With the movement, my thoughts inadvertently drift to my fragile stomach. It pulses in greeting. I jerk my thoughts away, but not before my nose detects the memory of vomit.
“Hungry?” Mother asks.
“No,” I choke, too quickly. The odor of stomach acid drifts past—real this time. Will I ever want food again? It’s so much more comfortable dry-heaving than having to worry about retching on another person in the darkness. Without rags to clean it. Without soap.
I take an emotigraph at the peak of my discomfort. Someday, I will release it to the High-City world and they’ll see what the Council has done to us.
Seven more people die and, after we strip them of most of their clothing, Enforcers toss their bodies into the sea. I can’t blame it on the Enforcer beatings anymore. I think a lot of it has to do with the suffocation of our container. Of hopelessness. The air has grown colder—too cold. We all huddle together now, squished as tight as possible for the sake of body heat, sharing the clothing of the dead. I’m one of the few with a coat. I hand off the sweater I tied around my waist and give someone else Father’s coat.
We rotate every couple hours so no one is pressed against the metal container sides for too long. I feel the urge to keep Mother warm and safe—so she never touches the walls. It’s a strange protectiveness since she’s always been the collected, strong one in our family. But this isn’t her territory. There are no soapsuds or dishes to turn to when things get too hard.
This is new territory to me, too, but I’m more prepared to fight for my life.
The door creaks open and the bag of potatoes is thrown in. The bucket of water is frozen around the rim.
“Shut the door!” Cap hollers at the Enforcer feeding us. “It’s cold!”
The Enforcer levels a gaze at our smooshed group and then slides the metal door softly, dangerously shut.
“You fool, Caprine.”
I don’t know what Mother thinks the Enforcer might do to us, but Frenchie’s cry distracts me from despairing.
“Ze potatoes are cooked!”
Everyone reaches for the bag. Now that so many have died, we all get a potato every time. The bag reaches Mother and me. I pass Mother her potato and then take one in my hand. It’s still warm. I clutch it to my chest, willing it to warm my core. The earthy dirt-smell doesn’t make my stomach roil this time—not when it’s accompanied by heat. The little girl in our car gets two potatoes.
I take a bite. It’s soft and hot, burning my mouth. I let it.
We get no potatoes or water the next day, even when Cap pounds on the door. No one comes.
“This is your fault.” Dusten’s accusation comes out in a puff of frozen breath. “You insulted the Enforcer.”
Cap just returns to the huddle and pushes himself into the warm middle, right next to the little girl. People protest, but no one uncurls or pushes him away. It’s too cold.
We get another two bags of potatoes after a day. They’re raw again. Thanks, Cap. Everyone is shivering. I tuck my right hand under my armpit to keep my fingers warm. I keep my scarf wrapped around both Mother’s and my face so our breath can rebound and warm us. We take it down only to eat the potatoes.
Raw potatoes become the least of my worries when loud clunks hit the outside of the ship. First one, then two. They don’t sound intentional.
“I th-th-think it’s the ice.” Mother’s teeth chatter. “W-w-we must be c-c-close.”
My potato hits my stomach like a rock. We’re almost to Antarctica and I still don’t have a plan for survival. Soon we’ll be out and we’ll be even colder, with only ice to eat.
Right now, though, anything sounds better than this frigid metal shipping container. My feeble plan to save potatoes now sounds pathetic. How many do I have? Seven? Eight?
The cracking gets louder. Hours pass. I can’t sleep. I’m so cold.
Three people have their limbs wrapped around the little girl in the middle, pouring all their body heat into her. It’s like she’s our symbol of survival. If she makes it, then we certainly can.
God, I’m not ready for people to turn to me. I don’t know what to tell them. I don’t know how to lead them.
Amidst my worry, I’m glad I’m not alone. God’s with me, He sees me, and I exhale anxiety. Let the peace come in. I will do what I can.
