by Joe Hart
Zoey eyes the weapons and wonders what it would be like to be beaten with one of them, to be shocked. She’s seen it only a handful of times. Once, when a worker seemingly lost his mind and had stripped a guard of his prod, screaming incoherent threats and obscenities. Four other guards had surrounded him, diving in at once, their prods blazing white electricity. The worker hadn’t even been able to scream, he simply stiffened, his mouth opening, and she had seen pale fire jumping from tooth to tooth within.
They wait outside the assembly, the women all in their identical gray dresses, their Clerics beside them, the Clerics’ sons standing in another group. The boys are all close in age, some tall, some short, some with cocky grins and looks to boot, all wearing pale blue shirts over dark pants. Zoey finds Lee in their midst and he winks, barely keeping his smile in check. She frowns and looks away.
The sound of booted feet come from the far end of the corridor, and her heart nearly stops.
Reaper and six Redeyes march toward them. Their uniforms are black with matching boots polished to dark mirrors. In their hands they carry short, powerful-looking machine guns. They walk in time to a pace set by their leader. Reaper is a head taller than almost all the other soldiers. He is broad across the shoulders with a growth of dark hair cut close to his skull. A long scar slices through his hairline, streaking down in an ugly, rippling mass to the mask he wears on his lower face. The black fabric covers his nose, mouth, and jaw. Two straps run from it around the back of his skull to hold it in place.
The gathering of people in the hall splits like water as the men near. The Clerics stand at attention while the women press themselves to the wall. Zoey is no exception. She tells herself she won’t look as they move by, knowing what she will see, but in the end she can’t help herself. She glances up as Reaper passes.
He is looking directly at her.
His eyes are nearly colorless in the artificial light. The slightest shade of gray tinges them with a frigid clarity of complete inhumanity. There is no emotion in them. They have been burned cold.
Zoey shudders and looks away until they pass, the sound of their boots fading to nothing. It is only minutes before the sound of helicopter rotors rise somewhere above them. Even through the thick layers of concrete the motor’s voices are clear.
“Must’ve got a tip on a baby girl,” Meeka whispers.
“They’ve never brought one back since Lily,” Zoey says.
“Doesn’t mean they’re going to quit looking.”
A bleep comes from the intercom, and Assistant Carter’s weak voice slithers after it.
“You may enter.”
There is a click, and the double doors before them unlock.
The assembly is a circular room with tiered seating. It is meant, like so many other places in the ARC, to hold vast crowds. But there is only the short filing of people that fill the bottommost rows, their numbers barely rising past sixty. The women move to the very first row that sits below a platform where a podium has been placed. A banner emblazoned with the NOA seal, a wreath of red flames surrounding the dark acronym, hangs from the podium’s front. A larger banner extends from the ceiling. To the far right is a set of doors that Zoey knows lead to the infirmary. She’s looked at them from the opposite side before when having her monthly checkup. She imagines the other set of doors on the far side of the infirmary, the ones that are solid steel, always locked, a guard permanently stationed beside them.
She swallows the lump in her throat.
Everyone takes their seats and the auditorium quiets. Without flourish, the doors to the infirmary open and a pair of doctors, garbed in their white scrubs, take positions on either side of the entry. Assistant Carter is next.
He is a direct representation of his voice.
Carter is in his late thirties with shining hair slicked tight against his oblong skull. His nose is long and pointed, nearly hooked at the end above two bright red lips. He is thin and swims in his three-piece suit, the only thing she’s ever seen him dressed in. The ridiculous yellow tie he wears hangs almost to his belt. His eyes flow over the women first, and a sneer that Zoey supposes is his best smile crawls onto his face. He moves to the edge of the low stage and waits, rubbing his palms together as if he’s touched something wet and is drying them, or enjoying the feel of the moistness.
Two guards appear in the doorway a second later, followed by the Director himself.
