Sweat dotted my forehead. I brushed it away. No idea if I’d remembered correctly, calculated correctly, or did anything correctly. But I started thinking that if I did okay, I would get to eat. And maybe live longer—long enough to see my sister again.
The next question had to do with how much fertilizer to use on seven acres of crops, given the application rate of fifty pounds of fertilizer per one hundred square feet.
Oh, my freaking God.
My stomach rumbled. I hunched over the book and started writing.
16
“To educate a person in mind and not in morals is to educate a menace to society.” - Theodore Roosevelt.
Another weird quote from someone I’d never heard of.
The morning had not gone well. In addition to having Cassie saying I told you so in my head, I had Ms. Strepp pacing noisily around the room, distracting me. Not to mention the huge guard with the Taser looming over me.
I was hungry, nervous, scared, and angry, none of which was adding up to the cool ability to think straight. I did the best I could on questions about mitosis and photosynthesis and weather predictions. Vague math formulas floated around my brain like moths circling a sputtering candle. There was a section on electrical engineering, which I was reasonably confident about. But as the testing went on and on, I got tireder and tireder and hungrier and hungrier until I was almost willing to be tased just to take a nice break and be unconscious for a while.
What was happening to me? I’d lived my whole life in the cell with hardly any problems—I mean, besides Ma being carted away, and then Pa—
But I had no idea what I was doing here.
Wham! I jumped as the heavy wooden stick smashed down on my desk half an inch from my hand. Ms. Strepp had approached without me hearing her. I wondered if she’d meant to break my fingers.
“You better get your act together, missy,” she said in a voice like iron. “After this you’ll be tested on all the other subjects they tried to drill into you.”
Oh, holy hell.
The next test booklet wanted me to write five hundred words about the importance of a group work ethic and how that related to our unit’s mascot of a bee. I put my head down on my arms and braced to get tased. But as I heard Ms. Strepp rapidly walking over, I suddenly exploded in rage.
Standing up, I snapped the pencil in half and swept the test booklet off the desk.
“This is all bullshit!” I yelled. “I’m on death row! Who cares about any of this school shit? Why are you doing this to me?”
Ms. Strepp held up one hand, as if to stop the guard who was advancing on me. She met my eyes and said calmly, “We’re all on death row, ultimately. Are you so stupid that you don’t see that? Sure, you kids in here, as enemies of the system, will assuredly die earlier than most. As well you should. But all of us everywhere have a one-way ticket to death.”
I gritted my teeth. “Then what’s the point of all this?” I asked, waving my arm at the classroom.
“The point,” Ms. Strepp said, “is to find out what you know. And what you don’t know.” She gave a nod to the guard, and before I could leap away, I felt a horrible jolt, like a million watts of electricity streaking through my body. I went rigid, unable to move, and fell over face-first, headlong onto the floor without being able to catch myself.
The electrical feeling only lasted a few seconds, but even after it stopped I lay there quivering like jelly for who knows how long. Drool seeped out of my mouth but I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t raise my hand, couldn’t even curl up into a sad little ball.
“Take her to the ring,” Ms. Strepp said, and the two guards hoisted me up.
With great effort I stumbled along between them, too fuzzy to worry about what “the ring” might be, but unwilling to be dragged like a sack of feed. I noticed we were in another prison hallway with rows of jail rooms on the side filled with kids, and high windows that let sunshine in.
Little black dots floated above me like sunspots. I blinked over and over, trying to make them go away, figuring they were just another effect of the Taser.
They didn’t go away. Gradually my eyes began to focus. One of the black dots fluttered closer. It was… a dragonfly. In the cell, some of the older folks called them darning-needle flies, because of their long, thin tails.
Mesmerized, I watched the dragonfly flit in and out of the sunlight, its glassy wings looking like tiny blue fairy lights. Then there was another one, cruising next to it. And another. All in all, I counted six of them, dipping and swirling in circles high above me.