The ship stops moving. Some shouts and noise come from the men on deck. The square of sky I glimpse through the window is dark and star-speckled. It’s not until early sunrise—which comes much sooner than I expected—that the dreaded creak of our door reveals a group of Enforcers led by Monster Voice.
“Everyone up and out.” His eyebrows have tiny clumps of ice in them. “We’re here.”
20
I can’t remember how to walk.
It’s been only a couple weeks—at my best reckoning—since I was on deck, hauling up buckets of water. Why can’t I walk straight?
We step in between the two stacks of shipping containers and a gust of icy wind makes the container seem like a sauna. A hand slips through the window of the blue one to my left. “Parvin.”
Solomon.
I reach for him and our fingers barely touch. His are icy and stiff. Even that movement—lifting my arm away from my body—causes a bone-wracking shiver. I tuck my elbows close to my core again.
The boat tilts and I stumble into an Enforcer. He pushes me away and Frenchie steadies me. “Keep your feet wider”—she demonstrates—“like zees. I came to America on a boat like zees one. Not een a boxcar, of course. I learned to balance.”
I knew she was French, but never imagined she actually sailed to the USE from France. “Thank you.” I look back at the container window, but Solomon’s hand is gone.
My knees threaten to buckle. Two potatoes a day didn’t cut it. The morning light burns my eyes. I squint against the reflection off the ship’s surface. The rest of the Unity Village crew still huddles together. At least eighty of us. No wonder so many died in that cramped container. If the other containers were as full as ours, there must be at least a thousand of us.
Our breath fogs out, forming a mixed cloud of chill. Dusten Grunt’s eyes are sunken and his cheeks seem more hollow. Frenchie—a model to begin with—looks like an emaciated Dead-City Radical. Mother’s face sags as if she’s aged ten years, but she grips my hand tight in a commanding way.
“Follow me.” Monster Voice walks us through the rows. One container freed and doomed at a time, I guess. When will I be reunited with Solomon? How will he look once he steps into sunlight? I almost don’t want to see the change. I like imagining him strong and in control.
A man carries the little girl from our container. She stares at the mountains of snow with a nutcracker jaw. “It’s like a wonderland.”
If only it were.
Several of us stumble, but Monster Voice doesn’t slow. Thankfully, everyone is in pants, boots, and long-sleeved shirts, since the cold had just arrived in Unity Village.
I glance back at the stern-end of the boat. The sea stretches away from us, endless, dotted with enormous flat chunks of ice. But what claims my gaze is the Wall.
It stretches a thousand feet high a mile from the ship’s starboard side. It rests atop the sea, bobbing in sections as if hinges keep it more flexible. It is smooth and grey, polished. It looks so real, but I remember Mother’s degrading laugh: “Stone doesn’t float, Parvin.”
She said all parts of the Wall over water were projected—invented by Solomon’s great-grandfather or something like that. Apparently it’s just as impassable as a stone wall. Well, it looks like a legitimate stone wall from this distance. I guess, in a few hours, I’ll see it up close.
As I stare, a part of the projected Wall flickers. Just for a moment.
A metal step-ramp lowers at an angle down to rubber motorboats, each holding a handful of armed Enforcers. Monster Voice
points. “Down you go.”
“We can’t all fit in one boat,” Cap says. “We’ll sink!”
“Get going.”
Cap folds his arms. Monster Voice steps toward him, but I lurch forward, dragging Mother after me. “I’ll go down first.”
“Sure, go brown-nose the Enforcers,” Dusten says.
I roll my eyes. “Then you go.”
He shoves me aside and I fall into Mother. I don’t mind one bit. Climbing into a dinghy filled with enemies doesn’t appeal to me. As he inches over the side, I notice he’s trembling. Cold or nervous? Or both?
We watch him, but before he reaches the bottom, Monster Voice shoves me forward. Mother’s tight grip on my hand is all that keeps me from falling down the stairs.
“Get going. We’ve got at least twenty more shipping containers to unload.”
Twenty more, each with eighty or so people in them. I’m no Moses, I can’t lead all of them. What do I do?
