I looked down and saw that I was torn open in the middle, and a lot of my insides were gone. It didn't hurt, though, not exactly, which surprised me, though I wasn't sure what pain felt like. I was just surprised I didn't feel much of anything, even though something was obviously wrong with my body and pieces of it were missing. All I felt was a little cold and stiff. And that was when I first tried to talk.
At first my mouth just moved noiselessly, and I thought maybe the part of me that could make speech was missing too. I felt my throat and that seemed intact, but no air was coming out to make the sounds, so I concentrated on breathing in and exhaling. I tried to say something like, "I've been hurt," but nothing came out right. It didn't sound like words, but all harsh and wrong—just raspy, wheezing sounds. It sounded a lot like the moaning I heard all around me.
Even though I couldn't understand what the moaning meant, I was speaking the same as everyone around me, and that made me feel better, though I was disappointed that I couldn't communicate with anyone. I still feel bad about that, like I'm missing something much more important than my intestines or my liver, whose absence I really haven't noticed over the years.
I now live in this group of buildings with the other people like me. They can't talk either. I must have known how to type very well before, since I can still do it, even though I don't remember how to speak. The typing came easily, even if it still seems slow and none of the other people here know how to read it. I suppose I must have known lots of ideas and problems and questions before, because even though I don't breathe or sleep or talk, I can still think of a lot of things, and I wanted to write some of them down since I can't say them out loud anymore, and I thought other people might be interested in them.
The older man, the one who makes me feel uneasy and scared, he put us here not too long ago. The other people who can't talk must also feel scared and uneasy around him because, like me, they walk slowly away whenever he gets near. At the time, I didn't know why he put us here, as we were fine where we were, I thought. Maybe it was to punish us, as I heard later that he was going to put us in a prison. He can talk. He spoke to us loudly, but with kind-sounding words, so I didn't mind going where he wanted, if it made him happy and he thought it was best for us.
The older man led us out of the city after he found us there. He had two dogs to help move us in the direction he wanted. It was funny, but as we walked, I wondered why I hadn't thought of it on my own, to leave the city where I had been at first, and I couldn't really tell why. It just hadn't occurred to me.
I made a note that I've tried to remember since then, not to sit around doing nothing, though sometimes it's so difficult, and the urge is almost overwhelming, just to sit down and forget all the things that need to be done. But giving in to that urge just doesn't seem right, because I remember as we walked away from the city that it felt so good to see different things, all the fields and trees and flowers and other things. There is a whole world out here, and we should feel good about it. "Good" isn't the right word. "Grateful"—we should feel grateful for it, I think.
We walked out of the city, about twenty of us, and a younger man joined the older man. The young man didn't make us feel uneasy or scared the way the older man did, just by his presence, though as soon as I heard him, I felt a little scared; he seemed harsher and angrier than the older man.
As he talked with the older man, a lot of people in my group tried to get close to him, to attack him. They felt threatened by him, I think, and so did I. They also felt hungry, I'm sure, because I know I did, but I didn't want to attack him—partly because the kinder, older man seemed to be his friend, and also because I remembered back when I was first in the city, years before the man took us out, I had been with some other people who couldn't talk and they were all battering on a door to a big building. The door gave way and we all rushed in. There was screaming, and blood everywhere.
I felt hungry, so hungry. It gnawed and tore at me, the hunger. I had been hungry for as long as I could remember, since waking up days before. So when I saw someone on the floor, with other people tearing her apart, I took some. I even punched and clawed at others to get them out of the way so I could tear off a bloody piece of the woman. I just wanted the hunger to go away, but it was a cruel joke on us as much as on her.
When I ate some, it burned my mouth, literally. My mouth had been so dry and cold, and now it felt like it was being scalded with burning liquid, and like I was drowning in the slippery, greasy wetness of her blood, all at the same time. It was the most awful thing I've ever felt. I clutched my throat and shook my head from side to side and tried to swallow, and I was sure it was going to kill me, the burning and drowning sensations were so intense, first in my mouth, but then even worse in my throat, like throwing up backwards, even though later I realized I wasn't sure what throwing up felt like; I just remember it was very unpleasant and it burned. But what was worse was that once I swallowed, it seemed to make me even hungrier. My stomach—or whatever was left of it—had been a dull, pained pressure in my middle, but almost as soon as I swallowed, it gave a wrench, and its insistent demand filled me completely, as if my limbs and head could feel hunger as well—as if every part of me were writhing, twisting, screaming in need.
From somewhere I suddenly remembered that drinking salt water was like that, and many people lost at sea died when they drank the sea water, because the more they drank, the thirstier they got, until it killed them. Isn't that funny, that I should suddenly remember that? And from where? I had just awakened a few days before, and I knew I hadn't heard that particular fact anywhere since waking up. I still am not sure. But I knew from then on not to eat, because it just made things worse.
So I didn't want to attack the younger man and I didn't press forward with the others. But I could hear the two of them talking, even as I hung back.
