by S. K. Falls
"This way." The Rad picks his way through the mess to the back of the yard, and we quietly follow him, watching the ground so we don't fall.
After we've walked a few minutes, he kneels before some bushes and with a little bit of pulling and yanking, moves a part of them to one side. I can't see it, but there must be a trapdoor there of some kind because he knocks out a pattern on what sounds like hollow wood. One tap, three taps, one tap.
The door gapes a little as if it has been pushed from the underside, but I can't see who’s there. When they see the Rad, they open it wider.
"They're here," he says, gesturing to us. Then, turning to face our group: "Come on, then. Go down the steps; be careful."
I peer into the hollow and see a dim light, as if from a lantern. I'm first in line, but I turn to Ceres and have her go before me. I go next, with Sara and Alexander behind me. Lucas comes through after her and Shale is last. He murmurs something to the Rad who drove us here, and then the trapdoor closes behind him. I wait to look around once we are all at the bottom, safe for the moment.
There are no more than a dozen other New Amanians here; men, women, and children, Nukeheads and Rads mixed together. Half of them are curled on blankets, asleep, but the three who are awake stare at us openly. They look dirty, as if they haven't washed in weeks. The smell is musty and cloying, and I feel nausea roll in my stomach. I press a hand to it.
A woman, her short hair tied back with a bandanna, nods at me in greeting. It's a questioning kind of nod, her eyes shrewd as she watches my expression. She wants to see what kind of person I am, whether she can trust me or not. I can appreciate this—I'm wondering the same about her and everyone else here.
"Hello," I say. "I'm—" And then I realize I cannot tell her my name. If I do, and she's captured, she could betray me under torture. I close my mouth, unsure of what to say.
The woman seems to understand my dilemma. "We don't use names here," she says, a small smile on her face. "Nameless is safer, isn't it?"
Nameless. I like the thought of that. It's like being invisible, maybe even like not existing. A nameless person is someone without a past or a future. A nameless person is nothing. I nod.
The woman leads Sara, Ceres, and me to the back of the cellar, where a curtain provides a small, private space, lit by the flickering yellow lights of the lantern. Handing us stacks of gray wool pants and tunics, she says, "You must be cold. After you change, I'll show you where we keep the food."
Shale and Lucas are led to another sectioned-off area by a man, who presumably tells them the same.
I hold Alexander so Sara can take her turn changing. He doesn’t even stir; the concoction the Rads gave him is obviously still coursing through him.
Once we are all dressed in our new attire, the scratchy dryness of the wool inexplicably comforting, Sara, Ceres, and I go out to the main area. The woman picks up a softly-hissing lantern and leads us to the shelves at the back, lining the stone walls of the cellar.
There is canned food here, lots and lots of it. My eyes widen at the sight, at the decadence of having so much food on display, as if it is nothing.
"Quite different than New Amana," the woman says, watching me.
I shake my head slowly. "I'd heard stories of the abundance of resources here, but...seeing it is something else entirely."
Sara kisses the top of Alexander's sleeping head. Though she could lay him down, she doesn't seem to be able to let go of him just yet, as if to reassure herself he’s really here, and safe. I understand. It’s a miracle we’ve all made it this far.
After we've had a brief tour of the cellar and its facilities, we sit in a small circle, those of us who've come off the ship and the woman and two men who were awake when we came in. I put my jacket back on; it is freezing in spite of my wool clothes and the blanket I've been given. Ceres does the same. Lucas is watching her—has been for some time now—but her eyes stay on the lantern’s flame. There is no smile for him, no sidelong glances as they had been exchanging occasionally on the ship.
I don't allow myself to get worried that she is slipping away from me, retreating into that space where she didn’t even respond to people at all. She was like that only three short weeks ago, when I found her at the New Amanian refugee camp. But I don’t allow myself to worry about that because if I start, I may never stop. The important thing is that we got off the ship. Once we're more settled, I will think about other things.
"How long does it take them to get immigrants an ID?" Shale asks one of the nameless fugitive immigrants.
