by E. L. Giles
“Hold on and be ready,” it reads.
It takes a moment for me to react. Anger clutches me first. I crumple the paper between my fingers, knowing I surely risked my life for such a miserable and useless piece of paper. I want to cry out loud at the top of my lungs until my voice dies. I grip the fold in the paper and bite it hard, hard enough to make my teeth hurt. Pain is always an effective way to drown out anger and worry.
Slowly I calm down, and a thought crosses my mind. I pick the paper up and smooth it back the best I can. I notice first that the letters are not Marcus’s writing. These are square letters, quickly scribbled, not Marcus’s fine cursive ones.
That means one thing: Marcus didn’t write this, so he must have a friend in here, aware of something I am not. And this friend is willing to—to what? Help me out? What’s the plan then, if there even is one? Now that I’m officially not reassigned, which I thought could have been Marcus’s initial plan, what kind of help should I expect? Should I be expecting any help at all?
As time passes, hunger grips me, jumbling my thoughts. I can’t think of anything other than food. My last real meal was Thursday of last week, before Anna’s execution, and since then, I haven’t been able to stomach anything. It’s weird that hours ago, I couldn’t swallow much and now I’m starving.
Fortunately, five o’clock in the afternoon soon rings, and the squeaking of the tray’s wheels echo in the hallway. It stops at every door, and I stand eagerly by the edge of the bed. This one I won’t drop on the floor—not with my stomach growling with such hunger and surely not with the threat of the bearded guard that still lingers in the back of my mind.
I wait. And wait. The tray squeaks by. It squeaks past my room. I wait, and the tray doesn’t appear. My door doesn’t open. No one materializes through it. Nothing happens.
Is this some sort of vengeance from the bearded guard?
I get up and run to my door, knocking on it as I cry, “Hey, you forgot me!”
No one answers. I cry out again and again, but still, none dare answer me.
Hours pass. I’m lying on my back in the bed, sleepy and too feeble to move when I hear a scratching noise coming from the door. Something slips in a flash across the floor and stops only a few inches from my bed. I lean over and find a long, rectangular-shaped thing wrapped in brown paper.
I stretch my hand out to pick it up, and the first thing I notice is that it is quite heavy. I unwrap it and discover inside the paper a thick oat wafer. I don’t care where it came from and instantly bite at it. Chunk after chunk I devour without pausing to breathe. And when I’m done, I lick at the crumbs that fell on the sheets. Whoever sent it to me, I owe them a thousand thanks.
Whoever… It isn’t anyone, is it? No, this “whoever” must be the same person who wrote me the note. I have no proof, but I am sure of it. Did he hear me earlier? Did he know I’ve been deprived of dinner tonight? Who is he?
With my stomach partly filled, I get up from the bed and start pacing back and forth, unable to do nothing. I sync my pace with the ticking of the clock on the wall, watching as time passes. Wasn’t it what the paper asked for, what Marcus’s words meant, to “be ready”?
“Hold on and be ready.” Those were the words.
I wait for any signs, anything that looks suspicious, anything that stands out. It could be at any moment that whatever has to happen happens. But when the clock strikes midnight, and I yawn, the heaviness of my eyelids become unstoppable to the point that I must close them. I say to myself that I’ll only shut them for a few seconds so they’ll stop burning, but seconds later, I fall asleep.
Chapter Eight
I stand on this ravaged land, witnessing this war that spares no one. Blood dyes the ground scarlet, and the skies have turned crimson, filled with chemicals and sulfuric clouds. The stench of rot is unbearable, the air, unbreathable. It’s like my throat is too tightly closed now that no more air can pass through it. I’m suffocating. My eyes, my mouth, my throat, and my lungs all burn like they’re on fire.
Everywhere I look is chaos and devastation, death and this poisonous mist that evaporates from the ground like smoke from a chimney to fall back down as acrid black rain pummeling my head and soiling my skin like liquid soot.
In the middle of the field stands a group of armed men running over the ruins of fallen houses and buildings. Bombs explode all around, propelling men sky-high, broken and dismembered. Other men take the lead, waving a black flag over their heads as they cry like demented beasts. The rain seems to feed the fire spots, and the land is entirely set ablaze.
