Children of Eden

by Joey Graceffa

  “Quiet!” the Greenshirt commands. “I have orders to search every vehicle originating in the inner circles, no exceptions. Get your assistant out and scanned, and you can be on your way.”

  “She . . . she’s asleep. I’ve made her work a double shift. Don’t wake her, please.” She’s babbling now, and every nerve of my body yearns to spring to her aid. But I do what she told me, staying curled and helpless as a baby in the womb, even when I hear her say, “Let go of me!” followed by a cry of pain.

  I stay immobile, following Mom’s orders, trusting her to protect me, even when I hear someone grasp the door handle on my side. A second later my body is shifting as the door I’m leaning against is pulled open. I turn my grunt of alarm into a sleepy sound and keep my eyes closed. There’s a crunch of rapid footsteps. “Leave her alone! She’s my assistant, traveling under my pass! You have no right!”

  But I feel hands under my armpits, trying to haul me out. I want to kick, to punch, to run, to scream, but all I can do is curl up, eyes closed. I hate being helpless. But Mom said . . .

  The hands let me go. Then comes a sound that makes my eyes fly open. A solid, meaty thwack. He hit Mom?

  I search through the darkness, my eyes taking a while to adjust. There’s a figure standing, and one crumpled to the ground. But when my vision resolves I find Mom standing, panting, with the Greenshirt’s handheld eye scanner in her hand. The Greenshirt himself lies in a heap at her feet, groaning softly. There’s blood on his temple . . . and on the scanner.

  I’ve scraped my knees in falls, bloodied my fingers with a bad hold during a climb. But I’ve never seen blood resulting from violence. It chills me, even on a man I know to be my enemy.

  Shouts come from the checkpoint. Three or four other Greenshirts are running at us, though I can hardly see them beyond Mom’s body. Her shoulders are squared. She looks impossibly resolute.

  “Go!” Mom hisses.

  I just stare at the fallen Greenshirt.

  She grabs me by the arms and shakes me. “Run, as fast and as far as you can. Get someplace safe, then tomorrow try to get to the surgery center. Promise you’ll run and not look back. Promise you won’t make this all for nothing.”

  She ducks into the car and, when she comes out, thrusts the backpack against my chest.

  “I love you,” she whispers. “Never forget that.” Then she shoves me away from her so hard I stagger. “Run!”

  And I do. She’s my mother, so I just do what she says. Isn’t that what good daughters are supposed to do?

  Just like good mothers protect their children.

  At any cost.

  As I turn to run, I see her hurl herself, panther-like, at the first Greenshirt charging up. I freeze, uncertain. There’s a flash of metal in the dim predawn light. He’s trying to shoot me? But as Mom tackles him the shot goes wide. The sound is deafening, echoing in my ears. There’s another shot, like an explosion from much too close, and I hear something whistle sharply past my head.

  Real guns. Real, lethal guns.

  As I stand there, tense and poised and terrified, there’s one more shot. I see Mom pirouette with the impact, a scarlet flower blossoming on her chest. Her eyes as they sweep past me are already dimming, but I see confusion, fear for me, the question Why are you still here?

  So I run. It’s what I do best. I am speed without thought, without emotion, without pain. Only muscle and breath and the surge of my body as I sprint away from my dying mother.

  I RUN LIKE a machine, unthinking, unfeeling, mercilessly fast and mercifully numb. All that matters is to move. I hardly even remember why. One leg in front of the other; repeat. Even when the sound of gunfire behind me ceases, even when the shouting, boot-steps, and other sounds of pursuit fade away behind me, I still run at top speed. Because there’s nothing else I can do.

  I used to run like this in my courtyard at home, the endless pounding of my feet driving away my frustrations, the exhaustion an anodyne. I never knew I was training to kill the ultimate hurt. I’m not running to escape the Greenshirts who are after me. I’m fleeing the look in my mother’s eyes as she fell. The look that said she was happy to give her life so that I might live. It’s too much. I don’t want the burden of her sacrifice.

  I should have stayed with her. I should have died with her.

  But still I run, away, anywhere. I’ve lost all sense of direction. Wherever I am, the lights are dim, and it will be at least another two hours before the sun comes up. I can imagine I’m running in a world of nothing, a void. I can’t even feel my own body anymore.

