The principal opened the door and beckoned Lucy inside. The portly woman was wearing her usual teal cardigan and white blouse combo.
“Lucy, great to see you. Come on in,” said the principal.
Lucy spotted the school counsellor sitting by the sofas.
“Please, take a couch,” said the principal, taking one herself.
Lucy sat down on the sofa opposite. The fibers were a little scratchy, but the padding was soft. She shuffled towards one side of the three-seater.
“Lucy, I’ve got some bad news. There’s no easy way to say this, but I want you to know we’re all here for you,” said the counsellor.
Lucy looked blankly from the counsellor to the principal, both of whom wore the same, pitying smiles.
“What’s going on?” said Lucy.
“Your father’s been taken to hospital,” said the counsellor.
“What?” said Lucy, immediately standing up.
“Please sit back down for a moment, Lucy. You’ll get to see him shortly but we need to talk things through first,” said the principal.
Lucy sat, but her mind was spinning, already rushing through the route to the hospital, picturing her father in a stretcher, wrapped in plaster after an awful traffic incident.
“Your father is sick, Lucy. He’s got advanced cancer. It’s amazing they’ve caught it in time – any longer and, well, it really is a good thing they found it when they did.”
“Is he going to die?” said Lucy.
“They’ve got some great doctors working on his treatment plan as we speak,” said the counsellor.
“Lucy, we couldn’t get hold of your mother, do you know if she’s changed her phone number or email?” said the principal.
Lucy stared at her feet.
“It’s OK if you don’t know – I just wanted to check you hadn’t heard from her,” said the principal.
“Not in two years,” said Lucy, kicking her heels together.
“OK sweetie. Look, your father’s going to be in hospital for a few days while they run some tests and he’s asked Emily’s parents to look after you until he’s back.”
“Emily’s parents? Have you met Emily’s parents? They’re Flat Earthers! She can’t stay with Emily, she’ll go insane!” protested Dan, leaping up.
Lucy yanked him back down onto the sofa next to her.
“Shut up, you’ll get us in trouble,” hissed Lucy, blushing and giggling.
“I’m saying it how it is. Screw Emily’s parents. Come on,” said Dan, grabbing Lucy’s hand and pulling her from the room. The receptionist rose to his feet in astonishment as the pair flew by, ignoring his waving clipboard.
“Where are we going?” said Lucy, breathlessly, as they ran down the school steps into the parking lot, basking in the afternoon sun.
“To your mom’s,” said Dan, putting on his sunglasses.
“You don’t even know where she lives,” giggled Lucy, as she followed him to their car.
“Sure I do,” said Dan, waving a folded letter in his hand.
They reached a small Chevy hatchback and Dan pulled the driver’s door open and climbed inside. Lucy stopped suddenly.
“What is it?” said Dan, poking his head over the door.
“This isn’t our car,” said Lucy.
“Clock’s ticking, honey, don’t flake on me now. We need to get the rations to your mom’s by nightfall,” said Dan.
Lucy felt hot. Her hazmat suit was baking in the sun. Dan slammed the door and reversed.
“Wait, for me!” she cried, pedaling to no avail as her bike wheels spun out on the slushy carpet of spores.
***
Lucy opened her eyes to find a boot close to her nose. Her cheek was pressed against the truck’s corrugated metal floor, which carried the engine’s vibrations. Wet fibers pushed against her tongue. She was gagged. Her hands and feet were bound tightly, too. She craned her neck and took in the rest of the truck. Willis and Peters sat on one bench, Brown on another. Lopez was sat on the floor, his back propped up against the foot of the bench. He was similarly bound and gagged, but also had a ripening black eye. He looked balmy.
“Look who’s up,” said Peters, toasting her with his water bottle.
Willis grunted and gave Lucy a cold look. Brown stared into the distance.
Lucy wriggled herself towards the wall opposite Lopez and, with difficulty, squirmed into an upright position. Her head swam, and the bruise on the back of her skull throbbed painfully. Her arms ached from being pinned behind her back. The truck had an open back, like the carriers she been loaded into for the evac train months ago. Behind them was an expanse of snow-covered farmland. Theirs were the only tread marks on the highway.
