Freedom/Hate (Freedom/Hate Series, Book 1)

by Kyle Andrews

  She usually hesitated to call Sim her 'boyfriend', but he never did. Something about that fact made Libby's chest tighten. He was in all the popular extracurriculars, so he could have his pick of any girls in school. He picked Libby though, and for the life of her, she couldn't understand why.

  As she slipped her hand into his, she felt relieved by his presence. It was nice to have someone that she could rely on in the world. Sim was just about the only person that she trusted anymore.

  “I'm pretty sure I could kick that guy's ass,” Sim told her.

  “If you do, can I have the reward?” she replied, dryly, keeping her eyes on the screen.

  “We'll split it. Maybe splurge on some mileage and see why everyone is always going on about that grass stuff.”

  “You've seen grass before. Remember? It's that stuff that was growing on your sandwich last week.”

  “That was mold.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty. Though I'm not the one who's been in gardening class for the past month.”

  “Is that where I'm supposed to be? Oops.”

  “You okay?” he asked, suddenly turning serious. “Did you take your supplements today?”

  Libby turned to look at him. She was planning to go on about the stress in her life causing her to forget to take the pills that were meant to stave off the deadly plague that was coursing through the blood of every citizen, but her plan was derailed when she saw the massive bruise on the left side of Sim's face.

  Her gasping at the sight of his bruise brought a smile to Sim's lips, but she could tell by the look in his eyes that he was in a fair amount of pain.

  “It looks like someone was coloring on your face with a purple marker,” she told him, cringing at the sight. “What happened?”

  “It looks worse than it is. I caught a paintball in the face.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Whatever doesn't kill you...” Sim shrugged.

  He then tried to look more upbeat as he said, “Guess who's reciting the pledge before tomorrow's game.”

  “I'm going to be disappointed if it isn't you.”

  “It is me. Are you coming?”

  “I want to. I guess we'll have to see how things go.”

  “With your Mom?”

  Libby nodded, and she could see the look of annoyance in Sim's eyes.

  There was a time when he would have gone on about how she shouldn't need to be the adult in that relationship, and how she should take some time for herself, but over the past several months he had stopped trying. Now his argument could be made with a simple look or the shaking of his head.

  “I promise, I'll try to be there,” Libby assured him, putting her hand on his chest and leaning in to kiss him.

  At first, it seemed as though he might not want a kiss. He made a show of thinking it over and making her wait. Finally, he leaned in and gave her a quick peck on the lips.

  “Seriously?” she asked.

  He answered by grabbing her, pulling her close and planting a long and passionate kiss on her mouth. She could feel the eyes of all the other students on them, but she didn't care.

  When the kiss was over, she stepped back, gave Sim a quick nod and told him, “Okay then. I approve.”

  He shot her a wink. “Get to gardening class,” he told her.

  “I can't wait. Do you happen to know where that is?”

  Sim walked away from her, headed for the next class on his schedule, while Libby stayed behind. She turned toward the TV screen. The crowd in front of the screen was starting to thin out. Kids were wandering away, laughing amongst themselves and cracking jokes about the criminal on TV.

  She couldn't help but look into the eyes of the wanted man and wonder how someone turned to a life of crime.

  She had heard stories about Hate for as long as she could remember. The one thing that she could never understand was how anyone could rationalize the things that they did. They believed in discrimination and violence. How could anyone welcome death into their lives so willingly?

  The bell rang. She was going to be late for class. Again.

  3

  Libby honestly couldn't care less about gardening. Everything she touched withered and died. It seemed to be the recurring theme of her life at the moment.

  Of course, she didn't actually get to do much gardening in the class. There were only a few living plants in the room. They were kept locked away in a case behind the teacher's desk, only to be brought out when it was absolutely necessary for the teaching of a lesson.

  The teacher at the head of the class was blathering on about fertilization and soil alkalinity, but none of it was sinking in. Libby's mind was wandering toward everything else that she needed to get done after school let out.

  It was already 5:30 when the class ended. She wanted to dart for the door as soon as she was released, but that plan was quickly dashed. As she neared the exit, Libby was approached by a school counselor who was carrying a tablet and smiling at Libby as she approached.

  Libby tried to act as though she didn't see the woman standing there—with her super sophisticated glasses and well coordinated outfit—but the woman would not let her get away so easily.

  The thought of plowing through her did cross Libby's mind, but slamming into the woman would only make it harder for Libby to pretend that she didn't see her.

  “Libby Jacobs?” the counselor asked, though she had a picture of Libby right there on her tablet, which Libby could see clear as day.

  “That's my twin sister,” Libby replied, sarcastically.

  “Right. Well... I guess you'll just have to do then.”

  Libby stepped aside, allowing the other kids to pass her as they left class. That act alone caused the counselor to pause and make a note.

  When the woman was done scribbling her note on the tablet, she smiled at Libby and said, “I'm sorry. I hate burying my nose in these things, but if I don't fill out the form, they'll get on my case. If you're wondering, I just answered the part that says you have manners.”

