by Amy Cross
“There,” Alison says as she continues to wash my back, “doesn't that feel better already?”
***
“Welcome to Boston,” she says a short while later as she wheels me out the front door. “Honestly, it gets bigger and better every day!”
Squinting a little as early morning sunlight glints off a nearby skyscraper, I turn and look across the plaza, only to see that although many of the local buildings are damaged, there are half a dozen or so people in the area, apparently hard at work.
“Everyone has a job,” Alison continues. “Each morning, they wake up knowing exactly what they're supposed to do during the day and, more importantly, why they're supposed to do it. The idea is that by the time they go to bed at night, they feel fulfilled, as if they've contributed to the rebirth of the city. I mean, no-one gets paid, not in money. It's more like... If you work, you get food and shelter and you get accepted.”
“And if you don't?”
“We haven't had that problem yet.”
“But what would happen?”
“I don't know. You'd have to ask someone from the council.”
“How many people are there?” I ask, as she starts to wheel me toward one of the other buildings.
“Eighty-one now that you're here.”
“No, I mean in the whole city.”
“Eighty-one,” she says again. “I know it doesn't sound like many, but at least everyone's busy.”
“I guess new people arrive every day,” I reply.
“Not really,” she continues. “A decision was taken last month to keep the population at its current level for now. There'll be a new vote in three months' time, but at the moment everyone's happy with the situation as it is.”
“I thought we were supposed to be rebuilding?” I point out.
“We are.”
“But if -”
“One of the problems of the old world was that there were too many people around,” she continues. “We're taking a more leisurely approach. Some people even think that the disaster was the world's way of resetting things and pegging humanity back to a more manageable number. I mean, seven billion is a lot of people, don't you think? And so many of them were... Well, you know.”
“So many of them were what?” I ask.
“Well, not...” She pauses, seemingly struggling to find the right words. “Not optimal,” she says finally.
“What does that mean?”
“I'm not really sure. It's what the council members told us.”
“Yeah, but -”
“Look,” she continues, stopping the wheelchair for a moment and turning me so I can see a couple of men carrying some wood across the plaza, “there might only be eighty-one people here in Boston, but every single one of them contributes and has something to do. There are no wasters, no layabouts, no criminals. We run a tight ship here, and so far it seems to be working beautifully. The strong don't have to work their butts off to support the weak.”
“What about people who can't work?” I ask.
“If someone gets hurt or ill, of course we'll try to nurse them back to health so they can work again, but at the end of the day, it's hard to justify the resources if someone's too old, or they have an injury that keeps them from contributing.”
“Like a damaged foot?” I ask, raising my right leg to show her the thick bandage.
“And that's why we're taking you to see Doctor Sukan,” she says brightly, turning my chair and continuing the journey to one of the nearby buildings. “He's going to get you up and about in no time. And anyway, you're lucky because of who your father is. You're protected.”
“Protected?” I reply. “What do you mean?”
“Well, no-one's going to hurt the daughter of one of our founders, are they?”
“Founders?”
“There's so much you still don't know, isn't there?” she continues, wheeling me into the building. “Don't worry, it'll all make sense soon.”
***
“Well this wasn't done very cleanly, was it?” says Doctor Sukan a few minutes later, as he peers at my un-bandaged foot. “What kind of animal performed the amputation?”
“He's a friend of mine,” I reply, a little defensively. “Or... he was. He did the best he could.”
“I'm sure,” Sukan says with a smile. A short, balding man wearing thick glasses, he seems friendly enough, although his bedside manner could use a little work. While he was removing the bandage from my foot, he didn't seem too bothered about being careful, and I winced a few times as streaks of pain shot up my leg. “And then you were worked on at Mitchfield army base, I believe?”
“Doctor Kennedy put some kind of gel on to help my body accept the foot again,” I tell him.
“A gel?” He frowns. “God knows what those people have down at Mitchfield. Even in the old days, I couldn't keep up with their scientific advances. I swear, they're constantly coming up with new ideas. Still, your father has the utmost faith in them, and that's good enough for me.”
“Do you know my father well?” I ask.
“Sure,” he replies, grabbing a scalpel from the counter. “John Marter and I go back a long way.”
“He's a wonderful man,” Alison adds, smiling as she watches from by the door.
“You're very lucky to have him as your father,” Sukan continues, using the scalpel blade to press down on part of my ankle, just above the stitches. “He's a very good man to have on the ruling council right now. He's able to put emotions to one side and make tough decisions. I admire that, it's not the easiest thing in the world.”
Wincing, I watch as he digs the tip of the scalpel into my foot's gray flesh.
“Does that hurt?” he asks.
“Kind of.”
“Wonderful. What about this?” He presses against another spot.
“A bit.”
“And this?”
“Stop!” I tell him, pulling my foot away slightly. “That really hurt.”
“Excellent.” He smiles. “That means there's some nerve regrowth, although...” He peers a little more closely and mutters something under his breath, as if he's confused.
