by T. C. Edge
I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as polite as he is.
He rumbles to his feet and moves off, continuing to fetch more empty and half-eaten bowls. His hands and arms are so big he can accommodate many more than anyone else. If he wasn’t so large, finding work collecting plates in a restaurant might be easy. Unfortunately, his size makes him clumsy. I’ve lost count of the number of things he’s broken around here.
Mrs Carmichael watches him closely as he gets to the point of overloading his arms.
“Careful now, Drum. If you drop those, you pay for them.”
“Yes, Mrs Carmichael,” he says again, before plodding off into the kitchen.
“I’m not sure he’s long for this place,” says Tess, shaking her head as we watch him go. “I know Brenda has a soft spot for him, but she can’t give him special treatment.”
Tess, unlike me, will occasionally use Mrs Carmichael’s first name, depending on the circumstances.
I watch on wistfully, knowing she’s right. I doubt how long he’ll survive out there on his own. His size could make him a target. A lot of people have an intense dislike for the Enhanced, and a kid as big as Drum will only draw attention.
As he disappears, Mrs Carmichael comes trotting over.
“You must be tired, girls. I suggest you go and get some sleep.”
“I’m happy to help clear up,” I say.
“No need for that, Brie. You’ve been through plenty today, and deserve a break. I’ve made sure that your work tomorrow has been passed onto someone else.”
“You mean, we get a day off?” asks Tess excitedly.
“You’ve earned it. Just relax, and hang out here at the academy.”
She breezes away, gathering up the youngsters in a bid to send them off to their dorms. Unlike us, they stay in groups of 6, squashed into tighter quarters. It’s a good way of getting more of them off the streets, but sure does lead to some raucous behaviour.
Tonight, I suspect, they’ll be discussing the events down at Culture Corner long into the early hours. It’s something not even Mrs Carmichael can police.
As she struggles to round them all up, Tess and I begin making our way upstairs to wash and get to bed. Physically, I feel exhausted, and yet mentally there’s a freshness that I’d rather wasn’t there. Any time a period of quiet dawns, my mind is once more filled with the sounds of screams and the sight of blood and the smell of charred flesh and suffocating smoke.
Most of all, however, it’s the strange feeling of having another person inside my head that lingers the most. The sense that my private thoughts, something that no one should ever have access to, have been violated and inspected.
I’m sure that Deputy Burns merely looked for my memory of the attack. Nothing else would be of interest to him. But still, it leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth that I know a good night’s sleep won’t be sufficient to eliminate.
Upstairs, Tess and I take it in turns to use the basic shower. It’s shared between all those on the top floor, barring Mrs Carmichael, and for the most part has a limited supply of hot water.
Most evenings it’s a fight to get there first and make use of the warm water while it lasts. Tonight, Tess and I are given first dibs.
“I could get used to treatment like this,” remarks Tess as she comes out, draped in a towel, her skin pink and glowing from the heat.
I quickly take my turn, and enjoy the somewhat rare sensation of warm water trickling down my spine. After only a few short minutes, however, normality resumes and the water goes tepid, calling an end to my brief period of bliss.
Back in our room, I find Tess already tucked up in bed. Her eyes, though, remain wide open as I brush my teeth and drag my nightclothes over my skin, before hopping into bed.
Clearly, her mind is just as busy as mine.
“So, what do you want to do tomorrow?” she asks.
The first thing that comes to mind is: “Sleep.”
“Yeah,” she laughs. “I could sleep for days I reckon.”
“Same here,” I say.
We’re both lying.
Because as the lights go off, and we try to fall asleep, I know we’ll both find it hard. Tess, usually a light snorer – or heavy breather, according to her – makes it very clear when she’s sleeping. For several hours that night, locked in the darkness, I don’t hear a peep from her.
I lie up against the wall, keeping my glowstick beneath my blanket to douse its light, and stare at my parent’s fading faces. I run through the usual routine that I have to perform before dropping off, which mostly sends me into the land of nod with cracked images of my long gone parents in my head.
And of other things, of another life I might have led, a whole world of possibilities where my imagination can run wild.
It’s a symptom of life for any orphan, especially those like me who know nothing of where they came from. A chance to escape reality, if only for a while, and live in the imagined world created by your subconscious.
For some, it’s the only way to get through the day…just waiting for the night.
Yet that night, my mind doesn’t conjure false images of some imagined reality. It doesn’t spend its time considering what my life might have been like had I grown up in a more conventional family.
No. That night, it’s the sights and smells and sounds of the attack at Culture Corner that dominate. Each time I drop off, they swarm all over me, causing me to wake at regular intervals with my body drenched in a cold sweat.
And while the youngsters down below might be excited by such an event, being there was a very different experience. One that, right now, I’d rather forget.
6
The morning brings with it a chill that’s more bitter than any I’ve felt in a while. Peeling off my blanket and sodden nightclothes, I’m quick to dress in my warmest winter attire, before sitting back down on the bed.
A few minutes later, Tess stirs, breaking from a sleep that was probably just as troubled as mine.
“What time is it?” she coughs, shivering underneath her covers.