But it’s fewer than I expected. How many people were sold as slaves?
“Climb down, Parvin,” Mother says.
I make certain my pack is tight over my shoulders and start my descent, gripping the iced metal railing tight. My right hand burns. Some parts of it, like my warm palm, stick to the bar. Skin rips off as I slide my hand down. My blood makes my hand stick all the more. I wince.
Wind whips my hair around my face, but I don’t dare use my hand to move it out of my eyes. My nose is already numb. How can we possibly survive?
I reach the bottom of the ramp. The rubber motorboat bobs. I need a hand for balance, but Dusten’s not offering. Here goes.
I take a wild leap and my foot slips. I manage a single gasp before I land on my back against a seating slat in the boat. Something sharp from inside my pack digs into my spine. Tiny bursts of breath return the oxygen to my lungs. Dusten sits by, staring out over the ocean.
Thanks for the help.
“Parvin?” Mother’s a few steps up.
“I’m fine,” I croak.
I clamber to my feet as she reaches the bottom. I offer my bloody hand, but she steps into the boat like she’s done it a hundred times and sits on a slat. We sit together—away from the Enforcers—as the other members of Unity Village come down.
Aside from Frenchie, Dusten, Cap, and Mother, I recognize Kaphtor, the black Enforcer who originally sentenced me to the Wall. The backward E is still on his temple, but he doesn’t look like an escort. He’s emaciated and covered in sick just like the rest of us.
Dusten leans toward Cap and me, whispering, “Shouldn’t we fight back or something? We can’t just let them strand us here.”
“Didn’t you see what happened in Unity?” Cap snaps.
“Well, yeah, but there are fewer Enforcers here.” Dusten jerks his thumb toward the deck. “We could take out a few and open some of the boxcar doors—”
“And what would we do if we did take over the ship?” Cap looks around. “Anyone know how to refuel that thing or even drive it?”
One Enforcer in the boat knocks the butt of his rifle against Cap’s knee. “We can hear everything you’re saying. You want a bullet in that knee?”
Cap rubs his bristly chin and turns away.
Fighting back never crossed my mind—maybe because the beatings in Unity are still fresh in my memory. I focused more on survival, but should we fight back?
“We can’t overpower them.” Kaphtor’s low voice sounds old and torn. He coughs. “We’re all half-starved and weak.”
“What are you even doing here?” Cap glares at him. “You’re an Enforcer.”
Monster Voice screams down at us. “Get going!”
One Enforcer revs the motor and we shoot toward shore. White mountains rise from the ground like sculpted icebergs. Clouds hang low, pinkish grey against the stark white of the snow peaks.
We reach shore in a matter of minutes. Once we’re all shoved out by gunpoint, the Enforcers turn the dinghy around and return to the ship. Four of them stay with us.
“Aren’t you gonna show us where to go or something?” Dusten claps his arms against his chest several times. Flakes of who-knows-what fly off his clothing. The Enforcers stay silent.
How long will they make us stand out here? Where is the Opening?
I look down at my own pants, boots, and coat and almost vomit. Instead of clapping the dried crud off the fabric, I stomp my feet and jump up and down a few times.
The ground is covered in small rocks and shells—thousands of shells, piled inches deep. I don’t get a chance to pick any up because we’re swarmed by a rookery of penguins. They waddle toward us with funny sounds and a stench worse than the boxcars.
“Gah!” Dusten backs away from them. “It’s a stampede!”
Mother and Frenchie stare at the Wall. “Eet eez so big.”
The smooth Wall connects with land and almost blends in to the snow. Drifts of white and ice slide up to meet the base. The projected Wall looks too perfect, with no snow on it at all.
“Get going.” Just as another dinghy reaches shore, the Enforcers prod us forward.
Cap hisses like a snake. “This is madness. We’re walking toward the Wall? We’re like pigs heading to slaughter!”
“Only one of us here is a pig, Caprine.” Dusten kicks a clump of snow and walks faster.
“Stop, fools!”