He is a tall man, well built, with stately, iron-gray hair raked back from a wide brow. His face is ruddy, akin to the snipers’ visages she’s seen, as if he spends most of his time outside in the wind rather than within the walls. His eyes are a crisp blue, so sharp and piercing they remind her of pinpoints. The Director walks with a casual air to the stage and gives them all a smile as he takes his place behind the microphone. Up close, he appears younger rather than older, his healthy color glowing beneath the powerful lights.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” the Director says into the small microphone growing from the podium. “Thank you all for coming.”
“As if we had a choice,” Meeka breathes out of the side of her mouth. Zoey bites the inside of her lip.
The Director seems to pause to collect his thoughts. His bright eyes focus on the podium top before he gazes out at them. “The Phoenix is a mythical creature from Greek lore often portrayed as a fiery and noble bird. It is said the Phoenix could live thousands of years before succumbing to death, and typically it died and was reborn through fire. The sentiment is not uncommon. The idea of a second chance, of rebirth, of renewing one’s hopes and dreams. One could say it is our destiny, our fate within the human condition to always hold onto hope of redemption even if it is the last thread that connects us to life.”
The Director pauses, scanning the faces of the women. Zoey looks past him when his eyes stop on her, letting her gaze rest on the blankness of the wall behind him. Someone coughs quietly. “You women are that thread. You are our hope for rebuilding the world that once was. The world itself, you see, was a Phoenix. For millions of years mankind built upon the bones of his ancestors, toiling away for a better future. The fire of industry burned bright, and we reveled in our discoveries. You’ve seen in your texts that man has stepped upon the moon. As unbelievable as that may be, it’s true. There were countless honorable endeavors created in the minds of geniuses that alas, will never be.”
The Director’s face darkens, and Zoey wonders where he learned this showmanship. She’s read the definition of a politician, and if there is one left in the world, he’s standing before her now.
“Because we were struck down as one by a virus of most vile design, whether it is natural or manmade, we do not know. In the beginning it did not take our lives firsthand, but in the darkness of women’s bodies, it did its horrid work. It undermined the very fabric of life, its effects robbing the world of procreation by burning out the possibility of female existence. And so, when all seemed lost and we were at our final thread, the brave scientists and researchers of NOA, who dedicated their lives to the betterment of our species, held onto that last hope. That hope was planted here within this Advance Research Compound as a seed that they dreamed would one day grow into new life. And that is why we are gathered here today.”
The Director looks down, waiting for the applause he knows will come, and it does. Zoey hears a clapping much louder than the rest and turns her head to see Miss Gwen on her feet, lower lip trembling, palms flaming red from her effort. The Director lets it roll over him for a moment before holding up a hand.
“The safe zone built outside the walls is becoming more so each day. Soon all of you will travel there and life will begin anew. Hope will be restored not by governments or by battles, but by all of the brave young women I see before me, along with the one who is about to join us.”
The Director raises a hand, gesturing to the entrance that they’d come through earlier, and Terra is there with Abe. She wears a flowing white gown studded with reflective points that glitter in
the light, making her appear as if she is emanating some of the glow within the room. Her hair is swept back from her brow, and she is smiling, eyes already wet with tears of joy.
The crowd begins to applaud, but Zoey can’t muster the energy. She watches Terra approach the podium, her gown swishing along the floor, trailing behind her like a comet’s tail. Terra reaches the Director and he embraces her lightly, whispering something in her ear. She lets out a quiet sob that doesn’t rise above the continued applause and nods. The Director motions for silence, and the clapping fades away.
“Today, Terra will leave you behind—friends who’ve been here since birth. But this is not the end. Such is the nature of a Phoenix. Today may seem to be ash for some, but know that with our continued effort and unified bond, we will rise again and see a future steeped in glory.”