I scoop up my old watch from the bedside table.
“7.30,” I say.
“Arg…why does my stupid body wake me up so early.”
“Habit,” I mutter, as she rolls over and tries to get some more sleep.
I don’t do the same. Frankly, I’m happy to be up, and would rather not give myself over to my subconscious again, keen as it seems to be to torment me with the carnage from yesterday.
Damn subconscious…
Instead, I leave Tess to her rare lie-in, and head downstairs for breakfast to find Drum hard at work in the kitchen, utilising his mighty strength as he stirs a giant pot of porridge. This week it’s his turn to prepare breakfast each morning.
“Need some help?” I ask him breezily.
He seems surprised to find me down there. Recently, I’ve been starting work too early to make breakfast, and have been dining out on those tasteless protein bars instead.
The porridge isn’t any better, but at least it’s warm.
“Hey Brie,” he says, showing off his ginormous gnashers through a smile he reserves for me. “You should rest. This is my job. But thanks for asking.”
“Really, Drum, I don’t mind. I’ll serve. How about that?”
After a brief bit of haggling he agrees, and I begin ladling portions of porridge into bowls. As I do, the noise outside in the canteen begins to grow as the kids come pouring in with an excessive amount of energy.
It’s obvious they’re even more excited and talkative than usual.
As Drum scoops up a few bowls to serve, I tell him to stay and that I’ll handle it. I know he gets teased by the kids, and when they’re in this sort of mood, they’re only going to be more irritating.
As I emerge from the kitchen, however, I realise that perhaps I haven’t thought this through. Immediately, I’m harassed again for further retellings of the previous day’s events, something I’m completely unwilling to re
live.
This time I’m not so polite. I tell them in no uncertain terms that they’ve heard all they’re going to hear from me on the matter.
Thankfully, I hold just enough authority around here to calm them, only one or two throwing lacklustre obscenities my way for my trouble. I eye up a particularly difficult child, Brandon, who’s usually the chief stirrer among the louder boys, as a couple of swear words drip off his youthful, 13 year old lips.
“I heard that, Brandon,” I say, glaring at him. “Don’t make me tell Mrs Carmichael on you.”
That’s enough to shut him up. Mrs Carmichael has a strange aversion to swearing, especially among the younger members here. The younger they are, the worse her reaction.
It’s ironic, really, because she’s not short of the odd curse word herself. Especially after a glass or two of whiskey.
I try to keep busy that morning. Once breakfast is all over, I help Drum with the washing up, and we chat a little about his working prospects.
“I heard they need more workers on the outside,” he says. “You know, clearing the woods…”
“Drum, no way are you doing that!” I say. “You know why they need more workers for that?”
He shrugs.
“Because workers die all the time,” I say. “It’s dangerous out there, you know that.”
Work outside of the borders of Outer Haven is notoriously dangerous, and mostly considered a last resort for those in desperate need of money or rations. Generally, it involves clearing the toxic woods and lands beyond our borders, labour that the Unenhanced see to. Monitored, of course, by the Enhanced.
Even inside protective suits, people regularly get sick and end up dying from the suffocating toxic fog. And that’s not all they need to worry about. Outside of the city, other threats linger too…
It’s upsetting that Drum’s even considering it.
“Promise me you won’t go down there and sign up,” I tell him. “We’ll find something better for you. And you’ve always got Tess and me. You know that, right?”
He nods.
“Say the words, Drum.”
“I promise,” he mutters.
I step in and give him a short hug, failing as usual to wrap my arms around his gigantic trunk.
As I return to my room later that morning to take my pills, I make a note to talk to Mrs Carmichael about Drum.
Again.
Unfortunately, it’s a conversation I’ve had with her many times before. Try as she might, she’s found it hard getting him any sort of regular work. His size, clumsiness, and general simple-mindedness make him unappealing to most employers.
Back in the room, Tess appears to have roused herself. Looking fresh, and dressed up warm, her eyes sparkle with the promise of having the remainder of the day off.
“Let’s go out,” she says.
“Mrs Carmichael said we should hang out here,” I counter.
“Screw that. I wanna go back down to Culture Corner, see what’s going on down there.”
“You want to go back?” I ask, quite surprised to hear it.
“Yeah, sure. There’s not much else to do is there?”
She’s got a point. The entertainment around here is sorely lacking, and what there is will almost certainly be occupied by the increasingly annoying youngsters.
Just thinking about their incessant pestering is enough to get me to agree.
“Fine, I guess we could go,” I concede. “I’ll go check with Mrs…”
“Forget it, Brie. Don’t disturb her. We’re 18, and can go where we want.”
She rushes towards me, grabs my arm, and drags me straight out into the corridor. Before I know it, we’re moving out of the building and onto the street, the world rushing with an endless stream of activity outside.
It’s a clear day, which is quite rare, clear enough perhaps to get a good view of the western mountains from the higher ground of the eastern quarter. I ask Tess about going there instead, but she has less interest than me in the view, or in imagining what it must be like hiking up in the mountain valleys and passes.