A dark line covers the crest of a snow hill far ahead of us. Enforcers. We all slow, but continue walking. What else can we do? Run? Get shot?
“So much for escaping,” Cap grumbles. “Don’t blame me.”
More Radicals catch up to us. Now that guns are trained on us, we go where we’re steered—toward the Antarctica Enforcers.
We don’t walk long before a tower comes into view. The core of the tower rests close to the Wall. It is made of enormous stone blocks. Pop-outs of rooms are held up by metal scaffolding connected to the stone. It’s all greys, blues, and sea greens—a product of the environment, not a paint job. A long elevated tunnel runs from the tower straight into the Wall.
That’s our entrance. Is it warm in there? Even a blink of heat would be welcome.
Frenchie is whiter than bleached cotton with nothing but a shawl over a long-sleeved fall dress. I should give her my coat.
But I’m already so cold.
I should give it to her.
She won’t know if I don’t. One of the men should give her their coat. They’re men after all, isn’t that what gentlemen do? Solomon would do it if he were here.
I grit my teeth. Sometimes I really don’t like myself. I slide my left arm out of my coat, twist it off my shoulder, and awkwardly drape it over Frenchie’s.
“Oh no—”
“Hush.” My harsh demand reminds me of Mother. “You’ll freeze in that shawl.”
“You will freeze in zat shirt.”
A harsh gust of wind confirms her statement, ripping right through my thin, long-sleeved pullover and vest. “I’ll be fine.”
Mother helps Frenchie’s stiff arms into the sleeves. “Accept it, Angelique.”
Frenchie smiles at me. “Thank you.”
I dip my head, still guilty over the turmoil it took to sacrifice my warmth. Now that it’s gone, I’m glad I did it.
By the time we reach the Enforcer hill, snow has slipped into my boots and melted against my already chilled feet. I sniff every other breath to keep my nose from running.
“Here we go,” Cap mutters.
The movement has warmed us enough so our teeth aren’t chattering. I might even feel some sweat beneath my vest. Even though my very bones shiver, it’s not as cold here as I expected it to be.
“What are you doing with these ones?” One of our Enforcers nods at us.
An Antarctica Enforcer grunts. “Sendin’ ’em through for survival testing. Those still
alive after a week get hard labor.”
Survival testing? Hard labor? So that’s the Council’s plan—more experiments on humans. What will they have us build?
The Antarctica Enforcer uniforms are thicker than the ones in Unity. Each Enforcer wears a strange face wrapping with goggles. They lead us to the tower, forming us into a line by marching so close we can’t do anything but comply. I end up somewhere in the middle. I can’t see who’s first. I need to be first.
“Ugh, they’re so disgusting.” The Enforcer to my left is talking to the Enforcer in front of him.
“They’re Radicals, what do you expect? They have no hygiene.”
I want to scream, We’ve been stuck in a shipping container for weeks, you idiots!
“I’m glad the government is finally using them for something worthwhile. That whole relocation thing was such a joke.”
Their conversation grows louder. It stirs something up in the rest of the Enforcers—a disgust, as if every negative comment convinces them more and more that we’re livestock, not people.
A rifle butt jabs my side. “Hurry up!”
I don’t change my pace—a small act of defiance that settles the fury in my chest.
We file into the tower. The door is made of three parallel chunks of stone elevated off the ground, bound with metal wrapping. I climb icy stone stairs to go through it. When we’re inside, it closes behind us. We walk through a small tunnel that’s no warmer than the outside and to another door. We crunch into the space in a disorganized mass, seeking body heat from fellow Radicals. There’s no single-file now.
An Enforcer stands in front of the second door. “When I open this, you will run through. And I mean run. We ain’t wasting any heat because of your laziness. Got it?”
We all nod. Everyone seems to stand a little taller at the word heat.
He opens the door and we sprint as well as a mob of starved, frozen, weak Radicals can. Someone falls, but we somehow get him to his feet and pile through. As promised, the door is closed behind us.
A Time to Speak Page 22