The scene morphs slowly into the Justice Court. The room is empty. I notice there’s no bench, no desk, only the frescos that cover the ceiling and the walls. But they are different from what I’ve known. Some of them I’ve never seen, like the rebels impaled on spikes protruding from the walls surrounding Kamcala. Rows and rows of dead bodies ornament the city’s border. And there’s one where a young woman is executed. Next to her stand two people, another woman, with blond hair, and a man clothed in a white robe. I recognize them. The young woman, who is hanging by the rope, with brown hair and pale white skin, is me. But something isn’t right. She’s pregnant. I turn my head to look at the man. It’s Marcus, and the other woman is Anna. She is holding the rope. In a blink, it all changes.
There is only rubble and ash beneath my feet now. I’m no longer hanging by a rope. Anna and Marcus are gone—
A door slams and I wake up startled. It takes me a whole second to realize I’m no longer in this dream and the sound of the door slamming on the wall isn’t a bomb exploding nearby. I open my eyes and see through my blurred vision that a man stands by the opened door.
“We leave in an hour,” he says before he turns and closes the door behind him.
Couldn’t he have opened that door normally? I think to myself as I sit up in bed. Still drowsy from my abrupt waking, I start massaging a throbbing spot on my forehead as I recall the nightmare. It has nothing to do with what I’ve experienced in the last few days. It’s the first time I’ve seen myself condemned and witnessed my own death. My death… I must be going completely insane.
Before I give in to the screams that build in my chest, I get up and turn on the television, thinking it will help me stay sane, at least until I leave. An hour to hold on shouldn’t be that hard, right?
The first thing that appears on the screen nearly sends me to the floor. The scene I’m witnessing resembles my dream. A coal mine somewhere has accidentally exploded around District 13, and all we see is chaos, fire, and smoke. There are dozens of casualties. Death, again. Why does everything bring me back to this fate? Anna, Peter, yesterday’s execution, my dream, today’s explosion. This is not exactly what I expected to help me out, and this hour will definitely be more difficult to get through now.
It takes me some time to get myself together and regain the ability to move again. I need to turn the television off before I witness too much. I’m already on edge. No need to add more nerves. But as my fingers brush the cold plastic knob of the power switch, I catch a glimpse of the screen as the camera pans over the remains of bodies and rubble to a piece of black fabric, held by a curled, bloody fist protruding from the fuming wreckage. Okay, it could be anything other than the rebel’s black flag. It could be a piece of cloth blackened by soot, which sounds more convincing since the last known rebel organization was crushed by President Nightingale a long time ago.
Is it curiosity or terror that still holds me to the screen as I contemplate the chaos there, the columns of black smoke evaporating from the blazing rubble and this black piece of fabric? Surely both, as it has made my dream a reality, and if it is real, then I know what to expect for me.
The commentator warns the audience about an undetermined period of electrical outages in District 13 until they can fix it. “Undetermined period” sounds absurd though, more like a punishment. It’s not the first time an explosion has occurred in a coal mine, and they’ve never ask
ed for an undetermined period for shutdowns. They’ve always lasted a day or two at most. I must admit that this event in addition to the double execution from yesterday sounds particularly troublesome, or maybe it’s just me, thinking crazy thoughts.
The door opens again. The petite brunette appears, pushing a tray containing my breakfast.
I stare at her, an apology hanging on the tip of my tongue and about to leave my mouth, but she raises her head and stares at me, daggers in her eyes.
“Don’t make a mess again,” she says curtly, handing me the plate. I place it on my lap, securing both edges with solid hands. I won’t make a mess!
I watch her disappear behind the door, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. It’s only when she’s out of sight that I finally shout, “Sorry!”
