Deadlands

by Lily Herne

  She opened her mouth to fire back at me, but then Jobe tapped her knee and murmured, ‘Shhhhh.’

  So you see, right then I wasn’t the happiest person in the world. I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of self-pitying freak, but let’s face it – things were bad. What I didn’t know, and couldn’t have guessed, was that they were about to get a whole lot worse.

  3

  It’s weird, but I hardly remember anything about life before the War, even when I really try. I mean, I was only seven when it all kicked off, but I should still remember stuff, shouldn’t I? I have only a vague recollection of the flat we lived in before the Rotters came; it was small and smelled of Mom’s cigarettes, and we had to climb up several flights of steps to reach the front door. In fact, my only clear memories are of the years Jobe and I lived with Gran in the Agriculturals. We were happy there. She loved us.

  But that was then. Ancient history. And, like the Mantis said, I didn’t have a choice.

  So that morning I put on the scratchy grey tunic and pulled the thick woollen stockings over my legs. The unfamiliar clothes were at least a size too big. I’m always getting teased about how skinny I am, but it’s not my fault. I eat as much as anyone; it just doesn’t stick to my ribs.

  As if he’d picked up on my mood, Jobe clung to my legs as I grabbed Gran’s ancient Billabong rucksack – the one she’d kept safe through the years after the War. I gently pried him loose and knelt down to face him. ‘Listen, Jobe. You have to stay here. You have to behave for Dad. ’Kay?’

  I gave him a hug that was really more for my benefit than his, but as I pulled away I was almost sure that I saw a flicker of understanding in his eyes. Sometimes this happened, and it made all the other times, the times he stared off into space, sing-songing to himself, bearable.

  The Mantis was already ensconced in the rickshaw by the time I made my way outside. ‘Leletia,’ she snapped. ‘Hurry up.’

  I hated going by rickshaw. The men and women who pulled them along the streets all ran barefoot and that day our driver was a hefty woman with long blonde hair and ginormous shoulders. I smiled at her apologetically as I heaved myself in next to the Mantis, but she barely acknowledged me.

  The Mantis’s bulbous eyes skated over my body and she nodded in approval at the leather sandals I was wearing. I smiled to myself. There was no way I was going to let on that I’d hidden my boots in the bottom of the backpack.

  The rickshaw driver started pulling us away from the house, hucking and jumping to get the momentum going. It was still early, but already the streets were crammed with bodies scurrying to and fro. The rain fell in steady sheets, pitter-pattering on the rickshaw’s tarpaulin roof, but the wet weather didn’t stop the hawkers trying to tempt us with pancakes of boiled spinach, or the sheep’s heads and pigs’ trotters that bubbled and frothed in drums at every corner. The smoke melded with the stench of molten tar as workers slaved away to pave the muddy roadways. I hated it. The endless greyness and people-made fakeness of it made my eyes hurt. Everywhere you looked there was concrete or mud, not a sign of a tree or even a blade of grass.

  ‘You look really pretty in your uniform,’ the Mantis said in her ‘look, I’m your friend’ voice. A total lie of course. I looked like a freak, and I longed for my hoody and jeans. Pretending not to hear her, I stared out at the passing rickshaws and the half-completed buildings that lined the street.

  ‘Look, Leletia,’ the Mantis said, after a lengthy silence. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

  I honestly couldn’t see what the hell she was talking about. As far as I was concerned not only was the city enclave as ugly as sin, but it also stank. The Mantis and Dad were always going on about the fancy-smancy sewerage system the Resurrectionists were constructing, but now we were edging into the centre of the sector and the place reeked of open drains and other foul stuff I didn’t want to think about.

  The rain was falling more heavily now, and the rickshaw driver paused to wipe the rivulets out of her eyes before flexing the muscles in her shoulders and moving onwards again.

  We topped a rise and I got another tantalising glimpse of Table Mountain in between the spilling clouds.

  The rickshaw driver slid to an abrupt stop.

  ‘What now!’ the Mantis said, looking at me in irritation as if it was my fault.

  ‘Resurrectionist parade, ma’am,’ the rickshaw driver said, pointing towards the road ahead where a solid wall of bodies was marching in formation, droning some tuneless phrase over and over again. I couldn’t make out the words, but it had to be the same kind of crap the Resurrectionists at Gran’s funeral had spouted.

