by Keys, Logan
“Maybe.”
“Pfft. The Tommy I know wouldn’t be whipped so easily.”
“I’m not the Tommy you know. Not at all.”
“Listen to me, Thomas Ripley Hatter. I’ve known you for a long time, and you’re as stubborn as a mule.”
And then, the figment of my imagination is here, with me, in the barracks. I gape down the aisle between the bunks as Daisy moves forward. She’s not so young anymore, or beautiful; her face is blue, and the whites of her eyes are red.
I’m losing my mind. I must be dreaming.
“No,” she says, “you’re not dreaming.”
Daisy—or my image of her—walks over and sits down on my bunk. I choke back a yell when the mattress moves beneath her weight.
“How—?”
“You know how. Because of him.”
She tilts her head in the direction she came from, toward a spot where the lights have been out since we got here—a dark space at the end of the barracks. In between old, unused bunks stands a shadow.
Fear thins my voice. “Him, who?”
When Daisy doesn’t answer, I expect to turn to find empty air. Instead, green eyes watch me. Her hair’s still auburn but stringy, her skin’s chalky, and the bloodshot around her irises makes them stand out in stark contrast. Daisy looks like a zombie.
“Sometimes you need your past to conquer your future, Tommy. Never forget who you are.”
I nod, and her mouth, as always, quirks.
“I’ve missed you so much.” I’m really losing it.
Beyond Daisy, the shadow’s moved to a different spot. It’s now more outlined, and big. The monster. He hovers in the dark, watching us.
“Why are you here?” I ask Daisy, not looking away from my nemesis.
“You know why. You’re splitting down the middle. Choices will have to be made, and we both pull you in different directions: him to the bad, me to the good. I’ve always been your sense, even when we were kids. Your subconscious probably thinks I’ll help you now, and so you’ve made me up.”
Then, she laughs. “Lord only knows why, since you don’t listen to a thing I say.”
In a strange way, this totally makes sense.
Giving into the imaginary Daisy being there, I ask, “What do I do?”
“You always were a scrappy boy; you never took punches like I did. Be careful when you fight the monster, that it doesn’t make you into one, too.”
I regard the darkness, feeling it still watching me. It won’t come into the light. Somehow, I know this.
“Even if you’re lost, defeated—get back up.”
“But—”
When I glance over, she’s gone. And down the aisle, the monster’s gone, too.
I’m alone in the barracks.
My skin ripples.
The sensation of being watched remains, and I have to wipe my face hard to try to rid myself of it.
I decide to wake Joelle so I can spend as much time as possible with the little imp before I ship out. But when I lift the top of the conex, I find it’s empty.
She’s not in the barracks.
I check the window. The sky’s brightening on the horizon.
Dawn.
Gregor and Serena have some heated discussion that’s coming through my walls.
Then, it begins—a crash, a door slams.
When I rush outside, there stands a red-faced Gregor, screaming at the top of his lungs, pointing at Serena. She’s pale-faced, crying, and surprised.
“But what will I do?” Her whispered words are swallowed by more of his outrage.
Manda’s come out, too, and I picture a knife being pressed to Gregor‘s throat, but Journee throws open his door in time to catch the obscenities pouring from the lawyer’s mouth like water from a faucet. Journee takes one look at Serena’s face, the hand over her belly, and the word “whore” is still ricocheting off the buildings like a gunshot. He’s on the finely dressed man in an instant.
Thinner, taller Gregor lands on the asphalt from a tackle that’s tinder-keg explosive. Together, he and Journee roll and punch while the population of our section comes to see what the commotion’s about.
With cat-like screeches, Serena gets them to pause, and Journee scrunches his face at us without his glasses on.
She lays a hand onto his arm, and it’s like an invisible leash; he stays, albeit still bristled, as he watches with hatred the other man who shuffles to his own feet and straightens his tie.
“It’s okay, Gregor,” Serena says. “I’ll figure this out. We’ll—”
“We? Don’t you dare put this on me! I’ve been careful. It’s not mine. It belongs to some scummy loser you slept with; probably this guy. But it’s not mine!”
My hand barely catches Journee’s other arm as he starts forward again. Then, Manda jumps between the two men and jerks her chin toward the end of the street.
Two guards approach, and when they get near, they address the one with the new leather shoes, turning their backs on the Section scrubs.
Gregor rubs a hand through his hair, implants mussed and the perfectly straight, too-large teeth are white in contrast to skin a shade darker than what he’d probably been born with.
“Is there trouble here?” one guard asks, and Gregor nods.
“I’m … I’m this one’s attorney.” He flings a hand at Serena, and she glances quickly between him and the guards in confusion. “She’s pregnant without a license.”
The guard turns toward us. “Take her.”
Serena stiffens when they grab her arms.
Journee rushes forward, out of my grip, and in one slick move, he’s snatched one of the guards’ batons. He swings it above his head, landing a hard blow directly onto a visor, which cracks down the middle of the helmet.
They have to taser him twice to get him bound.
Serena begs Gregor to tell them the truth, even as they bind her hands.
