by E. L. Giles
We walk past the archive doors, which are tended by two armed guards. They have stony eyes and their fingers brush the triggers of their rifles. They watch us as we slowly pass them and enter a restricted hallway that requires the use of a special code. The guard enters the code on an illuminated keyboard on the wall. Cameras surround the long corridor we enter, all pointing at us as we arrive at the double-door entry separating the hallway from the Justice Courtroom itself. Over the door is the Party’s motto: “One nation unified through work.” Behind the door is the Justice Court, and there, a fresco of our history covers the tall arched ceiling above me.
The fresco is separated into four parts. The first quarter of the whole surface depicts a scene of the Fourth World War, as historians in Kamcala call it—the turning point that led to the end of the Ancient Republic and the world as it was known before. Half of the entire world’s population was thought to have been decimated back then. The painting here is cut into eight equal sections that represent the eight years the conflict had lasted. As the years pass, the landscape changes from a flourishing field full of trees and flowers to a ruined and desolate one where only weak stems grow through the skeleton scattered ground.
The second quarter of the painting represents a group of militias attacking the remains of a white building called the Capitol. This era is known as the Rise of the Rebels, who were a group of trained warriors that rose against the authority and the government. They are sketched brandishing a black flag while leaving in their wake death and chaos, fires ravaging the only remaining greenery and fertile ground. At the far left, as the rebels get closer to the White House, their numbers reduce until there is only one remaining man, hanging by the tree, his weapon laid on the ground at his feet. This is how their failure to overthrow the power is represented.
The third fresco is painted black and depicts the Dark Years. This is the period when the shaken and weakened government tried to assemble the people under their banner. But it was too late, as people had lost any trust in their government, letting anarchy poison the broken nation to the point of no return, until the seed of a new, promising government emerged. The Unification Party, with its promises of peace, security, and the glorification of the working class, it quickly gained supporters.
The last fresco circles the top of the arched roof and depicts the erection of the walls surrounding Kamcala, the very wall that still separates us from the Wild Territory now. Painted outside the wall are wild dogs, dark and menacing greenery, and smoking ruins over a purple-stained ground. Everything outside the wall was declared forbidden for security reasons, and a death sentence was issued to those attempting to cross it.
“Citizen,” says a voice from behind me. I jump and turn around as the gavel slams on the desk. “Take a seat.”
I look at the newly arrived men in a stupor, wondering when they had arrived—or how long haven’t I been paying attention for. Given the severe look on the judge’s face, it’s clear he’s already out of patience. So much for a good first impression, I’m definitely screwed.
I apologize and tremble as I take a seat at the small chair he gestures toward. The silence surrounding the Justice Court is heavy and uncomfortable. The sound of the ticking clock behind me, which echoes endlessly in the theatre-shaped room, is the only audible noise I hear until the ventilation fans start to blow air over my head. I stare at the men in front of me, waiting for it all to begin and, more so, for it to finish. Marcus’s words still resonate in my head: “Hold on and be ready.” Is the judge a friend of his?
“Citizen G8909-26-101. Correct?” asks the judge, who wears a dark purple robe and a white wig.
I show my forearm tattoo and nod before he idly introduces himself as Judge Gavreau. By his side stands his file holder, a young man clothed in a plain black suit and white gloves.
Besides intentionally not introducing the young man, the judge barely looks at him, except once with an expression of repugnance. It is at this moment I’m sure he’s not Marcus’s friend. A month ago, I might have thought he was, but having seen Marcus yesterday, and his demeanor toward me, I find it highly improbable that this is the case. No, not this man. Not the way he exudes such disgust and hatred toward his file holder. Not with the way he looks at me as though I am the most worthless person on earth, the way he grins, one side of his mouth rising to lift his nose oddly, and the way he sighs in exasperation.
I try to analyze the situation, keeping Marcus’s words in mind, but every attempt at demystifying his mind is unsuccessful. I’m puzzled. I don’t know what’s going on, what’s to happen, or what I need to be ready for. What am I supposed to do?