The man’s curly hair is long and unkempt, and his facial hair is overgrown. He looks a bit like a bear to me. "Anywhere from a few days to a few weeks," he answers. "Depends on supply."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
The man looks at Ceres and Lucas and back at me. After a brief pause, he says, "When immigrants die, their IDs go to a central facility. The Rads pilfer them to be recycled."
I digest this; something about what he has said resonates deep within me. Finally, I realize what it is. "Do immigrants die often?"
The man looks down at the lantern, the reflection of the flames dancing in his soft brown eyes. "It's hard work, from what I hear. And we're not the healthiest lot when we arrive, are we?"
I take a deep breath and look around the cellar. A small white clock hangs on one wall, its thin hands keeping track of each moment. I hope I don’t have to be here long. I think I will go mad with the smell and the lack of light and the lack of space. It seems such a far jump from the cool sea breeze of the ship to this, a musty, dank cellar.
But I have been through worse. This is only a small hurdle on the path to keeping my family safe. I don’t know yet where this path leads us. I am desperate to find a place where we will be safe from capture, and where Ceres and I will never have to be apart. I study Shale, his strong jaw, his serious expression. I don’t want to be apart from him either. But I don’t know what he wants. We may be together now, but we have never been farther apart.
◊ ◊ ◊
When Ceres begins to droop, the woman takes us to an unused corner of the cellar and points to a roll of bedclothes. "Those are yours. Arrange them in whatever order you'd like. This corner is for the lot of you."
"Thank you." I smile at her kindness, wondering who showed her the way when she was new.
She picks up her lantern and recedes into a far corner. I’m curious about her story, but I know better than to ask.
Ceres falls asleep and only Shale and I are left awake, curled up on our bedrolls. When he groans softly and stands, I look up. I've been lying beside Ceres, stroking her hair, reveling in the feeling, the presence of her under my hand. Wincing, Shale pulls off his tunic. His bandages are still damp, clinging to his wounds. They're a pale brownish-orange; he must be bleeding. He attempts to peel them off, but is unable to twist his body enough to do it.
I have a sudden memory of him standing at the door of a bus, like a bright flare against ink-black sky. We’d been on a mission together, a mission to free the children in the Toronto Asylum. When our bus had been ambushed by men with guns, Shale stepped between me and death without hesitation. He told me to run, to protect myself and our baby. I’d been convinced that he’d died for me until I saw him on the ship to China. But he refused to speak of it whenever I brought it up, as if the memory itself was too painful a wound to plumb.
Now, I stand and walk to him. "Let me." I'm careful to keep my eyes on his bandages, though they want to creep along his torso, to take in the smooth muscles of his stomach and chest. I remember the feeling of his skin, the smell of it warm and musky and sweet all at once.
Swallowing, I remind myself to keep my mind on my task. This is not a time for memories. I peel the first roll of bandages off him and grimace at the sight of the wounds they kept hidden—two small gaping circles oozing blood. And this isn’t even the last of his wounds. Underneath the second roll of bandages are more bullet holes, though I am not sure how many.
"I need to clean them." I am careful to keep my voice low so I don't disturb the others.
Shale doesn't look at me when he speaks. His eyes are on the floor, a distance away from where I stand. "I don't want to bother you. I'm sure I can manage myself." He looks ashamed, but I don't understand the why. I let my hands drop, stung by the coolness of his voice. Perhaps we are nothing to each other now that we aren't in New Amana. Perhaps what he felt for me was dependent on our circumstances, on us needing each other to fulfill our personal missions. Perhaps his wounds remind him that I left him when he was attacked. But this is all conjecture—the reason behind his change of heart eludes me. I don’t know what a relationship between a man and a woman is supposed to be like; maybe this is just how it ends up.
I watch as he walks to the shelves in the back of the cellar and gathers wash rags, a container, and some water from a drum. He comes back with his supplies and sets them on the floor. Sinking to the floor awkwardly, he wets the rags, his face twisted in pain. His wounds begin to bleed heavier.