Even the rumours about the mountain dwellers don’t seem to interest her.
“Nonsense, that’s all it is,” she says. “Those mountains are dead and empty.”
Tess can be quite the downer when she wants to be. She finds joy in so few things.
I don’t argue, but instead make a mental plan to head eastwards later that afternoon, with or without her. Truth be told, without might be better. Looking upon those mountains is something I like to do alone.
As we make our way towards the Conveyor Line, I make note of the increased presence of the City Guard around the streets. Up on the tops of buildings, hidden behind neon signs and transparent holograms, Hawks sit and spy on the world below. At larger intersections, heavyset Brutes stand primed for action, and Dashers await their orders, finding it hard to stay still for too long.
Seeing such a collection of Enhanced, of course, has an impact upon the population, who eye them with a mix of suspicion and awe. There’s a wariness about the place, a strange energy. It seems as though people are walking more rigidly than normal, talking in quieter tones.
At times like this, our collective behaviour needs to be impeccable. And we all know it.
Seeing sentry and security drones isn’t so uncommon around these parts. And yet still, their own numbers have burgeoned and swelled, the sky almost as busy as the streets for sheer numbers of flying contraptions.
As we reach a larger intersection, huge screens, usually filled with advertising, fill instead with news of the bombing. Video footage of the attack is played, provided by cameras hidden within high buildings and on drones, that give us a whole new perspective of it all.
We stop for a moment and watch, and in the bottom left corner of the screen see ourselves. Standing beside the mural, I see Tess grab my shoulder and fling me to the floor, just as the wall of fire spreads to where we were standing.
“Jesus,” I whisper. “I didn’t realise we were so close. You saved my life, Tess…”
She shrugs. “Think nothing of it. Just instinct.”
The scene continues to play out, and the flames disappear as quickly as they spread, followed by the rush of dark grey smoke. It all seems to happen so much faster watching it, rather than being there.
As Tess and I creep around the side of the mural again, and look upon the devastation, the camera appears to zoom in on us. It follows us as we stand for a split second, and then dart straight into the fray, quickly moving in to help. Then, the Dasher bursts as if from nowhere, issues his orders, and we’re seen tearing apart our jumpers and tending to wounds.
At the bottom of the screen, a headline reads:
Heroes of Outer Haven Save Lives…
We look at each other in astonishment, before the camera angle changes, focusing on another brave soul who ran straight in to help.
“Jeez…we’re famous!” laughs Tess.
I don’t much like the idea of it. Thankfully, the camera angle was from above us, and our faces were largely obscured by the smoke and mist.
Around us, plenty of other people are watching the screens. None of them, however, lend us a look. It’s enough to satisfy me that we shall remain nothing but anonymous heroes.
Then again, I don’t see myself as a hero at all. Tess, maybe, for saving my life.
But not me.
We don’t linger too long watching the giant screens, and quickly jump aboard the Conveyor Line towards Culture Corner. As we near, it’s obvious that the entire area has been cordoned off, the line ending prematurely and not venturing towards the main square as it usually would.
We step off and continue on foot, working our way through the bustling crowd. Soon enough, we’ve come to the end of the line, unable to move beyond a fence that’s been erected on the boundary of the square, guarded by our own police force from Outer Haven, known locally as Con-Cops.
Rumour has it, they’re made up of criminals
who have been ‘reconditioned’ by special therapies. Exactly what this means, no one seems to know. But suffice to say, when these criminals go away, they come back as very different people, most of them turning into very loyal and efficient policemen.
It’s an effective method, I guess, of utilising those who have done wrong. They’d otherwise be eliminated, depending on the severity of their crimes, or sent for some other term of unpaid manual labour elsewhere. Those deemed appropriate for a life of service are instead made into Con-Cops, swapping a life of crime for one of protection.
Here in Outer Haven, however, criminals are not treated with much leniency. Anyone caught causing any sort of public infraction can easily find their life changing, or even ending, overnight. The Court have no tolerance for such things.
I suppose that comes with the territory when you’re cursed with total emotional detachment.
It makes sense, then, that everyone is acting particularly carefully now, with the streets so filled with City Guards and Con-Cops. Even pushing and shoving to the front of the queue to get a good look into the square, as Tess and I are doing now, might not be the best idea.
We do it nonetheless, and quickly realise that there isn’t much to see. The place has been swiftly cleaned up, all remains of bodies and old statues now having been removed, and the blood and dust washed away from the concrete floor.
On the outskirts of the square, however, other venues are still being cleaned. Theatres and other works of art remain dusty and blackened, their owners working to clean them up as they once were. I suspect that, for the time being at least, Culture Corner will remain rather quiet.
Still, the investigation appears to be ongoing. As we look forward, various officials appear in conversation. Tess taps me on the arm and draws my attention to one in particular.
“Hey, check it out…it’s our friend Deputy Burns.”
Amid the rabble, the Deputy appears, dressed exactly as he was yesterday and coolly managing the show. He appears to be addressing a group made up of members of the Council of the Unenhanced, as well as artists and venue owners most affected by the Fanatics’ crazed attack.