The Director takes a step back from the microphone and holds out his hands toward Terra, palms up, as if to display her. Terra, still crying, makes a small bow, sweeping her gaze across the other women. She smiles at them through her tears. Zoey feels a prickling behind her eyes but blinks rapidly before Terra looks at her. She simply stares up at her friend, knowing what Terra wants, but gives her not the slightest smile of approval. Terra hesitates as the Director begins to usher her away, her eyes locked on Zoey. There is a flicker of something there in her expression. Doubt? Zoey holds her gaze as long as she can, but finally the Director leads Terra away.
There is a last swish of white fabric, and then Terra is through the double doors of the infirmary, applause still clouding the air like gunfire.
They file out of the assembly into the hall, the women first and then the rest of the crowd. Miss Gwen is crying, and Zoey has to grip the fabric of her dress with balled fists to keep her hands from flying to the older woman’s throat. Simon walks beside her and pauses in the hallway, tilting his head back toward the assembly where the weasel-form of Carter is standing beside the doors.
“I have to speak to Assistant Carter. Wait here for me, okay?”
“Okay.”
Simon walks away, his normally fluid stride somewhat stilted as he approaches Carter. She wonders if Simon dislikes the man as much as she does. There’s a poke to her ribs and she grunts as Meeka steps from behind her.
“Quite the show, huh?”
Zoey nods. “Always is.”
Meeka stiffens and turns a little to one side. “I was hoping he wouldn’t be here today.”
“Who?” Zoey asks, scanning the crowd that is slowly moving off in their separate directions, the excitement of the ceremony over.
“Dellert and his crony over there by the wall.”
Zoey glances to her left and sees the young guard at once. He leans against the concrete as if he’s holding it in place, his hands clasped before him, one long leg crossed over the other. Dellert Crosby is perhaps four years their senior, with short, dark hair and a moon of a face below it. The roundness of his head is incongruent with the rest of his gangly body and sits atop it like a melon perched on a stake. There is a shadow of a mustache above his heavy upper lip, and the collar of his uniform is undone, a few straggly chest hairs peeking from the gap. His brown eyes flick from Meeka to Zoey, his gaze lurid and slow as he runs it down her length, focusing on the exposed skin of her calves. His tongue appears and flicks once at the corner of his mouth. He seems utterly oblivious to the other workers and guards that clutter the hall and flow through the space separating them. Zoey thinks she sees him mouth a word but can’t be sure. Her skin crawls.
“God, what a sicko,” Meeka says, shooting a look in Dellert’s direction. “And Baron’s following right in his footsteps.”
Zoey throws a glance at the younger guard beside Dellert. Baron Garrison is smiling, his boyish good looks giving way to the handsome shadow of manhood that he’ll enter into soon. His blond hair is a shock of gold that hangs at an angle off the top of his head. His eyes dance across her face and he snickers a little, saying something low to Dellert, who acts like he hasn’t heard.
Zoey turns and takes a few steps down the hall, pulling Meeka with her. “Don’t look at them,” she says as they walk, Thomas falling in behind them several strides back.
“They’re really pushing it. It only takes one wrong person to see them looking at us like that,” Meeka says.
“I guess Dellert’s forgotten whatever punishment they doled out to him after he touched Halie.”
“Looks like it.”
“You think they threw him in the box?”
Meeka shakes her head. “They’ve got other ways of dealing with the guards who step out of line.”
“Well, whatever it was, I think it’s worn off. He’s so disgusting.”
“We can’t all have guys like Lee swooning over us.”
“Meeka,” Zoey hisses, swiveling her eyes around. “Lee doesn’t swoon.”
“Mmmhmm. Right.”
“Zoey, you need to wait for Cleric Asher,” Thomas says. “And Meeka, you need to change and get to the supply room. Your shift’s about to start.”
“I know what time it is, Thomas, thanks,” Meeka says, rolling her eyes in her usual way to Zoey. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Sure.” Zoey watches Meeka and Thomas move away as she runs through the Director’s words. There is always a speech at an induction, something supposed to be moving, inspiring, uplifting, but the words have always been like a hazy gauze wrapped around something amorphous and dark. It has become more apparent in the last several years as she’s watched woman after woman, friend after friend whom she’s known since birth, disappear behind those doors.