The plate feels light on my lap as if it’s empty and barely warm. I lift the lid. Nothing fancy. There are two cold pieces of toast and a butter cube with a tiny bottle of water. I pick up a piece of toast and try to spread some butter on it with the soft plastic knife they provided, but the butter is cold and hard, and the bread rips apart. I resign myself to eating the plain toast, ranting internally about how frustrating my meal is. As I swallow the very last bite of the first piece, I recall the wafer from yesterday. I imagine that the second piece of toast tastes like that, the oat wafer. It makes it more appetizing.
Then my overactive imagination produces the idea that there could be another paper hidden somewhere in my meal—maybe a note, or anything that explains the plan further than just “hold on and be ready.” My hands shake with excitement as I lift the water and the paper doily from the plate. I’m sure there’s something hidden there; there must be. But there’s nothing, and disappointment fills me with a fit of anger I know I must contain.
I let my body go limp on the bed, my head resting on the paper-thin pillow, facing the clock on the wall. Time. I hate time. I hate waiting. I hate waiting for the unknown. I watch the hands of the clock move, misplaced hatred toward it pushing me to wish I could break it into pieces. Seconds pass, turning into minutes that finally turn into an hour.
The door finally opens—probably for the last time, it’s time to go. I get up, put on my shoes, and shuffle to the two guards who are waiting for me in the hallway. Two guards… I don’t get why they keep treating me like a criminal. Why not one? I mean, we’re only going to the Retirement Center, not the execution stage. At least it’s not the dark-skinned guard and bearded guard from yesterday.
We walk down the hallway, keeping a steady pace like a military parade. One of the guards leads while the other marches behind me. We turn right at the end of the hallway and enter a wider hall that we cross to reach the stairwell leading down to the main floor.
Hold on. Be ready. Hold on. Be ready, I repeat to myself, apprehension causing pangs in my stomach. As time passes, the pangs turn to actual pain that builds like a pressure threatening to explode at any moment. Every little interaction and gesture look suspicious to me as I keep the words in mind. Is it time? I wonder as we stop halfway down the stairs. Maybe it’s him? I think as a tall man stares at me with great interest. Maybe he’s the man behind the note? It’s time now, I imagine as the man talks with the guard in front of me. Perhaps he’s distracting the guards on purpose? Unfortunately, this isn’t the case, and desperation screams through me. What is going on?
Hold on. Be ready... Hold on. Be ready…
The headache I massaged earlier comes back full force. It’s like my heart lives in my head, throbbing against my skull until it’s about to crack open. Black spots disrupt my vision. I feel faint for a moment, and then I totally lose myself, going weak, as if turning boneless. And then a squeezing in my chest tells me what is happening. Panic is overwhelming me. My legs wobble, and if it weren’t for the guard behind me, I would have fallen to the bottom of the stairs.
“Thanks,” I mumble as the guard helps me back to my feet.
With the guard’s support, I stagger down the last few stairs, and we enter a narrow passage behind the main hall. The air is fresh here and helps me collect my wits. It’s poorly illuminated here, windowless, reminding me of the halls of the apartment building where I used to live two days ago. How crazy it is to realize how many things have happened in only two days—forty-eight hours. I still haven’t wrapped my mind around it all.
Being alone in the dim light of the dark and unfamiliar passage, escorted by two men, makes me think back to the petite brunette girl who cleaned my mess yesterday. I instantly stiffen and curl my hands into tight fists that make my fingers go numb. Fortunately for me, these guards who are escorting me are not of the same ilk as the dark-skinned guard and the bearded guard from yesterday. They are gentleman. At least, I feel safe, and neither of them taunt me because I felt weak moments ago. They even act gallantly, opening the doors and helping me to navigate around the obstacles scattered on the floor that I didn’t even notice before.
Finally, we turn a corner and arrive at a tall metal door. The guard walking in front of me presses a red button on the wall beside the door and speaks into the rusty speaker, requesting access, and then releases the button. A minute passes without any response and the guard’s face tenses. Why is the door taking so long? Does it have to do with my PIN and my transfer to the Retirement Center? Is there some kind of problem? The guard gestures for me to show him my forearm where my PIN is tattooed. I do as ordered, and he looks at it with narrowed eyes, probably confirming the PIN as his eyes run over the row of numbers and letters inked on my skin. He reaches for the button again and pushes it.