Judge Gavreau grabs the file out of his file holder’s hands and browses it briefly with creased and serious eyes before he closes it. Without any further examination, he calls, “You’re retired.”
I get up instantly and shout, “Is that it? My entire trial?”
He leans back in his chair, visibly surprised that someone dares to contest his orders, especially after President Nightingale’s speech, I suppose. He composes himself before granting me his disturbing smirk.
His elbows stick to the surface of his desk, his pointy chin rests on his closed fists, and he says, “Do you know, citizen, what happens when one fruit out of a full bag is rotten? It contaminates the other fruit around it. Then this rot infiltrates until all of the fruit is contaminated. You, citizen”—he pauses and takes back the file he previously shoved beside him—“are beyond recoverable.”
He throws several of the reports from the file in my direction, listing my faults. “Besides your inability to fulfill the duty you’ve been assigned, which is in and of itself worthy of a trial, your repeated behavioral reports and non-compliance with the most basic rules, such as arguing with an official’s order, are among the reasons why you’re here and declared retired. And let’s not talk about the mess you created yesterday. We can’t tolerate such an attitude. And we can’t take the risk to reassign you elsewhere. Marcus has been far too soft on you.”
At the sound of Marcus's name and the mess of yesterday, I interrupt, “How are Peter and Marcus by the way?”
Mistake. Big mistake. That’s what Marcus must have meant when he said to hold on. Hold on and don’t worsen things even more—I’m sure that’s what he meant.
Judge Gavreau slams his fists on the desk. “What game are you playing, citizen?” He spits the words between clenched teeth and sounds like a hissing snake. He stares at me with daggers in his eyes.
Heat rushes into my cheeks. I lower my eyes and say, “Sorry, no game. I was only wondering.”
“You’re better off,” he says menacingly before he looks at his watch. “You leave tomorrow morning.”
He snaps his fingers, and two guards appear by the door. They escort me back to my little room. I fight back the tears that flood my eyes and reserve them for when I’m alone. As the door of my cell closes behind me, clicking as the lock engages, I sink under the sheets of the bed. There, I allow myself to give into sobs. Hidden from Kamcala’s eyes. Hidden from everyone.
Chapter Seven
A knock on the door awakens me. I raise my chin from my knees and look at the door as it unlocks and then flies open. A tray materializes through it, pushed by a short man clothed in a black waiter’s vest over white pants. He walks with a stiff gait that makes him look like he’s made from wood instead of flesh and bone. That must become painful after a full day. He takes a plate off the tray and drops it on the bed like a robot with fast and precise movements, making me wonder how many times he has done this, before he turns around and pushes the tray out of my room again, closing the door behind him. I hear the click announcing the door is now locked and I find myself immersed back into my loneliness.
Couldn’t he have greeted me with hello, or say bye before he left, or even merely a quick look? I guess ignoring each other is some kind of prerequisite to fit in here in Kamcala.
I stare now at the pale-pink plastic lid that covers
the round, tarnished metal plate. Judging from the odor coming from it, I would guess it’s my meal. The thought of food nauseates me, but I’m curious, and I pull off the cover. It’s Tuesday, and what’s hidden under the lid is a bowl of beef and potato stew. I already know what to expect from it: overcooked potatoes and leathery beef chunks full of cartilage and fat. I’m disappointed, thinking for a second that they could have made something different before we leave for the Retirement Center. I wonder if this is typical of the meals served here or if they downgrade the quality even further.
I mindlessly sink my spoon into the broth and play with a perfectly shaped potato cube. My thoughts are foggy, lost in the maze that is my mind. Thinking clearly is nearly impossible, and the millions of thoughts that run through my head die before they have time to develop into something useful. I swear it’s driving me crazy. I must do something—anything.