  ‘Guardians!’ I said, unthinkingly grabbing the Mantis’s arm.

  ‘They’re not Guardians, Leletia,’ she said. ‘They wear the robes as a tribute.’ And looking closer I could see she was right. Two robed figures were cutting their way through the crowd, thrusting pamphlets into the hands of passers-by, and as I watched one of them pushed back his hood to scratch his thatch of brown hair.

  A woman with wide staring eyes and a lumpy rash across one cheek ran up to the side of the rickshaw and shoved a piece of paper into my hand. ‘Take this, sisi!’ she said, and before I could react, she melted back into the throng of bodies.

  The Mantis sighed. ‘Why on earth do they have to do this at this time of the day?’

  I looked at her in surprise. ‘Huh? But you . . . you’re a believer.’

  The Mantis shot me a shrewd look. ‘Take the market road,’ she snapped to the rickshaw driver, who nodded, jumped up on the balls of her feet and pulled us through a series of darkened alleyways, strung with sodden washing and full of the reek of unwashed bodies.

  While the Mantis carried on barking instructions to the driver, I opened up the pamphlet. The ink was smeared where stray droplets of rain had dampened it, but it was still readable. Beneath a crap ink drawing of a large-headed child gazing up at an oval sun were the words:

  Do you remember the terrible days of hijackings? Murder? Domestic violence? Robbery? Et cetera? Yes? Then join us in celebrating our Saviours Who Have Set Us Free. Become ReBorn with a view to a Glorious ReAnimation. New Green-market Square, Saturday, 12 July, Year 10.

  I scrunched it up and shoved it into the bottom of my backpack. Then, all too soon, we turned a corner and I caught a glimpse of my new school for the first time.

  My first thought was: Oh crap. It looked like the photos I’d seen of the prisons they’d had before the War. It was ringed by a low spiked fence, and the bland brick buildings behind it couldn’t have been more different from my old school, which was basically just a rondavel with a cosy thatched roof. Even from outside the gate I could smell the telltale reek of newly laid concrete. The sign on the gate read Malema High: ‘A breath of fresh air’.

  ‘Here we are,’ the Mantis said. ‘Remember, try to fit in, Leletia.’

  But, as I was about to find out, that was way easier said than done.

  4

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ The woman in the reception office looked me up and down disapprovingly, taking in my shorn hair and of course the boots, which I’d quickly put on when the Mantis was out of sight.

  ‘Lele . . . Leletia,’ I said again.

  It was gloomy inside the brick office, the windows too small to let in adequate light. She flicked irritably through the papers on her desk. ‘And you’re really Cleo Mbane’s stepdaughter?’

  ‘I told you that already.’

  I could tell by the way her nose wrinkled up slightly, as if she’d smelled something putrid, that she was finding it hard to believe me. I’d taken an instant dislike to her – when she’d bent down to collect a form from behind the desk, I’d caught sight of a large bony Resurrectionist amulet under her blouse – and it was obviously more than mutual. She was all angles and hard edges, as if she’d been welded together, and she reeked of the grease she’d used to slick back her hair.

  ‘I’m Comrade Pelosi. If you have any problems, you
can come and see me.’

  Not bloody likely.

  ‘Let’s get you to class,’ she said. ‘You’ll be just in time for morning thanks.’

  ‘For morning what?’

  She pretended not to hear me and led me outside.

  ‘You must feel very privileged coming to a school such as this after your time in the Agriculturals,’ she said in her superior tone. ‘We’re very proud of our beautiful school.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I can see why.’

  She glanced at me suspiciously, as if she’d detected the sarcastic undertone in my voice, but I smiled innocently back at her.

  Comrade Pelosi led me past a bare area dominated by a rusty sculpture of a sun with dull metal rays poking out of its centre and towards a squat barn-like structure with a domed roof. It instantly reminded me of the shed where we used to keep the sheep in the winter.

  ‘All your classes will be in here.’

  My stomach flip-flopped, and taking a deep, calming breath, I followed her inside.

