by S. K. Falls
“Three vans, three different compounds.” The young Rad consults a slip of paper. “Kalliope, Daliya, and Coal are in van one.” He points to Sara, Alexander, Lucas, and one of the men from the other group next. “You four in van two. And the rest of you in van three.”
Sara and I turn to each other, and an inexplicable sadness grips me at the thought of having to say goodbye. I know it is for the best that we be separated now, our group broken up and made indistinguishable from the host of other immigrants. Still, the bond we’ve forged as a result of having walked through fire together is a strong one. Sara seems to feel the same way—her eyes glimmer with tears as her malformed mouth twists into a smile. "Take care," she says. "Your life is precious now that it counts for two."
“You too.” I lean over and kiss Alexander, who smiles coyly at me. “Be a big boy for your mother, Alexander.”
Beside me, Lucas gathers Ceres into a hug and then, letting go, he caresses Ceres’s cheek with the back of his hand. She closes her eyes. I feel a pang for the death of their budding relationship.
“Time to leave.” The Rad’s voice shatters their moment.
Sara, with one last squeeze of my hand, turns to go.
◊ ◊ ◊
Once again, we are hidden in the false floor of a van. The three of us ride in cramped silence, each lost in his or her own thoughts. As before, Shale is in front of me while Ceres is pressed against my back. I close my eyes, but sleep does not claim me like it did when we last traveled this way.
By the time the young Rad lifts the false floor of the van, my neck is stiff and my knees feel welded into the position I’ve been in for the past hour. Somehow I force myself to stand and stretch, my muscles and joints screaming against the sudden movement. I climb out, relishing the feel of the frigid breeze against my cheeks, and look around. Ceres puts her hand in mine, her eyes wide and curious.
We appear to be in a large bay, with boxes and crates stacked against the walls. There are various machines, the likes of which I have never seen, with prongs and giant wheels and electronic keyboards inside. Every sound here echoes off the concrete floor, as if to assert itself.
"You're in the supply depot," the Rad says, seeing our wonder-struck expressions. "You've been assigned to the agrarian sector, which is a low-security compound. The rules aren’t as stringent as some of the other more high-tech sectors. You'll be assisting the indigenous farmers with their tasks. It's hard work, but the food is fresh and plentiful." He begins to walk toward a door in the back, and we follow him.
The food is fresh and plentiful.
I squeeze Ceres's hand, painful hope wrapping around my heart. It still thrills me to the core, hearing those words, spoken so nonchalantly. For Ceres and me, this means so much. Everyone in New Amana is thin and malnourished, but the children in the Asylums are especially so. Her eyes are much too big for her face, her jaw is tiny for her size, and she is all elbows and knees. I can’t yet know the permanent damage they’ve done to her, but knowing that she won’t have to worry about food ever again—it makes my heart sing.
The Rad opens yet another doorway and we emerge outdoors, the icy nighttime air frosting our skin once more. The moon is elusive tonight. Tall light posts in the distance illuminate orderly rows of one-story bunkers made of concrete the color of dust; they sprout from the frozen ground like teeth. Arranged loosely around them is a short cobblestone wall with an iron gate. In the darkness, and the compound appears deserted.
“This is where I leave you,” the Rad says.
I turn to him, frowning. “Leave us? But who’s to escort us in?”
“Look who we have here! If it isn’t the miracle survivor himself.”
We turn at the jovial voice drifting toward us. A figure approaches in the darkness, squat and sturdy. As he gets closer, I see it’s a man with an easy smile that his crooked brown teeth do not diminish.
Beside me, Shale gasps and steps forward. “Trigger?”
Trigger’s smile grows wider. “Thanks,” he says to the parting Rad. Then he claps his hands on Shale’s upper arms. “You look healthy.”
Shale grins. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Ship brought me a few weeks ago.” He turns to me. “Are you who I think you are?”
Shale clears his throat, and I see a warning pass from between them. I don’t understand it. “This is Vika,” he says softly. Then, looking at me, “Don’t worry. Trigger already knows who you are, which is why I’m using your real name. We can trust Trigger. He and I knew each other back home.”
Trigger—I wonder briefly at his unusual name—takes my hand and gives it several enthusiastic shakes. His palm is warm and calloused, as if he isn’t afraid of hard work. I decide I like him. “Welcome to China. Now let me show you to your luxury accommodations. They used to be military bunkers—called wopung here—and now they’ve been modified to be livable.” He gestures expansively toward the bunkers, the wopung, in the distance. We begin to trek toward them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I keep swiveling my head as we walk, taking in as much as I am able to in the dark of night. We are bordered by vegetation on all sides, though a lot of it is bare owing to the season. The thin, spindly branches of the trees and bushes remind me of pointing fingers, accusing, aware.