“Although what?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he replies, although he's clearly troubled by something. Grabbing a magnifying glass, he uses it to examine the sole of my foot. “Did Doctor Kennedy tell you anything else about the procedure they used when they reattached this thing?”
“Not really.”
“And do you know how long it was off your body before they recovered it and performed the surgery?”
“A few days,” I tell him. “Sorry, after everything that's been happening, it's kind of hard to remember.”
“That's understandable,” he replies, using a finger to poke the big toe. “Can you feel that?”
I shake my head.
“How about this?” he continues, gently stroking the sole.
“Slightly.”
“Good progress, then,” he says with a cautious smile, “but still quite some way to go. I just...” He frowns again as he examines the stitches holding my foot onto my ankle.
“It's like a miracle,” Alison says after a moment. “I mean, you might actually be able to walk again soon without any help.”
“I can get by already,” I tell her. “I really don't need to be wheeled everywhere. Soon I'll be able to work too. I want a job, I want to contribute.”
“We'll find something for you,” she replies, “but I think maybe your father wants you to work closely with him. Maybe even as his assistant.”
“Seriously?” I pause for a moment, trying to imagine something so crazy. In the old days, my father kept his work very much off-limits from the family, and he only told Henry and me a few very brief details. It's strange that he'd now want me to be so closely involved, but I guess a lot has changed. I still haven't had a chance to ask him how he's doing, not properly. Everything's moving so fast.
“Fascinating,” Sukan says, poking my foot again.
&
nbsp; “What is?” I ask.
“Nothing, just...” He grabs a clipboard and makes a few notes.
“It's doing okay, isn't it?” Alison asks. “It's not going to fall off or anything?”
“It's doing wonderfully,” he replies. “The regrowth is already ahead of schedule, some of the nerves have knitted back together, and I think that within ninety days it should be as good as new. There'll be some scarring, of course, and maybe a little discomfort from time to time, but...” Setting the clipboard down again, he starts examining my right leg, all the way up to the knee.
“You seem bothered by something,” I tell him.
“No,” he mutters, “just...” He squeezes my calf, before looking back down at the foot.
“After this,” Alison says, “I have orders to take you to see your father. I think he wants to help you get used to the place, and he probably wants to get started on working out what you're best at. That's one of the things that happens here in Boston. Everyone gets assessed to see what skills they have, and then they're given a role that makes use of those skills.”
“Sounds good,” I reply as Sukan continues to examine my foot. “I just -”
Letting out a gasp of pain, I try to pull my foot away from him.
“Sorry,” he says, holding my leg to keep it firmly in place. “I didn't think that would hurt.”
“Is there anything else we're supposed to be doing here?” I ask.
“Well, no, but...”
I wait for him to finish, but something is clearly bothering him.
“Can you just come out with it?” I tell him. “If you think it's not working and it has to come off, I'd rather just know right away.”
“It's not that,” he replies, examining the stitches. “Elizabeth, the regrowth is remarkable. The fact that you already have certain sensations is almost miraculous, and I'm sure the discoloration will fade over time. There's just one problem.” He pauses, before turning to me. “Elizabeth, this is not your foot.”
Thomas
“Murder,” Mark says as he stands before us, “as well as sabotage, the concealment of an illness, the development of plans to steal precious resources and, most terribly of all, a general willingness to put your own needs over the needs of the community.”
Behind him, a murmur rumbles through the crowd, as angry-faced members of the community stare at us.
“How do you plead?” Mark continues, turning first to Quinn.
“I didn't kill anyone,” she says firmly. “I would never have hurt Kaylee, I -”
Before she can finish, Luke jabs a fist into the small of her back, causing her to cry out in pain.
“And yet Kaylee is dead,” Mark continues. “Who else would have killed her? Perhaps you simply can't face the truth of your own monstrous actions? Perhaps you don't dare to recognize what you did.”
She shakes her head, with tears running down her face.
“Pleading innocent, then,” Mark mutters, walking over to Melissa. “And you? How do you plead?”
“Please don't hurt my daughter,” she sobs, as Bobby holds the ropes that are tied around her wrists. “Just let her go! You can do anything you want to me, but don't hurt Katie!”
“We'll get to the girl in a moment,” Mark continues, staring into Melissa's eyes. “First, I want to hear what you have to say for yourself. You were planning to run away, weren't you?”
“Yes, but only -”
“And when you were caught, you had some food with you that you'd stolen from the camp.”
“Yes, but -”
“So you're a thief.”
“You have to understand -”
“And you,” he continues, stepping over to Katie and crouching in front of her. “You also had stolen goods with you.”
“Leave her alone,” I say firmly.
“Wait your turn,” he replies, not even looking over at me as he continues to stare at Katie. “Did Mommy make you take those things?”
With tears running down her cheeks, Katie stares back at him.
“It's okay,” he tells her. “You're only a child, so it's natural that you do what Mommy tells you.” He pauses for a moment. “She made you steal, didn't she?”
“Baby,” Melissa whimpers, “everything's going to be okay.” She turns to Mark. “It's all my fault. I don't care what you do to me, but you have to let her go!”