She tried to loosen the bindings around her wrists, but they were solid. She shouted through the gag, as best she could, but the soldiers ignored her. So she banged her boots against the metal floor until Peters intervened.
“What?” he said, pulling the gag down roughly.
“Where are you taking us?” croaked Lucy, her throat dry.
“Shut your mouth,” said Peters, moving to replace the gag.
“Wait – I need to pee,” said Lucy.
“Then pee,” said Peters.
“Water!” cried Lucy.
Peters grabbed his bottle and held it to Lucy’s mouth. Water trickled down her chin as the truck jostled, but she got a few precious sips before Peters snatched the bottle away again, and jerked her gag back into place.
The truck slowed to a halt. Four thumps came through from the driver’s cabin.
“If you want to live, you’ll both stay quiet. If I hear any noise, I’ll kill whoever makes it. We only need one of you to get there alive,” said Willis. He grabbed Lucy by the shoulders and dragged her down to the floor, doing the same to Lopez, before covering them both with a blanket.
The truck came to a halt. Lucy strained to listen through the stifling polyester. The driver was talking to someone in another truck. The only words she caught from the strangers were ‘Senator’ and ‘nightfall’. Sergeant Adler replied from their cockpit, and his words sent a chill down Lucy’s spine.
“We’re transporting two deserters to DC for court martial. They killed one of our men. We rescued this civilian along the way,” said Adler.
The Canadian greeted the other driver.
“I hope you find the Senator, Lieutenant,” said Adler.
The two trucks pulled away from one another. Several minutes passed before the blanket was pulled off, and Lucy and Lopez were left to struggle back into their upright positions.
Over the next couple of the hours the snowy farmland view gave way to urban sprawl. They crossed two bridges, passing through Staten Island and into Brooklyn, where the truck slowed. They slalomed between burned out cars which had been deliberately arranged to slow any approaching vehicle. Shortly after, the truck came to a stop and after a moment the engine cut out. Adler and the Canadian walked around to the rear of the truck.
“We did the flashes but they’re not opening the gate. I guess they changed the passcode or whatever. We’re going through on foot,” said Maurice.
Willis and Brown dragged Lucy and Lopez from the truck. Peters cut the ties around their ankles, then marched them to the front of the vehicle. Three buses were parked across the street, wall to wall, blocking the entire way through. As they got closer, it became apparent they were arranged like bricks – with a narrow gap between the overlapping areas.
“Wait here, I’ll go announce us, then you guys come through,” said Maurice. He squeezed between the buses and disappeared. “Did you miss me?” he called out from the other side, to an unknown audience. His voice echoed off the surrounding buildings.
“Disarm your group, deposit their weapons, then tell them to come through one at a time,” ordered the stranger. Her laconic voice crackled through the loudhailer.
The Canadian squeezed back through between the buses.
“They want you to hand over your we
apons first,” he said, peering around the gap.
“Yeah, we heard,” said Adler.
“You didn’t say nothin’ about disarming,” said Brown, his nostrils flaring.
“You’ll get your weapons back, it’s just a precaution,” insisted Maurice, raking his dark backcomb with his fingertips.
“To hell with that,” said Willis, spitting on the ground, then wiping the residual spittle from his wiry black beard.
“If you don’t like it, you can piss off back to whatever shitty little wilderness you came from. I’m sure the facilities are excellent there,” crackled the loudhailer lady.
Willis spun around, his rifle raised, his eyes darting across the surrounding buildings.
“If you’ve got any sense, you’ll suck it up, hand over your weapons, and come get a new life,” she added. Her voice was droll, blurring the line between bored and playful.
“Rifles only,” ordered Adler, concealing his pistol. Peters, Willis, and Brown followed suit, before placing their rifles around Maurice’s neck – each eyeballing him angrily as they did so.
The Canadian slipped back through between the buses, clattering the guns against them as he went, before loudly and piously depositing them in the open.
