its radial center, tracks diverged in multiple directions, and the guards moved her to a train pointing west. It was little more than an electrified cart with no roof or doors, and they clambered onto its hot metal bench seats and sat facing each other. The train started with a squeal of compressed metal and accelerated.
The ride took an hour; endless prefab buildings blurred either side, passengers pressed together under the blazing sun. Alice’s thirst was chronic now, and she found it hard to swallow. When the train stopped outside another generic building, the guards hosed them down with warm water. It was intended to wash off the disinfectant, but no one cared. The passengers made bowls with their hands to gulp anything they could catch.
The architecture didn’t change, the tall prefabricated warehouses similar, but more advanced, than the ones in New York. Inside were more of the white plastic sleeping capsules John Stokes had shared with her only a few days ago. These were newer, and the lighting better, as skylights let in shafts of light that caught the dusty air. The building was silent apart from distant coughing and smelled of disinfectant. A guard scanned her barcode, then led her to a tall ladder that disappeared into the stacks overhead.
“Up here, fourth level, capsule ZK-B,” a guard said.
Alice looked up, the climb dizzying, then back at the guard, her face distorted in his chrome face mask. “You’re kidding, right? No way I can climb that.”
“Failure to comply will revoke transmission privileges.”
She sighed, gathered her strength, and hauled herself upward on shaking arms. Every capsule she crawled past had an occupant wedged inside, many of them on the edge of starvation, mouths crusted with dried saliva. She kept going until she found her pod and rolled inside, the thin mat as welcome as the deepest bed. She knew she had to hide Four’s package, but exhaustion battled her and won. She lay still and passed out.