Manda hugs her sister, whispering into her ear to stay strong as the guards force them apart and take Serena to one of their transports.
We’re left alone, then, Gregor and I.
Manda’s following the vehicle that holds both Journee and Serena as far as she can, on foot.
Gregor shoots me a nervous glance, and every vile thought vibrates through me like a signal until he looks away, shamefully.
After a week, Serena comes back to us, eyes sad and looking ages older. She’s lost at least ten pounds that she didn’t have extra to begin with.
“They took the baby,” is all she says.
Now, she sits at the window every day, wearing depression like a sweater, while Manda wipes her eyes and pretends to be busy whenever we’re together. The way Manda nervously checks everything twice, three times, makes me jumpy.
We all wonder how things can possibly get worse. Any hope felt is wiped away by Serena’s lifeless gaze. She doesn’t have to explain. Stolen, her posture says. Invaded, her eyes scream.
A lady Manda found through word of mouth comes to give Serena some holistic medicine. Sephora’s her name, and she’s the closest thing we have to a doctor down here.
They had one in Section once, I’d been told. But he’d been arrested for some small infraction.
South Anthem dwindles with people barely leaving their rooms.
Manda asks Sephora what we can do, but Sephora merely washes up and shakes her head. “It’s not here.” She points at her stomach. “But here.” And she points at her head and heart. “There is nothing I can do for her.”
Then, at the door, Sephora hesitates and, taking in the level of our desperation, sighs. “There is a place. I knew one girl who said they helped.”
She writes down an address, but grips my arm before handing it over. “You don’t get this from me.”
Sephora leaves quickly after that.
Manda reads the paper. “Um … can you take her?”
“Why?”
“Because”—Manda looks down guiltily—“that address she gave you
is for a church.”
I play with the paper, conflicted. I’ve never been to church, but I nod anyway. What else is there left to do?
Serena follows me there, listlessly.
I was picturing an actual church, like with a steeple and maybe some stained glass; some grim and Gothic setting here, hidden in Anthem. But this church is just another warehouse in the poorest of the poor areas of Section. One worse off than us, where almost everyone I’ve asked for directions from is homeless or speaks another language.
The last wrong turn we made seems to have put us near the Cantonese-speaking area. Not one of my even passable languages.
Serena walks like she’s in a fog. Plus, she refuses to eat and has grown perilously thin. Manda has fussed and worried, tried everything to avoid this dangerous visit, but it’s becoming clear we might actually lose Serena, so we have to try everything.
Once we arrive, we wait at the back while a man in front of a gathering of four speaks rapidly in Russian. It takes me a moment before I realize he’s the preacher and he’s giving a sermon.
From what little I can decipher, they’re laughing at his joke about roosters in his room and an “everything” soup with a boot in it that he’d eaten once in their country.
Serena sits and stares at the crucifix propped up against the far wall. That thing makes me uneasy; it has to be illegal.
When the man has finished, he strides over, mopping his brow. It’s boiling today, strengthening the odor of humanity.
“Can I help you?” he asks in an accent that’s decidedly not Russian.
“Oh. You do speak English.”
“I do.” His lilt and his smile are both broad. “There’s another night in English.”
“Okay then,” I say, “we can come back.” And I place a hand on Serena’s elbow to leave.
“No,” he says, “I think you can stay.” And he glances at Serena with a knowing look. “Name’s Nathaniel, but everyone calls me Nate.”
“Liza.” I sigh with relief. “And this is Serena.”
Nate notices me eyeing the cross. “Mother is a bit of the old church,” he tells me, and his accent becomes clearer.
“Irish…?” I ask.
“’Tis. Is that English you’ve got there?”
My laugh is stiff. “Yes. Slightly.”
He grunts a noise from his throat. “We’re a long way from home, miss. I’ve seen England since the flood, have you? No? Well, it’s doing a far bit better than my own island, I’ll tell ya that. They’ve not as much food, mind you, but plenty of tea.”
“I miss my mother’s tea.” So, England still has people. How many other regions are alive?
“A true blue blood, was she?” Nate crosses his arms as if he’d known all along.
“Yes. She said coffee was like drinking gasoline. My father disagreed.”
“Probably why they stayed married, then. I know my da was always pickin’ on my ma, and it took me until the last few years to understand it.”
“I know what you mean,” I say. “It’s good to argue about banal things in light of what arguments we have now.”
Nate scratches his scruffy chin in thought. “A philosopher and a royal. What made you leave?”
“Well, I actually never lived there. Even though we traveled a lot, I only visited London once, and it was such a short visit. I always thought to go … until … well, after.”
“You’ve not been living in Ash City, though. That much is sure.”
“How’d you know?”
He shrugs. “That look of seemingly useless hope is still stamped upon your face.”
My sudden laugh surprises me, but I cover my mouth and check that cross again.
Nate flashes me a grin between his mustache and short beard. “He won’t mind. But if you’ve come to see a preacher, you’re a smidge too late. Preachin’ was my brother’s job. The Authority took him just last week.”
I nod in sympathy. “And you stayed?”