Never to be seen again.
Footsteps coming closer snap her from her thoughts. Dellert and Baron are approaching, and the hallway seems to shrink. There isn’t enough space to let them pass comfortably. Dellert looms closer and closer, his height more pronounced the nearer he comes. His lip twitches in a smile, the thin mustache wriggling like some poisonous caterpillar. The fear is irrational—she knows he can’t touch her or do anything that his leering stare is suggesting—but it is there nonetheless. She feels the concrete behind her and realizes she’s pressed her back against it. She hates herself a little for it. Zoey can smell him now, an acrid tang of body odor mixed with the last tinges of vanilla that all the clothes are washed in. The scent makes her want to vomit.
“Pretty,” Dellert whispers as he passes in a rush of air. He doesn’t look back, but she hears Baron snicker, a low, furtive sound that could be passed off as a cough. She’s trembling and she grits her teeth as Simon steps out of the assembly, his head snapping around when she isn’t standing where he left her. He sees her, and she feels a rush of appreciation for him in that moment. He would kill for her, die for her. She knows this though it’s never been said. It’s simply his job, among other things that are less appealing.
When he nears her, he sees there’s something wrong. He stops a short distance away, eyes questioning. Are you okay?
Yes.
You’re sure?
Yes.
I don’t believe you.
I’m fine.
“Let’s go,” she says aloud. Simon nods slowly, and she leads the way down the hall.
Zoey changes clothes in her room quickly, tossing the dress onto the floor in an angry display of defiance that gives her a fleeting second of triumph before she concedes that she’ll be the one that will have to pick it up. But she leaves it there for now, crumpled and misshapen, something ugly. She grinds her heel on it as she leaves the room.
When Zoey steps from her room, the corridors are deserted save for Lily and Steven. Lily hurries toward her, her hitching gait and lopsided smile both raising and lowering Zoey’s mood at the same time. She grasps the girl’s hand.
“Ready to go to work, Lily?”
“Ayeah. Worr!” Lily says, and tries to dance ahead, but Zoey keeps a firm grip on her. They move down the halls until the stairway comes into view. Their Clerics talk in low voices behind them and o
nly catch up when they reach the first-floor entrance at the base of the stairs. Simon scans his bracelet and opens the steel door.
This level hums.
The walls seem to vibrate with the power of the machines that reside behind them. The mechanical room, on their left, is by far the largest area on the first floor. Zoey has been inside only a handful of times, always accompanied by Simon and a guard. There are motors twice as tall as she is hidden behind enormous casings. The air is constantly moving there, hot and sour with the smell of burning dust. Even the foam earplugs that can be retrieved from a station inside the door can’t block out all of the sound, the high whining and thrumming bass that froths the blood within her veins.
Zoey and Lily move on, the loudest area falling behind them. To the right is the sprawling exercise facility that the women are allowed to use on days when the weather is too inhospitable for walks outside. They can use the aerobic machines but aren’t permitted to touch the many free-weights or pieces of machine-weight apparatus. It’s because they don’t want us to be strong, Meeka told her once. Healthy, yes. Strong, no. Meeka always seems to voice Zoey’s own thoughts.
At the very end of the hallway two doors sit perpendicular to one another. The first, straight ahead, leads outside to the promenade. A guard stands beside it with his hand resting casually on the butt of his handgun. She can’t remember his name, but she gives him a quirked glance. She’s never seen a guard use a handgun. As far as she knows, it’s forbidden. That’s why they carry the prods. There’s something in his stance that tells her he hopes she tries to run for it. She grips Lily’s hand tighter and heads toward the other door.
It is set in the left wall and Zoey doesn’t wait for Simon to scan his bracelet—she simply flashes her own across the reader. This is the only other door in the facility that opens for her and Lily.
