by Colin Sims
It’s amazing how in an instant, everything can change. A split second ago I was running along a rooftop and now I was falling to my doom. Or at least a broken leg.
I clenched my eyes, as I was about to crash into the adjacent wall, but right then, a pair of hands caught my wrist. My body still slammed into the brick, but I didn’t fall.
Opening my eyes, I saw Alec pulling me up. He looked pissed.
Once my feet were firmly on the ground, he took a step back. My heart was still pounding like a drum as I looked up, fully expecting him to start yelling. But he didn’t. He looked as if he was about to have a heart attack of his own.
“Christ,” he panted, resting his hands on his knees.
I couldn’t quite tell if he was relieved or furious, or both.
Right then, Navid landed next to us with a nervous smile. “Wow,” he joked cautiously. “For a second there, I thought we were all dead.”
I looked up at him, and unlike Alec, he actually appeared glad I was still alive. “Sorry,” I managed to say.
Once Alec had gotten his breath back, he fixed me with a menacing stare. “How many times do I have to tell you this, Michael? Doubt Equals Dead, remember?”
“I thought I was going to fall,” I wheezed.
“And you almost did,” he said, straightening back up. “What if next time I’m not there?”
For a second, it occurred to me that I wouldn’t have been on the roof in the first place if it hadn’t been for him, but I kept my mouth shut. I knew what his response would’ve been anyway. Besides, he technically just saved my life.
“Sorry,” I said again.
Then I heard Henry IV barking from below. He’d probably been barking the whole time and I hadn’t even realized.
“Alright,” Alec announced, readjusting his pack. “We still have three more miles.”
He turned and sprinted across the rooftop, never breaking stride as he vaulted onto the next one. It was clear he expected me to follow.
***
When we got back home, the morning’s exercises were far from over. First there were sit-ups, pull-ups and push-ups, but they only took about fifteen minutes. For the remainder of the hour, Alec forced me to spar against him for self-defense lessons. He said I was going to get my ass handed to me next year in Basic if I didn’t practice. As a result, it was always a lot more painful to spar with Alec than with Navid. Navid understood the concept of “this is not actually a fight.”
“Get your hands up, damn it,” Alec said, circling around me. We’d been sparring for half an hour already, but I still had the habit of letting my guard down between fights.
Alec threw a couple of lightning quick punches and I leaned back. His fist missed my nose by less than a centimeter. I tried to kick him, but my weight was off, so my attempt hit nothing but air. Alec seized the opportunity to grab my calf and punch me in the chest, knocking me flat on my back.
“Again,” he commanded.
I got back to my feet.
“Focus,” he told me.
He punched again and I leaned back, attempting another kick, but he still managed to knock me to the ground. Only this time, I felt something pop and I howled in pain, grabbing at my ankle.
Alec took a step closer to examine my foot for about one-tenth of a second. “Get up.”
I shook my head, fuming. “No, thanks,” I replied. “You just sprained my ankle, you idiot.”
“If anyone sprained your ankle, you did. Besides, that’s not sprained.”
“How would you know?”
“I know.”
For the next couple minutes, I hobbled in circles around the weed patch behind the Capitol House. It was the closest thing to what people in the Old World would’ve considered a lawn.
Alec watched me silently as my ankle started to get better. He was right, it wasn’t sprained. But that didn’t change the fact that it hurt like hell and would continue to hurt like hell for another day or two. It made me furious. Not only did I have to wake up at the crack of dawn every day, but I also had to endure crap like this. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to say something. I looked over at Alec and informed him that he was a sack of shit.
“You think so?” he asked.
Oh, yeah. I did think so. I couldn’t remember the last time he was even vaguely civil to me, let alone friendly. All he cared about was how fast I could run, or how well I could shoot, or how well I could fight.
I glared at him and said, “You get how weird this is, right? You making me get up every morning and do all this crap?”
Alec just looked at me, staying silent.
“No one else does this,” I went on. “You want me in shape? Fine. Like everyone else, I have Boot for two hours a day. Running, shooting, fighting, everything. It’s stupid that I have to do it all twice!”
“Have you ever been over the Wall, Michael?”
I paused. “What?”
“It’s a simple question.”
It was a simple question, but it caught me off guard. Of course I hadn’t been over the Security Wall. No one my age had.
“Ah, I get it.” I sighed. “Is this where you spook me with tales of Deadlanders? Rovers and Fleshers, like when I was a kid?”
Alec looked down and rubbed his eyes with exhaustion. If there was one thing he hated, it’s when I was sarcastic.
“No, this is where I tell you what I’ve seen. On the other side of that fence, people kill each other over a few leaves for soup. You understand what that means?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“It’s not?”
“No. If it were, they’d be pounding down the gates.”
“There are a lot of guns on those gates dissuading them from doing so,” he said calmly.
“You know what I think?” I said. “I think BDF lifers like you want to believe it’s so dangerous. You want to think there’s this ocean of bad guys out there coming to get us and you, like some bunch of heroes, are the one thing standing in their way.”