The guards paused before a pair of tall gray metal doors, and my brain started to slowly ping back to life.
What now?
17
CASSIE
THEY DON’T LIGHT COUNTRY ROADS. At night after lights-out the whole world is dark—dark enough to see the amazing glitter of a trillion stars overhead and the filmy gauze of the Milky Way moving slowly across the sky. Even if there’s no moon—especially if there’s no moon—the stars cast enough light for me to pick out the shapes of our neighbors’ barns, the haystacks in Pa’s fields, the shiny outline of a cow’s back as it dozes.
This cellar was much darker than that.
At the bottom of the steps I hesitated, feeling for solid ground with my foot. I glanced back to see the guy close the door at the top of the steps, leaving me in blackness.
I turned to race up the steps, ready to break the door down, but then my gaze was caught by the dimmest blue light. I couldn’t tell what it was or how far away it was.
Swallowing, still holding on to the stair railing, I said hesitantly, “Taylor?”
No one spoke, but I heard the scrape of a chair across a floor. I cleared my throat and said more strongly, “Taylor?”
“Yeah?”
So there was a Taylor. I didn’t know whether to be more scared or relieved. Maybe he was a psychopath, and those kids upstairs just threw new people down to him every so often. Sweat broke out on my palms and my throat felt like it was closing. I couldn’t help blinking, though it did no good.
“Um… where are you?”
Another sound, and then the blue glow became clearer, as if a very weak lamp had been uncovered. I simply stood still, letting my eyes get used to the dimness, keeping in mind where the stairs were and how I would get out of here if Taylor turned out to be a serial killer.
Not that there were any serial killers in our cell, of course.
At least, not that anyone had ever heard of.
“What do you want?” Taylor asked, and now I could almost see enough to pick my way across the cellar. Around me were dusty, cobwebby wooden shelves that held dusty, cobwebby glass jars of fruits and vegetables: home canning. Very slowly, trying not to knock anything over, I headed toward the blue light. Taylor turned out to be just a guy, maybe a little older than me, slumped on a couch, drinking from a bottle. The blue light was from the cracked screen of his cell phone, beside him on the couch.
When I came close enough for him to see me, his eyes flared open and he jumped up.
“Becca! Thank God! I thought you were—”
“I’m not Becca,” I said. “I’m her sister, Cassie. I’m looking for her. Someone told me that you two were playing chicken out on the boundary road.”
After staring at me in disbelief for a moment, Taylor’s face crumpled and he sank back down. He picked up his beer bottle and drained it, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
When he didn’t say anything, I came closer. “Taylor. Tell me what happened.”
Now he looked sullen, not meeting my eyes. “Nothing.”
That was enough to push me over the edge. It was late, I was in a bad neighborhood, my sister had been missing for more than a day, and I snapped for the first time in my life. Lunging forward, I grabbed his beer bottle and slammed it against a table, breaking off the bottom. Holding the unbroken end, I leaned over a shocked Taylor and waved the jagged glass, trying to look mean.
�
�Listen… dipshit,” I ground out. “My only sister is missing. People say you were with her. Now you tell me what the hell happened out on the boundary road or I’m going to carve your face up like a… like a Halloween pumpkin! You got that?”
Taylor drew away from me. I waved the broken bottle.
“We were racing,” he said reluctantly. “Seeing who would go the farthest. But it was too far.”
“You chickened out,” I said coldly, and he looked at me with loathing.
“It was too far. I turned around and headed back on my moped. I thought Becca was right behind me. But she wasn’t.”
“What happened then? You just left her out there?” The thought made me feel frantic.
“No!” Taylor said. “I turned around. I was going to tell her okay, she won. But when I went back, all I saw was the truck by the side of the road. No Becca.”