I decide to try the broth. It doesn’t taste like anything at all, mostly water. I can stomach that. I decide I should try something with more nutrients, like a potato, and surprisingly, it doesn’t taste as bad as it usually does when I prepare this meal back home. I don’t know how they cook it here, but they do it better than I do at my apartment. Maybe here the beef chunks taste better? I try again and chew on a narrow strip of beef. That’s where my appetite vanishes. The beef is as bad as it was at home. I take the water bottle and drink until the beef chunk dislodges from my throat.
Apprehension slowly comes back, like a part of me without which I wouldn’t be whole. I can’t help but succumb to it, unable to overcome this feeling of loss. I trace the contours of the old, yellowed plastic bowl with my spoon. It distracts my mind temporarily until my eyes slip to something white and papery jammed between the base of the bowl and the metal plate.
I carefully lift the bowl off the plate, my fingers trembling with anticipation, and focus on the little paper. When the gap between the bowl and the plate is wide enough, I risk reaching for the paper, trying not to knock over the stew onto the bed. For someone as clumsy as I am, it’s quite an achievement. I don’t know if this tightly folded piece of paper contains anything, but if it does, I must be sure no one comes into the room while I read it.
I get up, the piece of paper stuck in my closed fist, and walk softly to the door, taking care to muffle my footsteps as much as possible. There may be guards at my door, who knows? When I get to the door, I lean in and press an ear against it while pressing a hand to my other ear. I close my eyes and listen carefully. There are regular footsteps outside, followed by the creaking wheels from a rolling tray. I hear doors opening and doors closing. Besides that, I hear nothing else—not even a faint discussion between guards or the breathing of someone nearby. It’s like the hallway is empty and I’m all alone. I guess I’m safe then.
I turn around to sit on the bed. My previous excitement now reaches my legs, turning them so weak they can barely hold my weight. I can’t wait to discover what lies inside this piece of paper. Maybe there’s nothing, which would be quite frustrating. But maybe inside lies the answers to my worries and concerns about what is going on, something that will allow me to understand Marcus’s words. Something to give them meaning. I can’t avoid the corner of the bed, too distracted to notice it, and to my distress I accidentally snag the food plate, propelling its contents onto the old linoleum flooring.
I stare at the mess for a moment, then at my closed fist that holds the paper, then at the door. I feel like I’m living yesterday again, and I’m Andrew, staring at the mess on the floor, the files in my hands, and the entry door. But today is not yesterday. And I’m not Andrew. I’m Lisa. I’m retired. I hold a piece of paper of unknown origin, with unknown content. I splashed my meal all over the floor, and in a moment, guards will arrive to see what the commotion is about.
Not a second later, the door slams open and two guards appear, guns drawn and pointed at my head. Here they are.
“What’s that?” yells the closest one to me, a big bearded man with protruding ears and fluffy eyebrows.
“Sorry, it was an accident,” I say.
They lower their guns and holster them soon after they finish scanning the room. I can only think of the piece of paper in my hand. What if they decide to search me from head to toe?
Sweat gathers at the back of my neck, dripping down my lower back, and I can’t help but feel I look suspicious of something. And the more I stress about it, the worse it becomes. The skin of my forehead is turning wet now. I’m sure they will notice. I try to stand as straight and motionless as possible, keeping my knees from clashing against each other. I must act normally. I must—I must hold on.
For a moment, I think I’m out of danger as one guard, a dark-skinned man, turns around like he’s about to leave. The bearded guard relaxes, leaning his back lazily on the doorframe, staring at the hallway with a smirk on his face. But then, the bearded guard turns his head toward me and orders me to get out of the room, and the dark-skinned guard moves back a few steps, securing the area, as if I were a dangerous criminal. What dangerous criminal only reaches five foot four and barely weighs more than a kid? I can hear my heartbeat fill my ears, as strong and stressful as the ticking of a clock. No, like the ticking of that clock: the one at the tram station where I waited for Anna and where Rabid-Dog had watched me. Every beat is a second passed, and every second passed exposes me a bit more to this lingering threat that today stands by the door frame, a hand brushing his holstered pistol.
What if they catch me?