"Stop," I mutter, going over to him. I cannot watch him hurt himself this way simply because he doesn't want me touching him. But no matter how confused I am about his feelings, I'm still grateful to him for showing me the way to my sister. I'm grateful, and I want to pay him back. "You can't do this yourself."
He surrenders, exhaling from the pain of having contorted his body to reach the bullet holes. "Thank you."
I peel the second row of bandages from around his middle. There is a single gunshot wound under them. It is a darker red than the others, but it is not bleeding. Wetting a washrag, I place it tenderly against his first wounds. He sucks in a breath and I still, afraid I've hurt him. "I'm sorry. It's going to sting while I clean it out."
I look up at him, my face close to his, but he keeps his gaze trained over my head. "It's all right."
I finish undressing him, my heart sinking slowly at the way he refuses to look at me. I'm not sure why I feel this way; I'm not sure why I feel as though I want to feel his mouth on mine and cry at the same time. It maddens me. When I'm finished, I gather the soiled washrags and the container of water that is now tinged pink with Shale's blood. “We’re all done.”
His voice is a breath in the air as he says, "I'm sorry. I’m sorry I abandoned you."
Startled, I look up at him, but he's already moving away to his sheet on the cold cellar floor. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. Those maddening, opposing desires to cry and hold him against me swell until they crush the very breath from my lungs. Abandoned me? He thinks he abandoned me? That’s absolutely ludicrous. How can he believe that, after all he did?
But he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. On his bedroll, Shale's eyes close and his chest begins to even out as he tumbles into sleep. I put away the washrags and lie down on my sheet, my mind crammed full with feelings I can't untangle.
CHAPTER SIX
I startle awake some time later, unaware of how long I've been asleep or what time of day it is. My nose prickles with unfamiliar scents—salty, meaty, sweet, all swirling together. It's dark in our corner of the cellar, and I realize that the lantern I had when I laid down has been moved. I scramble up, my mind like cotton, feeling for Ceres. She's not there. Something flutters against my face when I stand, and clutching at it, I swallow a scream. It's a piece of cloth, suspended from the ceiling. It's pulled back and I see Sara, backlit from the lanterns behind her.
"Are you all right?" she asks, peering at me in concern.
"Fine." I take a deep breath, one hand flying automatically to my stomach, as if my subconscious mind wants to make sure the baby's okay. "I just woke up and it was dark. Ceres..."
"She's out in the main area with us. We hung up a curtain so you could sleep unhindered. Looked like you could do with the rest." Sara smiles kindly.
My heart slows down and I let my hand return to my side. "Right. Thank you."
I follow her out to the main area of the cellar, where the others are huddled around a cluster of lanterns, wrapped in wool blankets. Ceres is bordered on one side by Shale and the other by Lucas. I sigh, feeling better seeing for myself that she's fine. Everyone's holding a plate piled with food and my stomach growls audibly . Shale smiles.
"Here." He hands me a plate from a stack. "Breakfast."
I pile my own plate with the food from cans that have been opened—pears and berries and even pancakes that have been made from canned powder—amazed at how much there is of everything. I glance at Shale, the memory of what he said last night still burned in my mind. But it's impossible to talk about that with everyone in earshot. Instead, I glance at the clock on the wall. "Ten a.m. I can’t believe I slept this late.”
"Looks like you needed it." Shale scoots closer to Ceres, leaving a conspicuous spot for me. I sit, even though his seemingly hot and cold behavior confuses me. I think again of his whispered apology. I want to speak to him about it, to ask him exactly what he meant, but there’s no telling when we’ll have a moment to ourselves next.
"Thank you for the food," I say to the lady who'd shown me around last night. "This is very generous."
"It's not me you should thank." She puts a forkful of potatoes into her mouth and chews slowly. "The Rads keep us well-supplied. There's nothing we've asked for that we haven't received since we arrived."