I wanted to scream. He’d left my sister out on the boundary road to die. I threw the broken bottle down on the couch, making him flinch. Then I stomped across the cellar and up the dark steps, and burst out the door. Outside I grabbed my moped and got the hell out of that sector. I knew what I had to do now. I had to go see Pa.
18
I HATE GOING TO HEALTHCARE United. Hate, hate, hate it. And every time I go, I remember that someday I won’t have to come here anymore. Then I feel both glad and guilty.
The receptionist on duty recognized me, of course. For the first month I’d come every single day. Then every other day. After that the neighbors had faded away, and there was no more help in the fields or people bringing food by for me and Becca. Once I started having to work the farm and feed us and keep the house going, my visits dropped down to a couple times a week.
On the second floor I passed the baby nursery and couldn’t help glancing in. Today there were three babies in their little plastic bassinets. Which meant that roughly nine months ago, three people had died. Balance is everything in the cell. On the side of the Management Building was a public screen that kept a running tally of how many people had died that month. So if five people had died, then the next five people on the waiting list for babies got their licenses approved. They had three months to make good on it, then they had to cede their place to the next couple in line. A few times in my life, more people had died than there were people on the baby-license waiting list. Then the Provost visited couples who had only one child so far and encouraged them to have another.
Again, balance is everything. To help with predictable population planning, there was System-Assisted Suicide. You didn’t even need a license for it. You just called them up and a black van showed up at your door. They made sure your papers were in order, and then the nurse hooked you up, the preacher stood there and prayed with your family, and you died.
Of course Pa, being Pa, had chosen his own way out.
He’d been in the Lingering Wing for a while now. His room looked out over the memorial garden, not that he saw anything. I pushed open his door and was greeted as usual by the soft beep and whir of machines. Not extreme measures to keep him alive, of course—that would throw the balance all out of whack. No, just machines to feed him, monitor him, let the nurses know if anything happened. Anything like him dying, for example.
When Becca and I were little, Pa had been the strongest, handsomest man we knew. He could carry both of us on his shoulders at once, while we shrieked and clung to his hair or his ears. Ma would laugh and tell him to put us down before we fell. I was never afraid of falling. I knew Pa would catch me.
He was neither strong nor handsome now.
Behind me the door opened and one of Pa’s regular nurses came in quietly.
“Hey, Sandy,” I said.
“Hey, Cassie,” she said softly.
I moved to the bed and took one of Pa’s hands. It was warm, and the skin was softer and smoother than it had been when he was working the fields. Well, months in the Lingering Wing could do that.
I needed Sandy to leave so I could tell Pa about Becca, but I knew why she was here.
“Cassie,” she began. “I need to tell you again—”
“About our options for System-Assisted Suicide,” I finished for her. “Pa won’t ever get better. He’s dying, but slowly. He has minimal brain function. He’ll never be able to work again. He’ll never come home. I should let the system lovingly help him find his way to his final rest. It will be fast, painless, and is a service offered for free to our citizens.”
With a look full of compassion, Sandy nodded. I knew this wasn’t her idea. I knew she was required to tell Pa’s relatives about Murder United.
“I’m sorry, Cassie,” she said gently. “I know it’s hard. But it really would be better for your father now. It’s been three months since… the incident. His lungs are slowly filling with fluid, and his kidneys are shutting down. We don’t want him to suffer anymore, do we?”
I shook my head, trying not to cry. Sandy was probably right, but I just couldn’t sign the order that would take my pa away forever. Not yet.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, which was more than I usually agreed to. I saw surprise in Sandy’s eyes, and then she squeezed my shoulder and left as quietly as she had come.
I leaned against Pa’s bed and held his hand. “Hi, Pa,” I said, and then my voice broke. I cleared my throat and tried again. “It’s me, Cassie. You won’t believe what I’m going to tell you about Becca.” I took a deep breath. “She’s actually at home studying. Studying! Becca! I asked her what she had done with the real Becca.” I gave a small fake laugh and held his hand tighter. “Well, maybe she’s changing, Pa. Maybe she’s growing up at last. That would be good, wouldn’t it? Anyway, I’m sure she’ll come visit you soon. And so will I.”