  And I don’t feel it at first when, miles later, my foot hits something in the dark and my entire body twists violently as I go down hard. I’m up in an instant, running again, but within three steps I’m hopping. I’ve sprained my left ankle.

  I don’t care! I have to keep going! I force myself to move, but every step is agony. I can feel the skin start to tighten as swelling sets in.

  No! I can’t let this stop me. Because if I can feel the pain of my injury, I’ll be able to feel other kinds of pain, too. I clutch the nearest wall and hop through the darkness, putting my left foot gingerly down every few steps and wincing in agony. The pain shoots up my leg . . . seemingly all the way to my heart. I collapse in a dark doorway and the tears start to flow, huge heaving sobs.

  Now that I’ve stopped running, everything hurts. Everything is swollen and bruised. Before, I couldn’t stop moving. Now I’m sure I will crouch in this doorway until the end of time. I’ll sink into this dead Earth and never rise again.

  I cry until I can’t breathe, until my sobs turn to ragged, hiccuping gasps. And when I have nothing left inside of me—no tears, no strength—a strange sense of calm washes over me. From my recessed doorway shelter I watch the sun come up.

  As the sliver of sky I can see between buildings starts to glow pink, I wrap my arms around my knees and simply watch the world wake up around me. I know the grief will return, will never truly leave, but for a moment, in my mental and physical exhaustion I just experience the world. I wonder if this is what an animal feels like, in the moment, without regret or anticipation, simply being.

  I don’t remember whether I saw anyone when I was running—it was all a blur. Now, as the world lightens, I begin to see a few people moving furtively through the streets. They look as if they want to get to their destinations as fast as possible, unobserved. The light reveals a place of dirt and squalor. Debris is tumbled across the streets, and the sidewalk is as rough and broken as if it had been upturned by an earthquake. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen, or even imagined. I can’t retrace my steps, but something tells me I’ve found my way to one of the outer circles. I think maybe even the outermost circle.

  I clamp my jaw tight, press my lips together to keep them from trembling. This is the most dangerous place in Eden. Never mind about the Greenshirts chasing me. I’ve heard stories about the horrors of the outermost ring whispered when Mom thought Ash and I couldn’t hear.

  If the Greenshirts catch me, I might possibly get lucky and be imprisoned for life.

  If even half of the stories are true, here in the outermost circle death is almost certain for all but the hardest, toughest residents.

  I try to remember everything that Lark told me about the outer circles. Hers wasn’t nearly as rough as this one must be, but there had to be some similarities. On those two long nights together when we talked about everything under the stars, she told me about the various gangs, about how to move through the streets without being noticed. She even explained a bit about the subtle signs that might be painted or scratched on a door to say whether that house might offer work, or food to the desperate. Other marks might warn people away from certain homes or entire buildings. She told me about the signs people flash to signal their affiliations, their intentions.

  But all this came only in passing. It was entertainment, conversation just as an excuse to hear each other’s voices. If only she’d told me more, in greater deta
il. If only I’d paid more attention to her words than to the curve of her mouth as she spoke . . .

  Now I have to focus on survival. It’s easy to say I’ll just sit here forever, but already I feel something stir inside of me, some urge to act, to save myself. My mother’s face keeps looming before me, her loving, worried eyes, but I push it back. I’ll cry again later—soon, I’m sure. But now I have to find a place to hide while I figure out how to survive the next hour.

  Or minute. Someone is crossing the dilapidated street, heading right for me.

  A man—or at last I think it is a man, based on his size—is shuffling in a zigzagging way, tacking unsteadily from left to right as he moves. He’s a walking bundle of rags, a motley of faded, dirty cloth. His thick walking stick thumps at his side with each step.

  Should I get up? Should I run? I remember reading a passage about predators in an Eco-history book. It said that predators couldn’t resist chasing anything that ran. If you held your ground, a tiger might decide not to attack. If you turned and fled, it would pounce and snap your neck.