“Come through, one at a time, with your hands raised,” ordered the loudhailer lady.
“God dammit,” said Adler, disappearing between the buses.
Peters went next, with one arm chaperoning Lopez behind him. Brown went next and similarly pulled Lucy through. Willis followed close behind.
Lucy squeezed around between the buses and emerged onto the other side of the street. The soldiers had their arms raised. Lucy copied Lopez’s tactic and turned side-on to the building to show that her hands were tied behind her back.
“None of you move,” ordered the loudhailer lady.
They stood at the end of the street, which formed a T-junction, headed up by a large office building backing onto the waterfront. Behind it was the sea, and a bridge leading to Manhattan. Before them was wall-to-wall razor wire. The road to the left was similarly blockaded by trucks and cars. The blockade to the right was further down the street, at the far end of the waterfront building. If this place was anything like her co-working space in San Francisco, there could easily be room for a couple of hundred companies in there.
A gaunt young man of around twenty emerged from the front door of the office, clutching an empty cloth bag. He approached the left wall of the street. Between the razor wire and the brick was a metal sheet, fixed to the wall. At the base was a jack, which he cranked several times. As the base of the sheet pivoted away from the wall, it pushed the razor wire back, creating a wedge shaped opening.
The skeletal man crawled through the gap in the razor fence and approached Maurice. He patted him down then moved on to Adler and the rest of the group. He removed each soldier’s pistol and grenades, which he placed into the cloth bag. He checked Lucy’s backpack and moved on, satisfied it was clean. The man scooped up the four rifles and swung them over his neck, then crawled back through the wedge gap and returned to the office building.
“You may enter. Come through the fence, nice and slow,” ordered the loudhailer lady.
Cursing, the soldiers got onto their hands and knees and followed Maurice through the wedge. Lopez hesitated, kneeling, unable to crawl without his arms. Brown reached through and dragged Lopez by the shoulders, then reach in and grabbed Lucy, dragging her through too. It would’ve shredded her knees were it not for the layer of snow.
“Don’t be shy,” crowed the loudhailer lady.
“Let me do the speaking guys, just trust me. You don’t wanna say the wrong thing,” said Maurice, as they approached.
The building had a spacious, high-ceilinged atrium and a yuppie-industrial aesthetic. Redundant filament bulbs dangled in trendy cages, complementing the tastefully-rusted metalwork and exposed trunking, which were offset against the dark polished stone counters.
A woman of Lucy’s age stood waiting for them. She had light ginger hair, pale skin, hoop earrings, and a face covered in blotchy brown freckles. She was flanked by two guards.
“Marissa, fantastic to see you again,” said Maurice, with a slight squawk.
Marissa said nothing, and continued chewing her gum, while staring at the Canadian.
“I’ve brought a gift for the Queen. Two, actually,” Maurice added nervously, gesturing to Lucy and Lopez.
“We’re full,” said Marissa.
“She’s gonna want to meet these two, trust me,” said Maurice.
“I bet you my dinner the boss kills him outright,” said Marissa, turning to a guard, who snorted and declined the wager as a fait accompli.
“I’m confident the Queen will welcome these new assets,” Maurice insisted, with a pained smile.
“Guess we’ll find out. Come on then,” said Marissa.
They climbed the window-lit stairwell for several minutes in silence, save for the group’s puffing and panting. Lucy’s bound hands put a strain on her shoulders and chest, making the climb harder still. The sensation reminded her of the climbs she and Dan had made to their eighth-floor apartment, carrying rations, wearing hazmat suits, moving bodies. As she thought of his face, his voice, his counsel, a knot formed in the pit of her stomach.
Lucy arrived at the ninth floor feeling light-headed. Marissa delivered several knocks on the door in a distinctive pattern. A key turned and the threshold swung opened, revealing a perfectly-lit corridor. Bright, recessed ceiling lights shone down on thick, emerald carpet and black wooden doors. Music reverberated from one of the furthest apartments.
The guard waved Marissa in, then stopped the Canadian. “Arms out,” he ordered.