  The room was as gloomy as the reception area – the only lighting coming from oil lamps that were placed on each desk – and although there had to be thirty or so students in the room, it was almost eerily silent. Everyone had their heads bent, their hands clasped on the desks in front of them.

  A freakishly tall man stood at the front of the classroom, his eyes closed and his arms raised above his head. He was almost as skinny as the Mantis, and his long hair was scraped back so tightly his brow looked as if it took up two thirds of his face. He immediately made me think of the huge rain spiders we’d sometimes find on the walls of Gran’s cottage.

  His eyes snapped open. ‘So we give thanks to the Guardians for the air that we breathe, the food that we eat and the safe environment in which we flourish,’ he said.

  A low murmuring started to hum in the background. Comrade Pelosi, or Acid Face as I had decided to dub her, cleared her throat.

  ‘Comrade,’ she said. ‘Sawubona. New pupil for you.’ Then she stalked out, leaving me stranded at the side of the classroom.

  ‘Please come to the front,’ the teacher said.

  Squirming with self-consciousness, I walked stiffly towards him. My boots clunked over the concrete floor, and a couple of girls in the front row sniggered. The words Give thanks for each new day were written on the blackboard, but the rest of the dusty brick walls were bare. There were no windows, and despite the size of the room I began to feel claustrophobic.

  ‘Welcome,’ the teacher said, his flat black eyes boring into my skull. ‘I am Comrade Xhati. Please, tell us a bit about yourself.’

  Crap. I really really didn’t want to stand in front of all these strangers and talk about myself. I turned to face the class, heart hammering in my chest, everyone’s eyes focused on me. The girl directly opposite me smothered a yawn and flicked her hair over her shoulder. It was intricately plaited and fell almost to her waist. The Mantis was right. I was one of the only students with cropped hair. My first day, and already I stood out like a sore thumb.

  ‘My name’s Lele . . .’ My voice cracked, and I had to clear my throat and start again. Someone giggled. ‘My name’s Lele. I live with my dad and stepmother and . . .’ What else was there to say?

  ‘Thank you, Lele. And why are you joining us halfway through the year?’

  ‘Um . . . I’ve just moved here. My grandmother . . .’ I could feel tears starting to build up, and I swallowed. ‘She died recently – we lived with her out in the Agriculturals – and so my brother and I were sent here to stay with my dad.’

  The door at the back of the room opened, and a tall guy with a hectic mass of dreadlocks entered, letting the door slam behind him with a crash.

  Comrade Xhati sighed and narrowed his eyes. ‘I hope you have a good excuse, Thabo.’

  The latecomer held up a piece of paper. It was impossible to tell for sure from where I was standing, but it looked like one of the pamphlets the Resurrectionists in the parade had been handing out. ‘Sorry, Comrade Xhati,’ he said. ‘Got caught up. The cause, you know.’

  Comrade Xhati nodded, but he didn’t look entirely convinced. ‘I see. Well, take your seat.’

  The girl with the plaits whispered something to her neighbour and squirmed around in her seat to stare at the late arrival. She gave him a small flirty wave, but I couldn’t see if he responded or not.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Comrade Xhati said, reaching over and touching my hand lightly. His fingers were icy. ‘But you must think of your grandmother as being in a better place.’ He paused as if waiting for me to agree with him. I didn’t. ‘Do you have an exercise book? Something with which to write?’

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak again.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You’ll find a seat near the back.’

  The desks all looked fully occupied, but then I spied a space at the rear of the classroom that was hidden in its own pool of darkness, its lamp unlit.

  I dropped my head and retraced my steps, a flurry of whispers tracking me as I walked to the back of the room:

  ‘Are those army boots she’s wearing?’

  ‘What a freak.’

  ‘Check out her hair!’

  Careful not to catch anyone’s eye, I slunk into my chair.

  Comrade Xhati asked a question about the life cycle of an aphid, and the students all started writing industriously. Bending down to my bag, I pulled out my sketchbook. On the first page my best friend Thandwisa had written: Don’t let them grind you down. We love you and will miss you stacks, so don’t forget us. XXXX. Thanks to the tears welling in my eyes, the writing was blurry, but I knew the message off by heart.