“I’ve no choice.” His gaze wanders over to Serena and back to me again.
My whisper in reply seems so loud in here. “I didn’t know what else to do. She’s been so depressed.”
“These are depressing times.”
An older woman separates from the small group of Russians and catches my eye with a bright smile as she comes over. She and Nate hold some unspoken communication before she turns to face Serena with a softened gaze.
“Mother,” he says, “will you take this one to the back with you? Might be better where it’s more private.”
“Of course. Come along, dearie.” Her accent’s twice as strong as her son’s.
With a cluck of her tongue, she takes Serena’s hand to guide her away.
Nate stops me from following. “Let her speak with her for a moment alone, miss. We’ve seen a good many come in like this, and it does no good to have a crowd.”
“How did you know?”
His expression turns weary and he sits. “Most of the time we have young girls come in here, all pale and sickly afterwards. And they all have that same look, with their hands still wrapped around their middles.”
“What will she say to her? Your mother, I mean.”
“She’ll tell her that she can heal; that what’s lost in this way won’t always hurt so bad. She’ll open up to Mother more than to you or me; she has a way of handling these types of delicate things, you know. She has ‘the touch.’ Gets through to them.”
Relief loosens my spine, and I sit, as well. We’d both felt so helpless, Manda and I. What could we possibly know about children lost?
Nate asks, “I suppose you have questions, yourself?”
“Me? Not really.”
“Have you been raised in the faith?”
“No. My father said everyone’s path is his alone. He learned this through watching my mother pass.”
“Your father sounds very wise.”
“He was. He believed in something, though, I think. In his own way. He used to say music was his religion, because it had life and its own spirit, that it was proof there is more to this world than just breathing. I think that’s where I stand, as well.”
“That makes a lot of sense. But something else brought you here. I believe that, too.”
“Maybe.” I smile back at his own smile. “I thought you said you weren’t a preacher?”
He laughs.
“What did you do before the flood?” I ask.
“I’m a microbiologist. Mostly, my work was in the field. My brother, Collin, and I, we fought fiercely for years over what to believe. To think, those types of fights used to matter so much….”
“And now?”
“We found a common ground, built this place—”
His expression is grim while in thought, and Serena returns, interrupting the rest of what Nate wanted to say. She has more color in her face than I’ve seen in a long time, and although she’s still quite sad, her steps aren’t as slow and filled with despair.
She says she promised to visit again, and I tell her that we will.
Jeremy’s at my door, wearing that detestable guilty look.
He reaches for my hand, and his fingers tighten around my wrist. “Come on.”
He leads me back toward the wall on our side. We arrive at its base, and I’m shivering slightly from the very thought of how big and tall it is.
Jeremy finds the part he was looking for and guides me into an elevator shaft. “We have about a half-hour,” he says. “This side of the wall is dead for a while.”
We go inside, and he presses the button.
It’s a slow ride to the top, and for some reason I don’t want to break the silence. I’m suddenly worried.
With a hiss and a jerk, the elevator stops, and Jeremy rattles the doors open along the track.
A strong wind immediately blows inside.
I follow, carefully, even though it’s wide enough up here to build two houses side-by-side.
The view takes my breath away. We�
��re in the clouds, grey and lifeless, but far below sits the old world.
“It’s like a jungle down there,” I say.
“Yeah,” says Jeremy. “It all grew back after we left it alone.”
Most visible are the treetops, and off in the distance lies an old city. I can’t remember which one, and I really don’t care, because Jeremy is acting strange, which is making me nervous.
I drag my gaze away from history, turn to face him. “What’s wrong?”
He sighs, and the wind lifts his hair. Without looking at me, he quietly says, “Liza, we need to say goodbye.”
“Why?”
His shoulders slump, and he finally faces me, my hand still gripped inside his larger one. “You can’t get hurt. Not for me.”
I pull free and cup his face. “The people are finally angry, and they have every right to be. I’m not as innocent or weak as you think, Jeremy. I can help.”
He shakes his head, searching my face.
“Jeremy, I want to. I need to.”
“Why?”
I cross my arms. “You don’t get to ask me that. You don’t know what it was like; you can only imagine.”
He turns toward the edge again, and instantly I feel guilty. This boy has a past, too. A brutal one. In my hypocrisy, I’ve dismissed his pain. Still, how can he not see? The rebellion needs every person it can get.
Jeremy withdraws and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. We’ve left off touching one another again. Something’s changed between us. “You think I don’t know that?” he says, and his eyebrows knit together. “You’re the strongest person I’ve met, Liza. And it’s not that you couldn’t handle what may come. You can. It’s just that … there are things I haven’t told you. If certain people knew who you were, or how important you were to me…? This isn’t a request; I’ve known all along you wouldn’t listen. But it doesn’t matter….”
“Then tell me—”
“I’m leaving.”
My stomach drops. So he’d brought me here, as a goodbye. What a strange place to tell me unless … he’s going out there.
I glance down at the remnants of civilization. “You can’t just leave.” Panic’s starting to take hold of me. “We’re all in danger, whether we want to be or not. What are you going to do? Where will you go?”