“Is this really necessary?” sighed Maurice, raising his arms.
The guard patted him down thoroughly, then allowed him to join Marissa in the corridor. He moved on to the soldiers, screening and admitting them one by one.
“I’m getting tired of this bullshit. Pay off better be worth it, Canada man, or you’ll be paying,” said Willis, as the guard felt down each of his legs.
Once the guard had finished with the three soldiers, and Lucy, and Lopez, he waved Marissa’s guards through, before locking the door behind them all.
Marissa led the way to the furthest apartment. She delivered another coded knock but it was lost against the blaring music. She tried again, then pounded the door with her palm until a guard let them in.
The room was a penthouse suite, decorated with white leather sofas, faux fur carpets, and a chandelier. A nervous-looking father and young daughter sat on the nearest sofas. The father wore a sleeveless body-warmer over a grubby jumper. His limited hair sat around his head like a wreath that had slipped. His daughter wore a banana-yellow tracksuit, and had her fingers pressed into her ears. Next to her was a furry rainbow pencil case. On the sofa opposite sat two guards, dressed in black, both armed with Tasers.
A DJ stood at the far end of the room, hunched over a double turntable. He bopped along, fussing over the faders and dials with real panache, making no perceptible difference to the sound but looking busy nonetheless.
Over by the far window stood a large desk. Behind it sat a large, besuited woman in her late fifties, who was filling out paperwork while gently nodding along to the expletive-riddled beats. She had dark brown skin and thick, frizzy black hair embellished with bronze highlights. She wore skinny jeans, a white blouse, and a navy blue blazer. Lucy assumed this to be ‘the Queen’. Marissa led the group forwards, and announced their presence loudly over the blaring music. The Queen ignored them. Marissa signaled the DJ to dull slash the volume, which he did, and she repeated her announcement.
“Did I tell you to turn the volume down?” said the Queen, not bothering to look at the DJ directly but continuing to write instead.
“Ma’am, your guests were-” stammered the DJ, but the Queen silenced him with a finger. She took another minute to finish writing, then placed her pen down an
d looked up, past the new arrivals, to the sofa. She beckoned the young girl over to the desk. “Can you read, honey?”
“Yeah,” said the girl.
“Good. Read this out so your daddy can hear,” said the Queen.
“You fucking kidding me?” mumbled Willis, earning him an elbow in the ribs from Adler.
The girl stumbled through the contract aloud.
“I, Reginald Barrow, agree to the following terms in return for life-preserving medication for my daughter Cynthia. Cynthia Barrow will assist in laundry and textile services for eight weeks from the commencement of this contract. During this period I will forgo my usual privileges and will report to the Clinician, whom I will assist in his service to the Queen. I agree to undertake all and any duties required by him to fulfil my debt.”
Marissa shared a wince with her nearest guard.
“Beautifully read,” said the Queen, patting the girl on the shoulder. “Now take this to your daddy, with this pen. All he needs to do is sign it, then you can get a brand new inhaler right away.”
The child grinned and skipped back to her father, who received the paperwork with a tremble.
“The Clinician,” he stammered, looking imploringly to the Queen.
“If the terms are too much for your daughter, there’s no obligation to sign, Reginald. You’re free to walk away,” said the Queen, sitting back in her chair with her hands clasped.
The man looked at his daughter and his face fell. He signed the document, then dropped the pen on the coffee table.
“Take that to level five for stamping and they’ll take it from there,” said the Queen.
“Thank you!” cheered the young girl, as she pulled her dad towards the exit, excitedly.
“Bye sweetie,” waved the Queen.
The Queen approached the side counter where she took a jug of filter water and used it to top up a kettle, which she flicked on. She took a mug and saucer from the side and laid them out, placing a black teabag inside with the tag draped over the rim. As the kettle gently boiled, she strolled to the window and gazed across the water to Lower Manhattan. Willis let out a series of increasingly conspicuous huffs until, after a minute of being silently ignored, he could contain his impatience no longer.
Convulsive Box Set Page 37