  Now all I had to do was to figure out how to light the lamp. I tried to attract the attention of the guy next to me, a gangly kid with taped-together glasses and furious acne, as he scrawled something on a sheet of rough paper, but he appeared to be ignoring me deliberately.

  Now the tears were really building up.

  ‘Is there a problem, Lele?’ Comrade Xhati called from the front of the class.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said as a tear escaped and crept down my cheek. I wiped it off with the back of my hand, but I could feel others waiting to take its place. I wished I could tell everyone that I wasn’t crying because of them, but instead I looked down at my desk and watched as a second tear plopped down onto its varnished surfaced. I smudged it away with my finger. Another one fell onto Thand’s message, but I didn’t try and brush that away. Instead I watched as the R and I in ‘grind’ swelled and bled on the page.

  I almost jumped out of my skin when I felt a tap on the back of my shoulder. It was Dreadlock Guy – Thabo, the teacher had called him. ‘Here,’ he whispered, handing me a box of matches. I smiled gratefully and took them out of his hand. ‘First days suck,’ he said.

  ‘You got that right,’ I replied, hastily wiping my wet cheeks, and hoping he wouldn’t think I was lame for crying.

  The first match died, but the second caught and the lamp in front of me flickered and glowed. Someone had etched Everything’s better with zombies – NOT into the wood of my desk, and this made me smile.

  I passed the matches back to Thabo. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No worries,’ he said, smiling lopsidedly at me and winking. He was cute. Very cute. High cheekbones, dark eyes, awesome hair. He was wearing an old army greatcoat over a washed-out T-shirt, but he somehow made the outfit look cool. I could feel blood rushing into my cheeks.

  He leaned back in his chair, and I turned to face the front. Somehow the fact that the lamp was lit on my desk made me feel better – more connected to everyone – and the tears finally dried up.

  While the other students scratched away with their pencils, I glanced around me. With the exception of Zit Face next to me, none of them wore the regulation uniform. Most appeared to be wearing denim or canvas jackets that could only have come from before the War. A couple of the girls had brightly coloured plastic beads around their necks, and s
ome even had sparkly clips and slides stuck into their hair. I’d never seen anything like it. And there I was in my itchy grey tunic, with my agricultural enclave anti-lice haircut and my mother’s boots. I couldn’t have stood out more if I’d tried.

  Not knowing what else to do, I flipped to one of the few free pages in my battered sketchbook and started drawing. Sometimes I do this without actually knowing what the sketch will eventually be, and this time, as I shaded and cross-hatched lines over the page, a face began to emerge. It looked just like the Rotter I’d spied outside the gate: large, fathomless eye sockets, a dark space where the nose should be and the curve of a skinless jaw. Looking up I saw Zit Face watching me, an expression of disgust on his face.

  ‘We’ll continue after break,’ Comrade Xhati said. There was the clatter of chairs being pushed back, and everyone started streaming out of the door. Zit Face pushed past me, knocking his bag against my chair. He didn’t apologise.

  I hung back before following them out into the rain, down a narrow corridor and into a wide concreted rec area covered with a stretched tarpaulin and dotted with wooden tables and benches. Cliques of students of all ages were already gathered around the tables in the centre. I looked around for Thabo – the only person so far who’d seemed human – but couldn’t see him anywhere.

  I hesitated, not sure which table to head for. A couple of girls were pointedly staring at my boots, so I made an issue of glaring at them and headed for an empty bench in a corner, away from the main throng of students. The rain was beating a tattoo on the canvas above me, and a fine mist blew through the edge of the covering, but I didn’t care about getting damp. I was just grateful not to be the centre of attention. Sitting down, I pulled out the roti Dad had made for me that morning. I wasn’t in the slightest bit hungry, but I picked at it for something to do while I checked out the kids around me.

  For Rotter-lovers, they really knew how to dress, and now that I could see them in the daylight it was clear that everyone was wearing at least something – even if it was just an accessory – from before the War. My eye kept being drawn to one guy in particular. He wore bright blue jeans that weren’t even slightly faded and he’d pinned guineafowl feathers to the lapel of his denim jacket. His straightened black hair was tied into three bunches at the back of his head, and he was surrounded by a group of girls. Every time one of them spoke, they glanced at him as if seeking approval.