"Do they come often, to check on you?" I want to know when they'll be bringing us Chinese IDs. Surely by now they'll have more information on the ship's docking and what's going on with the search for us, the fugitives, when the Chinese officials saw that we'd jumped ship. I wonder, too, how Captain Jerome has fared. Whether they believed that he wasn't involved.
One of the men who was asleep when we came in last night answers. "Every couple of days," he says. "Whenever they can be sure they aren't being tracked. Another day or two and I’m hoping to be sent to a labor compound. Get out of here, see the sunlight. "
See the sunlight. I know what a potent lure that is when all the sunlight you've seen in your lifetime has been gray or very pale yellow, filtered through a haze of pollution and concrete-colored clouds. In New Amana, sunlight meant being outside, and being outside usually meant being pelted with acid rain or inhaling nuclear fallout that coated your lungs and clogged your throat.
I nod.
“Although,” the man continues, “I’m not looking forward to all the bullshit.” He raises his voice, mocking. “Righteous living.”
It used to be called communism in my grandmother's day, looked down upon by cultures who thought it was far too strict a dogma and revoked too many freedoms. After the Chinese won the War, they began enforcing new laws. They prefer the phrase "righteous living" for their rules and customs now.
From what I have heard, the rules of righteous living are much harsher and much stricter than what the nation was accused of before. New Amanians are only tools for them to use, cheap and disposable labor. But what other option do we have? Trying to eke out a living in a nation on the brink of death? Where each breath is poisoned, and each mouthful of food is smaller than the last?
◊ ◊ ◊
Later on, once the clock on the wall tells us night has fallen outside, I'm helping Sara dress Alexander after his washrag bath when I hear a familiar series of knocks—one-three-one—on the trapdoor to the cellar. Everyone stills; we hold our breath as one. The man opens the trapdoor an inch and then, when he sees who's on the other side, all the way.
A Rad climbs down, a different man than the one who'd brought us here last night. This one is much younger, his face marked faintly with scars. His nose is bulbous on the end, and he rubs it as if he's nervous.
"Good news," he says, a smile erupting on his face and disappearing just as quickly. His eyes jump from one person to the next. "We have IDs for all of you and vans to drive you to your compounds."
"What, tonight?" the man asks, his eyes widening.
"Yes," the young Rad replies. "Now. So take what you came with, but there's
no need to take food or water. They have plenty of that where you’re going."
I breathe out in silent relief. We have only been here one night. We are lucky, so lucky. The Rad hands everybody a plastic ID card, and I look down at mine. It has both Chinese and English lettering on it, proudly announcing my new name. I’m not nameless anymore.
Now I'm Kalliope Palmer, twenty six years old. The photograph from my New Amanian ID has been worked carefully into the new one where hers used to be. I wonder what happened to the real Kalliope. The fact that I am holding her ID now means she is dead. It also means she was a faithful New Amanian and abided by the laws as she was expected to. What would she think of her identity being used by someone like me, a fugitive, a Radical, the polar opposite of her? I imagine the ghost of a small, thin woman standing in the corner of the cellar, staring at me with hate in her black eyes, her mouth open in a cold, silent scream.
Ceres jolts me out of my reverie by showing me her ID. She is Daliya Martin, eighteen years old. Shale shows us his—he is Coal Pearson. Sara, Lucas, and Alexander too, are different people. All around us, the other fugitives are doing the same; examining their new IDs and their new names, their eyes bright with hope. I smile at Ceres in what I hope is a reassuring manner. This is the start of a new life.
After I slip the new ID into my pocket, we walk around, tidying up the cellar, folding sheets and blankets, leaving it as clean as it was when we were brought here. For the next people. I silently wish them luck and put one hand to a stone wall, as if I can leave an imprint of my fortune here for them to find.
We file out of the cellar under cover of night. The air is frigid; it hits us like an ice wall. I huddle close to Ceres, wrapping my arms around her bony shoulders. The moon is our beacon. It and the stars throw off enough light so we can easily pick our way through the junkyard to the waiting vans.