  So I sit in my sheltered nook as he makes his ungraceful way to me. As he gets closer, I can see that his face is caked in grime. On the left side there is a curving smear of what might be dried blood, or else reddish clay. He wears cracked black-framed glasses with smudged lenses. I can’t tell if he’s young or old. Up close he smells terrible, like urine and moldy bread. Part of me recoils, but another part yearns to help him. But I have no money, no food, nothing but my too-flashy clothes and, I assume, a price on my head.

  I’m so fascinated—in an appalled way—by his repulsive appearance and smell that I realize too late I’m staring at him with wide-open eyes.

  Bikk! I’m done. I don’t know what the Center would pay for information leading to my capture, but it has to be more than this poor bum has ever seen before. He’ll tell the first authority figure he sees (though I haven’t seen any sign of a Greenshirt or other official), and the hunt will be on again.

  I know exactly what I should do. I should spring on him like I’m the predator, force him to the ground, beat him unconscious, or worse, to give myself a chance to escape. I’m sure that’s what life is like out here on the edge.

  I could do it, too. For all that I’m tired, I feel strong. The fear and sorrow combine to make my muscles bunch, my fists clench. I’ll dive for his legs, take him down, do whatever I have to. I feel a sick ache in my gut . . .

  But before I can act, the man backs away one shuffling step. “Blend in and wait,” he mutters, at the same time using his stocky walking stick to scratch a number into the dust of the crumbling building that carpets the ground: 6572. He waits just a second and stomps it to oblivion, dust rising around his booted foot. He peels off his mended, dirty glasses and lets them fall casually by my feet. As he turns I see—or think I see—his eyes flash in multi-hued hazel, bright green, and gold.

  Another second child! Well, not a child any longer. An old man, I think, though I can’t tell how old beneath the filth. But he’s survived this long. If he can do it, I certainly can.

  I watch him shuffle unsteadily away. I want to run after him, to ask him questions, to beg him for answers.

  And then I think: Is that my fate, my future? A scrabbling, unwashed existence on the fringe of society?

  He’s gone before I can decide what to do. So I put on the glasses to hide my eyes, and start to think. He’s right: in this poverty-stricken circle I stick out like a sore thumb. There are a few people on the streets now, passing in their furtive way without seeing me. In stark contrast to the people in my home circle, they are dressed in dark, sober colors, faded black and muddy hues. Even though I’m dusty, sweaty, and disheveled, my clothes are obviously bright and expensive. I feel a twinge of shame. I never realized my life was easy until now.

  I need to do something about my appearance right away. I might not have any money, but I envision myself being robbed for my clothes alone, stripped and abandoned on the street.

  Or not abandoned, which would be far worse.

  Can I get a change of clothes somehow? I wouldn’t know where to begin. I’ll just have to dirty up these clothes and hope the costly sheen doesn’t show. If only I was in the pre-fail days, it would be easy—back then, there was real dirt. Here, though the street is filthy enough, it’s all building dust, food waste, and mysterious oozy puddles. I scratch up dust from my doorway and rub it into my orange-gold sleeves. Then I add some to my sweat- and tear-soaked face. I pull my hair out of its braid and tug the strands over my face.

  I know it isn’t enough. Now instead of looking like an inner circle girl who’s lost, I just look like an inner circle girl who’s crazy. But it will have to do. The big question at the moment is: can I trust the bum? He gave me glasses to hide my eyes, but what about that number he scratched into the dust? It must be a building number. Or maybe a code? But to what? In any case, I can’t stay here all day. I’m tucked away and unobtrusive, but with the sun coming up people will definitely notice me, and attention is the last thing I need.

  To find shelter, I’ll have to venture out into the open.

  Look like you’re not afraid. That’s what Lark told me when I was nervous about walking among the poor, the street people, the gangs in her home circle (which seems so civilized now). Walk like you belong here. Don’t make eye contact, but don’t look down either. Own the space you move in.

  So I gather my confidence and step out. In the growing light of day, the place looks like a war zone. How can anyone live like this? The idea that has been nagging me for days suddenly solidifies. How can this poverty exist in Eden? The principle of this survival city has always been sustainability. They’re willing to kill me, and any second child, to keep the population in check so there will be enough food and water and other resources for everyone.