Alec smirked. “That’s a great theory, Michael. But again, have you ever been out there?”
“You know I haven’t.”
“Exactly. You haven’t.”
“So what are you saying,” I asked. “You and your commando buddies went beyond the Wall and had to fight a bunch of Deadlanders? I doubt it.”
Alec’s face went dark. Very dark. “‘Fight’ isn’t exactly the right word, Michael.”
“Oh, really? Then what is?”
“We ran.”
Chapter 2
After field-stripping one of the family’s AR-15s, I was finally allowed to go inside and eat breakfast. As I washed up before heading to the kitchen, I couldn’t help but think about what Alec had just told me.
He ran?
For better or for worse, my brother was the toughest guy I knew. What would cause him to run away? He was a Special Missions officer in the BDF. All those guys were hard as nails and armed to the teeth. Even if some of the Deadlanders had guns, I doubted Alec would have run from them. It troubled me, the way he said it too, like he was remembering something horrifying.
For a split second, I had a flashback to the nightmares I used to have as a kid. I had them practically every night back then. But what made them so bad was that I wasn’t dreaming about Deadlanders, those scary and desperate men beyond the Security Wall. I was dreaming of Mantidae.
As a kid, I’d only seen a few pictures of them, the same ones that all the students were shown in school. And while I doubted I was the only kid to have nightmares about them, mine were different somehow, more vivid. And constant. Even now, I could still see those giant, globe-like eyes …
I quickly shook the thought from my head, splashing some more water on my face. Today was an important day, so I had to focus. There wasn’t any point in freaking out about something that didn’t exist anymore.
More importantly, it was only the third week of my senior year and I had grand plans for kicking it off. My friends an
d I had dubbed this semester’s mischief as “Operation Downfall.”
Before I could set it in motion though, I had to miss the first two periods of school. It wasn’t uncommon for this to happen. With my mom as President, I was constantly being forced to attend one function or another and maintain a permi-smile for the press.
Today the event was a lot more important than a campaign rally or a hydro-tower inauguration. Today, the entire Boise government was gathering to greet the arriving delegation from New America.
My mom—even though she tried to hide it—had been sweating bullets about meeting them for weeks now. She had already met with their representatives twice since her election, and after each meeting, she was always furious. The same was true for my dad.
For the most part, New America was not a welcome presence inside Boise. All the adults who were alive during The Hopeless, which were the first twelve years following the War, hated New America with every fiber of their being. And yet, the N.A. government was still intent on annexing Boise, just as it had with every other major city-state within the territory of the former United States. We were now the last community, aside from the disparate bands of Deadlanders, that was not under their control. And practically every adult in Boise, especially my parents, were dead set on keeping it that way.
I headed down to the private kitchen, which was reserved for the “residence portion” of the Capitol House. The smell of freshly baked bread filled the hallway. Undoubtedly, Mrs. McTavish had dispatched one of the household staff to Baker’s Alley that morning.
When I walked inside, my dad was already sitting at one of the stools along the countertop eating some toast. He glanced at me as I walked past him. “Morning, kiddo,” he said over some papers.
“Morning,” I mumbled, heading to the breakfast layout.
There was a nicer spread than usual. Fresh bread, blackberry preserves, cantaloupe, and even some cheese. Most days, stale bread and tomatoes were all that was on offer.
“How was the jog?” my dad asked. I wasn’t facing him but I could tell he was smiling.
I complained to him that Alec was insane as I heaped bread and cheese onto my plate.
“He just wants what’s best for you,” Dad answered mechanically.
I had pleaded with him and Mom countless times to let me be free of Alec’s fanatical fitness regime, but it always ended with the same response. They all just wanted “what was best for me.” It seemed unfair, however, that I didn’t have any choice in the matter.
I took my plate, which was stacked with a mountain of food, and sat a few stools down. The morning workouts always left me famished, so I didn’t waste any time diving in. The jam and the cheese together with the warm bread was a rare treat.
A moment later, Dad set down whatever documents he was reading and gave me a serious look. “Listen,” he said. “Today’s an important day, obviously, but tomorrow’s even more important. Have you finished the video yet?”
“Last night,” I answered through a mouthful of food.
“Well?” he asked expectantly. “How is it?”
I continued to wolf down hunks of bread and cheese as I talked. “It’s good. I put the drive in your study.”
He nodded thoughtfully before glancing nervously around the room. “Not a word to your mother, alright? I’m seriously serious. She’s a tad sensitive about it.”
“Did she fire you again?” I asked.
“Twice already last week. And tomorrow’s a given.”
I chuckled for a second between bites. My dad had the worst job security in the world. He was the Secretary of Technology, which was the most important position behind the President. Unfortunately for him, any argument with my mom tended to get him fired and then rehired the next morning.
He had already served as Tech Secretary for a year during Shaw’s administration, filling the role after David Stein, Shaw’s life-long best friend, stepped down to concentrate on running the city’s hospital. It only made sense that my mom would keep Dad on as Tech Secretary, as there wasn’t a person in existence more qualified. No one knew tech like my dad, and I often joked he was better with machines than he was with people.