I discreetly cover my clenched fist with my other hand in a natural pose and move toward the door as ordered. I guess it’s not fast enough for him though, because the bearded guard grips my arm, clenching his iron fingers around my skin as I walk past him. He pulls me out of the room, and as I step past the doorframe, he throws me up against the back wall of the hallway where I almost smash my head.
It takes me a moment to compose myself, and when I turn around, I stare at the bearded guard while massaging my throbbing arm. Freaking idiot. Why did he have to be this violent with me? I mean, I was going to leave all by myself. There was no need to hurt me, no need to be such a jerk. As I hold my glare on the bearded guard, a sudden wish to beat him to a pulp overwhelms me...until I hear the dark-skinned guard calling someone over the phone, a servant, I think.
Head down, a pile of dry clothes in one hand and pushing a mop bucket with the other, a girl materializes at the other end of the hallway. Clothed in a black dress and white apron that falls just over her knees, the servant—a petite brunette with wide eyes—hurries toward us. She doesn’t notice—or simply ignores—the traces of water that splash out of the bucket behind her on her way. In fact, as she arrives, she appears as though she wants to go back to where she came from as soon as possible.
She briefly stops and raises her head, forcing a salute to both guards. She then turns to me, her face freezing in a grimace that leaves me puzzled as to why she hates me that much. Our eyes meet only for a second before she turns back and enters the room, followed by the dark-skinned guard.
I am left speechless when the guards share a few smirks and knowing looks as the girl bends over and starts to clean the narrow spot around the bed where the broth has splattered. It’s all clear now by the way they stare at her, the way they talk of her. They salivate at the sight of her. They exchange some suggestive gestures and make fun of her troubles and discomfort. That’s why she was reluctant to come here, and that must be why she hates me. I shove all thoughts of this out of my head before the images of the guards, and the girl starts to get to me. I must “hold on.”
A shiver creeps over my skin as my eyes shift to the bearded guard’s feet, noticing the little piece of paper that lies under his boot. I massage the inside of my closed hand with the tip of my fingers. The paper has indeed gone missing. How could I have let it go? When the bearded guard gripped my arm and shoved me against the wall, I must have let it fall. But how could I have been that stupid? My heart races faster, poun
ding against my chest and threatening to break it open with every beat.
What to do? How to get it back without bringing their attention to me? They may be engrossed by the sight of the girl as she finishes cleaning the floor, but surely not enough that I would go unnoticed. I don’t know what’s hidden in this paper and don’t want to risk it being filled with things that could provoke my death.
I observe the scene for a moment and wait for the right moment to move, an opening in which I could creep through like a snake and bring the paper back. The moment presents itself at the exact moment the girl gets up from the floor, her task fulfilled.
A pile of soiled clothes in one arm, she pushes the mop and bucket along the hallway. She then stops by every water spot on the floor and wipes them dry, all under the pleased eyes of the guards.
“Get back to your room,” says the bearded guard, still distracted.
Here’s my only chance. With their attention on the retreating brunette, I fake sudden weakness and throw myself to my knees, palms pressed against the floor, and as the bearded guard grips my collar to put me back on my feet, I wrap my fingers around the paper and keep it locked tight into my fist.
“Sorry, I fell ill,” I apologize.
The bearded guard snorts and then throws me back into my room. I stumble before falling onto the bed, stomach first. I roll around, and for a moment, I notice that the bearded guard eyes me with the same stare he gave the petite brunette. Bile fills my mouth. Will I undergo the same fate as her, whatever that is?
“Next time, you’ll clean it yourself.”
He plays with his belt buckle before leaving, slamming the door closed behind him. I wait until I don’t hear his footsteps echoing in the hallway before breathing again, the rush of fear and adrenaline that had been coursing like blood in my veins finally dispersing. I roll over, pull the sheets off of the bed, and sink into them. They are still wet at my feet with broth, and they surely aren’t going to change them. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I’m out of danger now, the paper well hidden in my clenched hand. I uncurl my aching fist, realizing that my nails had dug into the soft skin of my palms, and I unfold the paper.