  Why on Earth then do some people have so much, some so little? It makes no sense. The inner circle people don’t need exotic nightclubs, decadent food, and luxury clothes. If they had a little less, the people out here would have a little more. Around me I see broken windows, skinny children with empty bowls outstretched, begging for a scrap. There’s a crater in the road that looks like a bomb fell. There are no cleanbots, no securitybots . . .

  Why doesn’t EcoPan divide the resources equally?

  I’m distracted from my thoughts by a group of people moving purposefully along the street. There are six or seven, all dressed in bone-white decorated with a dotted pattern. They look so clean against the grime that I’m immediately relieved . . . until they come closer and I see that what I took for abstract polka dots are really splashes of blood. It is bright and fresh.

  “Lost, little girl?” one of them asks in a tone of slimy concern.

  “Found, now,” a woman says, and they all laugh at the weak witticism.

  They start to crowd around me.

  “What do you have in your pockets?”

  “She doesn’t have pockets.”

  “Must have something good hidden somewhere,” one says with sly insinuation. “Let’s have a look.”

  I feel a hand on me and something snaps. I punch the closest one in the nose, sending out new decorative sprays of blood and hurting my own hand far more than I anticipated. An elbow takes down another one, and that method feels much better to me. For a second they hardly react. They must not expect an inner circle girl to be capable of much. Some of them are even laughing at their comrades’ injuries. They’re that confident that I’m not a threat.

  I’m not. But neither am I their plaything to rob or torment. I do what I do best. I run.

  They must have had a long night. I smell alcohol and synthmesc. They make a token show of chasing me down, but even with my ankle screaming, my gait gimpy, I lose them within half a mile.

  I feel the tears starting again, only this time they’re tears of frustration. Is this my life now, being alternately accosted by Greenshirts and thugs until one of them finally wins? Isn’t this supposed to be
a nearly perfect society, a preserve for the last of the humans? Why are humans friendly and happy and easygoing and rich near the center, and trying to assault one another out here?

  Someone is approaching. “Get the hell away from me!” I scream, only to see them cower and slink away. It’s a middle-aged woman with a bundle under her arm. She wasn’t a threat (was she?) and I treated her like a monster. What’s happening to me?

  I need to find the building the ragged second child told me about. If that’s in fact what he meant. Most of the buildings aren’t marked. A few have numbers with gaps where some have fallen off. Others have numbers spray-painted on them, half-obscured by graffiti championing one gang or another. That one says 5994 in dark green paint. I wander until I find another: 6003. I’m headed in the right direction, at least. It is a small victory, and my heart feels the tiniest bit lighter. But what awaits me there? An ambush from another gang, or Center officials, or the strange old bum himself? Maybe he makes a habit of luring lost girls . . .

  People look at me, either in curiosity or hostility or evaluation, and I glare back. Finally, though, I see the building he must have been talking about. It is gray and squat . . . and crowded. I smell food, and my stomach gives a growl. How is it that my body still thinks something like hunger is important?

  It’s a charity house, dispensing food to the poor. In other words, to every outermost circle resident who isn’t strong enough to take, or keep what they need. Barefoot children emerge with flatbread smeared with a bland but nutritious basic algae paste. I think of the huge variety of flavors available in my home circle. The food there tastes (so they assure us) exactly like pre-fail food, even if it isn’t actually made from fruits and vegetables. Here, it seems, taste doesn’t matter. The children wolf their bread and algae down as if they’re worried someone might snatch it away.

  Then, on the periphery, someone does just that. A scrawny girl cries as a bigger boy yanks her dole out of her hands. She looks down miserably at the crumbs she managed to salvage in her fist. Suddenly the bum is there, moving swiftly through the throng, his motley rags flapping dramatically. No unsteady shuffling this time. He whacks the boy across the shoulders with his cane. The boy drops the bread and runs. It lands algae-side down. The little girl obviously wants to pick it up and eat it anyway, but the bum takes her hand and gently pulls her back toward the charity house. He’s gotten a new pair of glasses since our meeting. With his free hand he raises them, flashes me a wink of his bright golden eye, and heads inside. I’ll mingle with the crowd and wait for him to return. He has to be able to help me.