"Do you want me to help herd this bunch to the prison, Milton?" the younger man said.
I didn't like that at all, because I knew what the word "prison" meant. The other people didn't react to this description of where we were going, they just kept grasping at the younger man. But I hung my head, for I remembered what I'd done back in the city to the woman I'd partially eaten. I felt like I deserved going to prison, though I was surprised it had taken them so long to catch us. I didn't think all the people with me had been there when we had eaten the woman and the others, but maybe they had eaten other people or done other bad things, and we were all being punished together.
The people with me didn't seem to understand what was being said, they just milled around as the man called Milton kept them back. "Stay behind me, Will," he said to the young man. "We'll take some of them to the prison, but it's getting too full. I'd like to take some to that fenced—in place we found a while ago."
The younger man called Will said, "That can't hold many."
"No, but Jack says it's not close to anything important, and he's marked it on the map so people don't stumble on it by accident. And it'll help ease the overcrowding. Don't worry, Will, we'll find other places. We have to.
"I've been watching them. They fight each other sometimes, and some of the bigger and more violent and aggressive ones hurt the smaller. They even hurt the women and children among them. It's wrong. They don't eat them, of course, and that makes it even worse, like they're just doing it out of cruelty or rage, and I had always hoped they wouldn't be capable of that, at least. Sometimes they hurt them to the point where they can't move, and then you or I have to put them out of their misery. That's not right. I'd like to put the less aggressive ones somewhere else."
Will shrugged. "All right."
And so we marched on. It took us a couple days. At night some of the people would wander away, and Milton would bring them back in the morning. But they couldn't get far in the dark, and mostly we sat down at night and didn't move. Will would climb a tree or something else, like a billboard or an electrical tower, in order to sleep and to keep away from us.
By
the time we got to our destination, the men and the dogs had separated us into two groups of about ten each. I hoped, given Milton's description, that my group wasn't going into the prison. Some of the other people had already hit and growled at me when we were walking before. We got to a gate in a huge fence that ran for what seemed like miles around a big building. I guessed this was the prison. The area behind the fence seemed to hold thousands of people like me who couldn't talk. They pressed up against the fence, or milled about, or sat on the ground. The man called Milton unlocked the gate and the other group of ten filed through. Milton relocked the gate, and he turned to our group and led us away.
We walked again, across a highway with many empty cars and trucks on it, across fields, and we eventually came to another high fence. Milton unlocked the gate in this fence, let us enter, and locked it behind us. At first we tried to push against the fence, but that didn't make much sense to me after a short while. It was nicer here than at the prison, as it wasn't crowded. But I still didn't like being locked in. I wondered if it was just a nicer prison, since I hadn't attacked and eaten as many people as some of the others.
Mostly, I just wanted something to do, so I went looking around the little buildings inside the fence. The buildings were low and narrow, and they had these doors that slid up, like a garage door, only there were lots of doors down each long side of each little building. When we first got here, the big sign above the buildings read "MINI STORAGE," but it blew down in a storm after that. The sliding doors were all locked. I think I lost track of which ones I'd tried and which I hadn't, but I'm pretty sure after a couple days that I'd tried every door. I had hoped there was something inside the buildings, even though I didn't know what to expect or what I really wanted. I just knew I wanted something to do besides sit there with the others, and I had hoped the doors into the buildings would provide something.
And I remember very distinctly, on that day when I knew I was stuck there and none of the doors would open, that it was raining. I sat under the little overhang by one of the sliding doors. Though I don't exactly mind being wet, I vaguely remember that it's something I'm not supposed to like. "Vaguely remember"? I usually think that's the only kind of remembering I do now, but I suddenly had a very vivid memory of something called crying, and it was what I wanted to do then. But I knew as soon as I thought of it that it was even more lost to me than speech was, so I just sighed and sat there as it got dark and cold and the rain kept on through the night.
The next day the sun rose on a beautiful, clear, warm morning. I got up and started trying the doors again, in case I had missed one, but mostly just to have something to do. I heard a sound behind me, and I turned to see that it was the younger man, Will. He was watching me. I pulled on the door handle as I looked at him, trying to make him understand I wanted to open it.
He shook his head and smiled grimly. "Nobody in there to eat, fella, just somebody's old stuff. Sit down and relax."
I shook my head as I looked at him. The others inside with me went to the fence near him and pressed against it, so he had to run to one side of them to see me again. "Did you shake your head at me?" he shouted, before running back to the other side of the little crowd as it shuffled over and blocked his view of me again. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
I pulled on the door and in my mind I said, "Why, yes, I do, and could you please open this door?" but all that came out was a pained roar, so then I nodded instead.
He looked very surprised, and he stepped back and sat away from the fence until Milton joined him. I could hear them talking again. I envied them, that they could talk so easily to one another, make themselves understood by another person, rather than being trapped, alone, in their own minds. "I think one of them understands what I say!" Will said.