  “Because I stepped aside?”

  “You smiled rather politely too. That will impress the people down at the office. They're always relieved to know that we're not dealing with sociopaths. They're easily placated.”

  “Good to know. So, are we done here?”

  “Almost,” the counselor replied. “I'm Willa Prescott, by the way. You can call me Willa.”

  Willa extended her hand. Libby shook it, making sure to emphasize the fact that she was being polite in doing so.

  “See? They'll love you,” Willa joked. “I just wanted to make an appointment for you to come and see me tomorrow, in my office.”

  “Why?”

  “You've been late for class a lot recently.”

  “I've just had a lot going on.”

  “And we'll talk about it, get things all sorted out and get the office off both of our backs. Easy as pie.”

  It was an old saying. Pie hadn't been easy to make or buy since the grain supply was contaminated. The baking industry had never fully recovered.

  “I don't suppose we could just tell them that we hammered out my issues right now and skip the meeting?”

  “Protocol is protocol,” Willa sighed, seeming genuinely as annoyed by the process as Libby. “Come by after lunch. We'll get it out of the way super fast, I promise.”

  “You bet,” Libby smiled. She gave Willa a quick nod goodbye and walked away.

  “See you tomorrow, Libby,” Willa called after her.

  There was no downtime after school was over. Libby had things to take care of and homework to do. The most she could hope for was to get it all done quickly enough to give her some time to breathe before bed.

  Her first stop was the market, about three blocks away from her apartment building. The market had seen better days. The floors were dirty and cracked. The ceiling was covered in water stains. It was crowded, stuffy and smelled like mold, but Libby didn't have any choice but to go there. Her mothe
r couldn't make it after work, so if Libby didn't pick up their groceries, they would be stuck waiting another week for their next shopping day.

  Shopping days were scheduled like garbage pickup in the city. Libby had missed her shopping day once. Her mother didn't give her a hard time about it, but she knew that she had messed up. They were stuck eating half meals for days. Even then, Libby wasn't quite sure how they managed to make their food last. Regardless, the experience taught her to never let that happen again.

  Despite being in a hurry, it took Libby thirty-five minutes in line at the market, just to get her shopping list for the week. When she saw what she and her mother were supposed to live on, she wanted to cry. Sugary cereal. Potato chips. Frozen dinners. Some might have considered the list a welcomed reprieve from the normal canned stews, canned fruits and canned juices, but Libby wasn't looking for junk. She wanted vitamins and nutrients.

  Of course, both she and her mother would be receiving their weekly supply of supplements. They would include vitamins as well as the medications meant to keep the terrorist plague at bay, but she wanted more.

  “Can I swap out the chips for fruit?” she asked the grocer, who looked at her as though she was insane.

  “You get what you get,” the older, heavier, sad looking man told her.

  “What if I can find someone to trade with?”

  “Do you have a license to trade?”

  “No.”

  “There's your answer.”

  There was no use in arguing. Selling or trading groceries without a permit was against the law. It had been that way ever since terrorists attacked the nation's farmland, poisoning the grain and vegetable supply, and contaminating the water.

  Everyone was exposed. Millions died before someone figured out which mix of medications would keep people alive. Now the soil needed to be carefully monitored and the final product needed to be screened. It could be hundreds of years before the ground was toxin-free.

  “Look on the bright side, Lib, at least you get extra toilet paper this week.” The line was delivered by her cousin, Uly, as he caught up with her during her trip up the first aisle.

  He always seemed so chipper and carefree. For someone who was quickly approaching assignment age, that was rare.

  Uly had been through many of the same extracurriculars as Sim. Sports and fitness, mostly. He was popular and good looking. Everyone loved him, so his choice to date one girl for the past three years frustrated many of the classmates and teachers who thought that he should be playing the field.

  Of course, most people suspected that Uly would be assigned to a military or HAND position. If that happened, he would be separated from his girlfriend, Marti, soon enough.

  “How's your mother?” he asked Libby as he grabbed a can of green beans off of a shelf and tossed it into his bag, next to a package of ground beef.

  “Tired,” Libby told him. “She's been getting a lot of headaches.”

  “What do the doctors say?”

  “She's supposed to go for her appointment this weekend.”

  “Want me to come?”

  “We got it.”

  Libby walked away from Uly, leaving him to do his shopping alone.

  They had grown up together. When they were kids, they might as well have been brother and sister. He even met her father once, which was more than she could claim, though he didn't remember the man very well.

  Even though Libby and Uly still lived in the same apartment building, they weren't close anymore. He had other interests and other friends. He usually only poked his nose into her life for just long enough to criticize her friends, or her boyfriend, or her general attitude.

  “Someday, he may surprise you. And not in a good way.”

  That's what Uly told her about Sim. He didn't know Sim. They'd exchanged a barely polite greeting in the hallways once or twice, yet Uly presumed to judge. He was always trying to tell her what to do and how to do it. She eventually grew tired of having her cousin try to boss her around. She could take care of herself, so that's what she did.