I stuffed some more bread in my mouth and asked, “What’s the big deal, anyway? I don’t remember you getting so freaked out.”
My dad looked at me like I was crazy. “Turning fifty is no laughing matter,” he said earnestly, glancing around the room again. “And when you’re older—much older—pray that your wife isn’t the President when she does.”
I took another bite. “If she’s so mad, why throw a surprise party?”
Dad nodded for a second in thought. His foppy brown hair, a trait which I had unfortunately inherited, had fallen in front of his eyes. If anything, it made him look a lot younger than he really was. “Okay, I’ll amend my previous statement,” he said. “When you’re older—much older—pray that you aren’t married at all.”
“What’s going on here?” a voice suddenly boomed from behind us.
My dad and I both froze. Mom was standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips.
“Are you two talking about my birthday?” she asked. “Don’t even think about talking about my birthday. Not today, not any day. If you’re talking about my birthday, you’re both in deep crap.”
My dad winced as he swiveled around in his seat. “Ah, Madam President! You look radiant this morning!”
“Don’t give me that.” She strode toward the food. “I haven’t slept, I’m turning fifty, and you’re fired. And you, Michael, you’re grounded for the rest of the month.”
“Um …” I hesitated. “Really?”
“Alright fine, you’re not grounded. But you, Jonathan Tripp, you really are fired. I’m promoting that cute young guy in your office, what’s his name?”
“You’re turning fifty?” Dad asked, looking shocked. “I thought it was forty-nine, sweetheart.”
Mom snorted. “Nice try,” she said and grabbed a single piece of cantaloupe. “But you should have gone with thirty.”
My dad looked shocked again. “Wait, did I say forty-nine? I meant twenty-nine.”
My mom glared at him, but I could tell she was holding back a smile.
“Michael,” she said, fixing her attention on me. “If you keep eating that food you’re going to explode. Go upstairs and get ready. We have to leave in a few minutes.”
I grabbed a final chunk of bread before hopping off the stool.
“You know, I was just doing the math,” I noted, stopping at the doorway. “Three times seventeen is 51, so you’re technically not three times older than me anymore. That’s good, right?”
My dad’s eyes went wide as I ducked out of the room.
***
While most people in Boise hated New America, I wasn’t convinced they were entirely bad. After all, the N.A. government had nothing to do with the old United States that decided to fire its nuclear weapons. In fact, in the years that followed the War, New America was opposed to any group still trying to fly the Stars and Stripes. They regarded those colors as a failure and wanted to start over. Their new flag looked more like the one used by the Confederacy during America’s Civil War. It had the same blood-red color with crisscrossing blue bars. The only major difference was that it only had five stars instead of thirteen. They represented the five core city-states of New America. The center star, which was slightly bigger than the rest, represented the capitol, Columbus, which was rumored to have over half a million people.
The four other city-states were Jefferson, Grant, Adamstown, and Washington. None of them were as big as Columbus, but they were all bigger than Boise. They formed a crooked line across the former United States, starting with Columbus in the east, and ending with Washington in the northwest. Washington was the biggest of the remaining four, with about three hundred thousand people, and according to my mom, it was also the most reluctant participant. It only joined New America eight years ago, supposedly after it saw what happened
to Atlanta during the Georgia Rebellion. Last I read, Atlanta continued to live under an indefinite state of martial law.
Still, as terrible a picture as my history lessons painted of New America, the delegations that I’d seen in recent years didn’t look like what I was taught. They didn’t look evil or cruel; they looked proud and strong, and not altogether unfriendly. And from the leaflets they passed out, which yes I knew were probably propaganda, their only aim was to provide military protection in return for Boise adopting the New American currency and paying taxes. The idea was that Boise, in spite of the new taxes, would still come out ahead since it would no longer need to provide for its own defense. To me, that didn’t sound like the worst deal in world, but to my parents, and anyone else their age, New America would never, ever be allowed inside Boise.
Both of my parents were sitting silently as they stared at sets of documents across from me in the Presidential car. We were heading south from the Capitol House, taking the same street where I had been jogging that morning. The city always looked so much different in the daylight. It was busier. And not just due to the crowds of people, but because you could see all the details. They somehow lent the cityscape a frenetic energy, which always felt like home to me. Doors were replaced with crooked sheet metal, and windows were replaced with nets or plastic or anything else that would do. There were windmills, some small and some huge, jutting out awkwardly from rooftops, while jagged solar panels thrust out in every direction along the sides and tops of every building. Rusty cars, running on bio-fuel, picked their way through the pockmarked streets, carrying goods from one place to another. And kids, probably with generous parents, zoomed through the crowds with bio-motors on their bikes. It was all very messy, but it was all very alive.
“Michael.” My mom broke the silence, setting down her papers. “You remember the drill, right?”
“Hmm,” I nodded. “Look straight ahead, smile, kick them in the shins, etc. I got it.”
Mom sighed. She, too, hated it when I was sarcastic. “Just don’t ask them any questions this time,” she said.