“What is taking so long?” he growls, and instantly the door unlocks and a buzzing noise comes from the speaker.
The guard opens the door, which creaks on its hinges, filling my ears with a screeching noise that sends chills down my spine. I grit my teeth, trying to ignore it. I hate that sound.
The first thing I notice is the bright, white light crawling into the hallway from the gap of the door as it opens. Behind this wall of bright light—that requires a full ten seconds to get used to—there is a wide meadow surrounded by trees.
The first guard walks past the door, and as I step outside onto the metal flooring of a deck, the sun disappears behind a thick curtain of clouds, killing off the bright light as rain drops begin pouring over us. There’s nowhere to run, and the door behind us closes. We’re trapped outside. Rain pummels our heads, and the wind whips our faces numb. We climb down the two little steps of the deck and head toward a gathering of people who stand in a line a few yards farther down, stiff and motionless, huddled closely together in pairs, and waiting. But what are they waiting for? Honking three times, a dark-green bus materializes through the foggy curtain of water surrounding us, propelling a sheet of water sky-high into the surrounding trees before stopping near us. For a moment, I stare at it, cold creeping over my skin as I contemplate the rust spots scattered across its frame and the beams from the headlights spreading through the mist like halos of ghosts. I can’t help but hope we’re not going to get into this wreck.
I observe the people forming the line near me—elders for the most part, which makes me feel even more alone than I actually am. Some cough harshly, and others whimper and stare into space. Some are younger too, maybe in their forties, but so badly wounded they can barely stand up straight. Unlike me, they all share this in common: they are all physically ill. What am I doing here?
The folding door of the bus opens. The rain intensifies, soaking me to the bone as thunder claps overhead. I stand there in the open space, easy prey for the electric whips of lightning that tear through the skies to strike me. A guard gets off the bus and initiates the forward march of the waiting people, supervising as they fill the bus. I have moved three steps toward the line of people when a hand pulls me to a stop. I turn around, stumbling on my feet at the sight of the man who stands there—a tall man clothed like a guard whose face is familiar to me.
Marcus’s driver…
Chapter Nine
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“Shhh,” he says, pushing me forward into the line with the rest of the people.
So, there it is, the sign I have been waiting for. But isn’t he a unificator? What is he doing here clothed like a simple guard? Concerns multiply in my head. I try to make eye contact with him.
“Straight ahead, citizen.” He scowls at me as I twist my head toward him.
I turn back around and start to walk. I don’t know what game he’s playing, but I must admit, he’s quite an expert at it. From a driver, to a unificator, to a guard, and he has looked convincing every time. But that doesn’t explain much about what is going on.
One by one, we climb the two steps that lead into the bus. The driver’s seat is empty, and the guard keeps dispatching the people from the front seats to the back. When it’s my turn, I notice there are only two seats left at the far end of the bus. I walk down the aisle, head lowered, avoiding the stares and the frowns from the other people.
When I get to the back of the bus, the unificator-turned-guard—that’s what I call him in my head—pulls me roughly aside onto the second to last bench before he takes his place behind me. I am the second to last passenger to take a seat on the bus, followed by an old man with a rounded back and tousled white hair who boards the bus but takes his place in the driver’s seat. The door closes, and the engine starts. The strong smell of gasoline fills my nose, intermingling with a stale dampness, rendering the air inside the vehicle barely breathable for a moment. When the driver shifts forward, and the ceiling fans start, the air clears and becomes breathable again.
I take one look at the seat behind me when the guard in front of the bus turns back to us. I have enough time to notice the unificator-turned-guard sitting still, his back as straight as a metal bar, shoulders pressed back, chest puffed out, and chin lifted, like a real soldier. The stock of his rifle rests on the floor, the barrel leaning against his chest. But it’s not the sight of the gun that shocks me most. Rather, it’s the tenseness of his demeanor, his tight jawline that betrays his clenched teeth, and his lowered eyelids that fall over his dark, narrowed eyes. It’s like things aren’t going according to plan. What plan though? I don’t know. But I remember, “Hold on and be ready.”