  Honestly, it was a stupid fight. Somewhere deep down, she always knew it. They probably would have gotten over it in a day or two, except that she rarely saw Uly anymore. Now, even the small fights carried on for months without resolution. Eventually, the anger just became the defining element of their relationship.

  On her way out of the market, Uly once again caught up to her, carrying his own bags of food and supplies.

  “I'm sorry if I said something to upset you,” he told her.

  “You woke up. I'm upset.”

  “It doesn't have to be like this.”

  Libby didn't even look at him as she replied, “Can you just walk on the other side of the street or something?”

  “There's a fugitive on the loose.”

  “And if he tries to kill me, you'll be the first person I call. I promise.”

  Uly stopped walking. Libby could feel him watching her as she kept moving. Maybe he was waiting for her to stop too. She considered it, but she was mad at him. A five second conversation at the market wasn't going to change months of bitterness.

  It was cold out that day. Libby wished that she'd worn a heavier jacket to school. With bags full of groceries, she couldn't even wrap her arms around herself to get warm. All she could do was suffer through the cold and try to get home as quickly as possible.

  The front steps to her apartment building were a mess, as usual. Garbage day was scheduled for once a week, but there were times when the trucks broke down or the system got backed up. Garbage would sit for days past the scheduled pickup sometimes. When that happened, bags started migrating from the dumpster to the alley. If the garbage sat long enough, people stopped caring and tossed their trash bags out the front door.

  It was six days past the scheduled pickup.

  As Libby stepped over plastic bags full of garbage, she slipped and nearly fell on her butt. As she attempted to recover, mumbling curses under her breath, something caught her eye.

  There was a small chalk drawing on one of the steps that led to her building's front door. The drawing was of a dog's head—in profile—with pointed ears and sharp teeth.

  She could practically hear the thing growling at her as she stepped over it, inviting her to break her leg for its own amusement.

  It was a stupid drawing. It was crude and smudged. Libby stepped over it and went inside. She had to cook dinner and get her homework done.

  4

  Collin spent the night—and the better part of the following day—on the fire escape of an old building, which was home to the mentally ill and drug-addicted citizens that had nowhere else to go.

  He could have gone inside, but the authorities would be looking for him. If they searched the place, he stood a better chance of being overlooked out on the fire escape.

  If they did find him there, he would be out of luck though. The ladder which was supposed to lead to the ground had broken off long ago. If he was discovered, his only choice would be to run to the roof. From there, he could either be arrested or jump.

  He planned to jump. There was no way that he would allow himself to be taken into custody, or subjected to whatever forms of torture they had planned for him.

  The fire escape wasn't comfortable, but it was sensible. The surveillance cameras on the street wouldn't be able to catch him at that height, and he would be hidden from aerial cameras by the higher levels of the fire escape.

  When finding that spot and settling in, Collin's hope was that he would be able to get some rest, wait for the frenzy to die off, and eventually sneak down. He planned to make his way to the nearest safe house he could find. Hopefully once he was there, he could relax a little bit.

  As easy as that sounded, this was not how things played out. Instead, Collin spent the night freezing and trying to find a comfortable position on the fire escape, but there were none. He had no food. No sleep. And just when he thought it might be safe for him to climb down, he caught a glimps
e of a TV screen in the distance.

  He couldn't hear what they were saying or read what was written, but he could see a picture of himself. He knew that there would be no good moment to sneak off to a safe house. There would be no blending in.

  If his face was on TV, that meant that the authorities weren't going to cover up his actions from the night before, as they sometimes did, in order to prevent more citizens from rebelling.

  Instead, they were going to use him as an example. They were going to smack a label on him and throw him to the wolves. Once he was caught, there would be no public spectacle. They would probably kill him right there on the street, showing the public how costly it could be to question the authorities.

  Some of this was speculation and fear, but a lot of it was experience. Collin had seen too many friends disappear or die horrible and bloody deaths in public places. They were used as messages to the rest of their kind. People that he considered friends and allies were turned into propaganda material for the government that they opposed. Their deaths served to quash more hopes of freedom than they did to spark revolution.

  There was no way around it. The government controlled the media. Until Freedom could reach that large of an audience and compete with the message that the government was putting out, the cause would be forever stunted.

  For Collin, it wasn't enough to attempt to survive this manhunt. He needed to make sure that if he was going to die, he did it on his own terms—whatever those were.

  He spent the day listening to the sound of his stomach growling and trying his best to look like a junkie. He buried his face in his stiff, uncomfortable jacket and waited for the sun to set.

  Truth be told, he had no idea what he was doing. Freedom provided most of their members with some basic fighting skills, so they could defend themselves if they ever wound up in a fight or on the run, but this didn't make him a soldier or a strategist. He was a book runner. The thought of him being the city's most wanted man at the moment would have been funny if it wasn't so terrifying.