Leaning over, careful not to dislodge the sensors, I kissed Pa’s cool forehead. “I have to go now, but you get better soon, you hear me? I need you at home. You get better immediately, if not sooner. Okay?” Then, clamping my jaws together so I wouldn’t start bawling, I turned and got out of there as fast as I could.
19
IF PA WERE HIMSELF, HE’D have seen through my lies in a jackrabbit second. These days, I could get away with anything.
The moped and I were both running low on juice by the time I came up on the town square. The streetlights showed a crowd of people standing around the Management Building’s steps. Maybe they were handing out extras of some kind, like milk or apples—they did sometimes. I parked the moped and glanced at my watch: 9:00. One hour till curfew.
I’m pretty tall, but I still had to peer over people’s heads and edge my way into the crowd before I saw what was happening.
“When else in the history of this great union have we achieved such impressive goals? But we have, neighbors! Our cell—and every other cell—reports one hundred percent literacy!” Provost Allen said, opening his arms wide. A spotlight made him look like he was glowing against the dark backdrop of the Management Building. The crowd cheered and clapped, all the cellfolk nodding and smiling at each other.
The Provost of our cell—whose word was literally law—stood at the top of the steps, looking down at us. He was like everyone’s uncle, everyone’s strong shoulder to lean on—that’s what his office said. He came to company Christmas parties, grade twelve graduations, sometimes even baby namings. My pa had told me that the Provost and his family had moved here fifteen years ago, sent here by the system.
“Under my guidance, and thanks to your strength and work ethic, our cell has reached an all-time high in wheat production, feed-corn production, and milk production!” the Provost went on as people clapped more. “We are Stronger United!”
Cheers. Claps. My parents had always taken me and Becca to these rallies, and we’d always cheered and clapped as much as anyone. But today, looking at Provost Allen, knowing how little his office had helped to bring back my ma, and now to find Becca, I saw him with new eyes.
Critical eyes.
“We are two hundred and fourteen days without a seri
ous accident!” the Provost boomed. “Our population is in almost perfect balance! We are Healthier United—our cell barely ever has a cold!”
The crowd erupted again in cheers, with some cellfolk hugging each other joyfully.
“No one is hungry! Every citizen has a vocation!”
I thought about the people I’d seen in the dark part of the sector, the people sitting around, drinking beer. What were their vocations? They hadn’t even looked all that healthy. I thought about how I had wanted to be a teacher, and Becca had wanted to be an artist. Instead she was an electrician and I was a mechanic. I mean, I didn’t mind fixing engines. It was interesting, and a critical skill in the cell. But I’d wanted to be a teacher. I’d almost forgotten that.
“But now, I hear of unrest,” the Provost said, and even though I was just one face in a crowd of hundreds, I felt like he was looking right at me.
20
THE CROWD QUIETED, LOOKING AT one other with raised eyebrows as the Provost went on.
“I hear of Outsiders, bad citizens, who don’t want to live by the cell rules!” he said. “Rules that help and protect everyone!”
Like… most of Becca’s friends. I wasn’t naïve; I’d seen her friends. In the dark sector I’d seen people even worse than her friends. Were they Outsiders? Were they actually a problem?
The cellfolk murmured to each other, and a few shook their heads.
Provost Allen lowered his voice dramatically and leaned over the microphone, his icy blue eyes scanning the crowd. “I hear stories about kids ‘disappearing.’” He made air quotes when he said disappearing, like it wasn’t real. Like it hadn’t happened to my sister.
“Disappear?” he shouted suddenly. “I don’t think so! Not when every last corner of our cell is a little paradise! No, these few kids didn’t disappear. They’ve joined the Outsiders! These kids are choosing to lie low! To not participate in our cell!”
Crazy House Page 4