Milton stepped towards the fence, and the others on my side of the barrier shuffled away from him. Milton looked surprised, though pleased in a way. "Really? Which one?"
Will pointed to me. "That one, the guy wearing the suit with his guts all ripped out, sitting by the door to one of the storage units. I just was playing with him, and I said there wasn't anyone in there to eat, he should leave the door alone, and he shook his head, like he understood. Then I asked him if he understood, and he nodded!"
Milton now looked at me. "And just as importantly, Will, it sounds like he didn't want to open the door just to find someone to eat! This was another thing I dared hope for—that if we got the less aggressive ones alone, they might be able to remember more and think more clearly."
Milton smiled at me, and I knew he was even kinder than I had thought before. I tried to smile back, but judging by how they both grimaced, I thought it was probably another one of the things I had forgotten to do the right way.
Chapter 3
Most days that spring I spent a lot of time with my dad. As a twelve-year-old, it was my time to take my first vows of service to our community. Milton, Mr. Caine, my mom, and all the adults would teach me, give me advice, help me adjust to new expectations and new responsibilities. But, of course, the bulk of the responsibility for my training fell on my dad. He relished it, I know, as he would in a couple years when he had to train my younger brother, Roger. My dad has always loved teaching and helping people, and the fact that we were family made it all the sweeter to him. It helped that most of the training was "guy stuff," as he put it, and he was proficient in those kinds of activities. He'd laugh and say that even in the "regular" world—his world, the old world—he probably would've tried to make his daughter into a "tomboy" (another of his archaic phrases), but now the community expected him to do so. It was as if that made it okay and he didn't need to feel bad about it.
And of course he wasn't the only one who enjoyed it. We both did. We were together and in the outdoors and having fun—hunting, fishing, tracking. If most of the time the world could seem desolate and abandoned and lonely, at least for part of that spring we could feel like there was the right number of people in it—namely, two—safe, alive, and devoted to one another. On those days I didn't mind how my dad looked at me differently; that gaze drew out something strong, harsh, and unforgiving from deep inside me. I didn't feel his expectation like a burden or an imposition, but like how I think he's always meant it—as the deepest expression of his love, as his admiration and hope for me. And like every girl, whatever her situation and whatever her dad's expectations, all I wanted to do was please him—again, even if I didn't fully understand or appreciate it at the time.
But it was hard on my mom, seeing me gravitate to my dad so much. She also taught me a lot of the things that needed to be done for us to survive—sewing, weaving, gardening, gathering fruits and nuts and herbs in the summer, then canning, drying, and smoking all the food we'd need for winter. She was one of the few people with any medical training, and it had to double for both people and animals, so as the numbers of both people and livestock grew, she'd take me around to help with all the various births. I'd seen more than my share of human and animal babies born by the time I was twelve, and many more since. Like everyone, my mom had adjusted to this new life and had found strengths and skills she never knew she had.
Life was harder on her than it was on my dad. It was hard on people like Mr. Caine and Milton, too. Mr. Caine had been a professor and Milton had been a scientist, and now they lived in a world where those skill sets weren't in demand, and they'd had to retool in middle age.
But for Mr. Caine or my dad or many of the other people, even the older people, life without the things they'd been used to had some small benefits, even though everyone was always quick to add that they weren't worth the awful price in blood. Our world was far more dangerous and uncomfortable, but it was also more free, less hectic, in many ways less anxious or burdensome than the one they'd lived in. Mr. Caine and my dad and others would sometimes laugh at a lot of obsolete things I had very little understanding of—student loans, credit cards, mortgages, car payments—all of which, apparently, had made their former live
s often unpleasant, and which had magically disappeared twelve years ago. In fact, I am told they had all disappeared the day before I was born.
My mom seemed to have less vivid or numerous memories of the bad parts of the old world, and less appreciation for any of the good points of the new. She's always loved me and my dad and my brother—I'm not saying she doesn't, or that it's any less than we feel—but more of her had shut down the day her world died, and she'd always have more regrets than other people. She held on to old customs more than most people. She wore her hair long, for example, while most everyone else kept their hair short, just for comfort and convenience and hygiene. She kept me in frilly, girly clothes way longer than most moms did, if they even bothered to do so at all when their girls were very young. And once the city around the museum was cleared and we went looking for a home, I know she picked the one she did because it had a piano in it, even though she came up with other reasons.
A few people knew how to play more practical instruments, like guitars—instruments that you could carry around easily, and fix and tune on your own. A piano was probably not the best choice for an instrument with a future in our world, but Mom remembered how to play, and she wanted one. Roger and I both learned how to play, along with some other kids whose parents made them come over for lessons, and maybe now there will be pianos and piano—players in the next generation. But all her gestures, as beautiful and true as they were, always had that touch of the poignant, the nostalgic, the sunset rather than the sunrise.
Life Sentence Page 2