“So Mommy did make you,” he continues, putting a hand on Katie's shoulder. “Still, a good little girl would know not to steal, so I'm afraid you're also guilty.”
“No!” Melissa shouts, lunging at him before Bobby pulls her back and places a hand over her mouth. She tries to struggle free, but he slams her into the ground and holds her down.
Smiling, Mark steps over to me.
“And finally,” he continues, “we have Mr. Thomas Edgewater.” He leans closer and whispers: “Don't worry. I'll spare the little girl's life at the last moment. If you cooperate, at least. These sheep will vote for her to be executed with the rest of you, and they'll feel bad about it, and then I'll make them feel better by pardoning her. The rest of you, though...” He takes a step back. “How do you plead?” he asks loudly. “Innocent or guilty?”
“Does it matter?” I reply.
“Of course it matters,” he says, turning to the crowd. “Did you hear that? He treats justice as if it's a joke.”
“We just want to leave,” I say firmly. “Everyone here should know the truth about what you've got in that pit!”
“They already know,” he replies. “I informed them this morning, shortly before the four of you were brought out here to face them. Every single person here understands why I decided to keep those creatures in captivity. It's a testing facility, so we can determine if there's a way to undo the ravages of this awful disease. Just as scientists used to keep samples of smallpox for further research, so we need to keep samples of the creatures. We need to know what we're dealing with.”
“That's bullshit,” I tell him. “You treat them like pets!”
He smiles.
“And what about Leonard?” I continue. “Did you tell the -”
Suddenly I feel a powerful thud in the back of my neck. Dropping to my knees with my hands tied behind my back, I can barely breathe for a few seconds.
“Do you want me to show mercy to the little girl?” Mark asks, lowering his voice for a moment.
I open my mouth to tell him to go to hell, but I stop when I realize I can still hear Katie sobbing.
“I don't think there can be any doubt,” Mark continues, turning to the crowd. “By their own confessions, these people have confirmed their guilt. Some of them even seem to be proud of themselves, as if they think that by breaking the rules they're somehow proving a point. I will tell you this, ladies and gentlemen... I have absolutely no doubt that they're all guilty, and that they all merit the most serious punishments that we are able to mete out. At the same time, it is not for me to decide, so we will put the matter to a vote. I must warn you, though, that conviction of these crimes carries an automatic death sentence.”
“Go to hell,” I whisper, still struggling to get my breath back.
“Who here,” he continues, “finds Quinn guilty?”
I watch in horror as everyone in the crowd raises a hand.
“And what about Melissa?” Mark continues. “Who here finds her guilty?”
All the hands stay raised, and I can't help but notice the disgusted, hate-filled expressions on the faces of all the people who are staring at us.
“And what about Thomas?” Mark asks. “Is he to be found guilty too?”
Every hands remains raised.
“And then we have the more difficult decision,” Mark continues, turning to Katie. “We have a child. She was directed to act by her mother, of course, but she could have resisted. She is old enough to make her own decisions, so we are left to decide her fate. Do we deem her to be guilty, along with the rest of these criminals?”
A few of the hands w
aver, and one or two are lowered, but a clear majority remain raised.
“Then the child, too, is sentenced to die,” Mark says solemnly.
“No!” Melissa screams, breaking free from Bobby for a moment and lunging at her daughter, before Luke rushes over and crunches his knee into the side of her face, knocking her down to the ground with a sickening cracking sound.
“Leave her alone!” I shout, trying to go and help before Mark pulls me back and slams me down.
“The decision has been made,” he says firmly. “The prisoners are trying to revolt, but that's only because they refuse to accept that justice is being served.” He rolls me onto my back and stares down at me with a smile. “The execution will be carried out at dusk.”
Elizabeth
“What the hell is going on?” I blurt out as soon as I spot my father at the far end of the room. Limping through the door, I make my way over to him as fast as I can manage, although I almost fall several times.
“Lizzie!” he says with a smile, stepping toward me with his arms outstretched. “Welcome to the command center for the entire city!”
“What did you do to my foot?” I ask, leaning against a desk. “It's not my foot!”
Nearby, a couple of technicians glance up from their screens.
“Lizzie,” my father continues, putting a hand on my shoulder, “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“The foot on my right leg,” I continue, still a little breathless, “is not my foot. Whose is it?”
He looks down at the gray-green foot. “I honestly don't know,” he says after a moment, before looking into my eyes. “Lizzie, please -”
“You're in charge of everything,” I tell him, trying not to panic even though I feel as if my flesh is crawling. “You have to know what's going on!”
“At Mitchfield,” he replies, “you were under the care of Doctor Kennedy and her team. I was told merely that your foot had been recovered and reattached, and that she was conducting some kind of experiment involving a new type of gel that would encourage regrowth. She specifically told me that your original foot was located in the forest and that thanks to some hard work and a little luck, it was deemed suitable for reattachment. I must admit, I was a little surprised by the news, but I trusted Doctor Kennedy completely.”