“We are in the Yangtze province,” Trigger says softly as he leads us forward. “The Yangtze river is not too far away. You can see even if you escape on foot, you wouldn’t get too far, yeah? Brutal, ‘specially in the winter. No food grows out in the jungle this time of year.” That explains, at least partly, why it’s a low-security compound. “The main crop grown on this sector is rice, but in the winter they flood the paddy fields and farm winter beans and fish. Hell of a job, but keeps us fed. That’s what you ladies will most likely be assigned to do. Shale will prob’ly have to help build the compound wall. They want to make it taller, and the Chinese think hard, physical labor is a good way to learn the art of righteous living.” He grunts, as if he disagrees. “Anyway, it’s important that you finish the task you’re given at the end of your shift every night. They don’t like slow-pokes.” He winks at Ceres, but she doesn’t respond.
As we continue to walk, I look over my shoulder at Shale, wondering how he will manage the heavy physical labor, being wounded the way he is. But the determined set of his jaw, the resolute glint in his eyes—those don’t escape me. He will find a way. And I know I will, too.
“Do we have access to doctors?” I ask, glancing at Ceres. It has been one of the topmost concerns on my mind—getting her quality medical care to begin to repair what damage was done in the Asylum.
Trigger shakes his head. “Some compounds have Monitors who are more reasonable than others...here, I’m afraid to say, they seem like a bunch of government drones.”
My heart sinks, but I rally. It’s all right. We don’t plan on staying here too long anyway. “When should we move on?” I ask Trigger. “How long do you think it will take New Amana and China to catch up to us here?”
“I haven’t been able to find that out yet, but we’re workin’ on it. Just a matter of listenin’ to the radio signals for some advance warning. I’d estimate two to three weeks, with all they’re dealing with over there.”
I nod, a bit relieved. Two or three weeks to catch our breath doesn’t seem too unreasonable. Then we can move on to somewhere safer and, hopefully, more permanent.
Finally, when my hands are so cold that I cannot feel my fingertips anymore, we arrive at the large iron gate bordering the wopung. From so close, I see that each of them has a number painted on the front.
A movement catches my eye; a short Chinese man stands just inside the gate, hitting his open palm with the large stick he holds in his other hand. In his dark uniform, cloaked by shadows, he was invisible to me until now. Trigger’s tone is easy as he says, “New immigrants coming through.”
The Chinese man responds in a thick accent. “IDs.” We all hand over our new IDs. The man c
hecks them, then hands them back and marks something on a form he produces from his pocket. Then he unlocks the gate. “Jìnrù. Enter.”
We file through after Trigger. I examine the profile of the muscular guard, but he keeps his eyes trained outside the gate, as if we are invisible, as if he can’t see us at all.
The gate swings shut and I hear him lock it behind us. We are in.
"Monitor Aiguo is one of our allies on this compound,” Trigger says once we are out of hearing distance. “But I imagine his allegiance will only last as long as the free drugs and alcohol we get him and his comrades.” He shrugs. “At least the black market here is much better stocked than le marché noir back home.”
Suddenly, Trigger’s posture stiffens and his expression turns guarded. I follow his eyes and see a man, about forty years old, dressed in a navy blue uniform. A wooden baton hangs from his belt. Though he stands motionlessly at the front of the row of wopung, there is a tense, fevered energy just beneath the surface. When he sees that we’ve noticed him, he starts forward, his footsteps bounding as if he can’t contain his eagerness to meet us. Addressing Trigger, he says in a thick Chinese accent, “Go home. Turn on your TV. Time for Book of Laws.”
“Yes, sir.” Trigger bows his head and with one sidelong glance at Shale, scurries off.
The man turns his fervent gaze to us. One of his hands grips the top of his wooden baton. He is much shorter than Shale, but he leans in, looking up with eyes that blaze like black fire. When he grins, intense dislike for him churns in my stomach. “I am Monitor Wang. Welcome to Great Land—greatest nation in world. You are lucky. You learn art of righteous living; you are saved. Your life is changed!” Flecks of spittle fly from his mouth as he speaks. Shale’s face remains impassive as he looks down on the older man. “Don’t worry, I teach you.” His grin never wavers, and I wonder what he means. “Now, you get housing according to availability.” He points to Shale. "You. Number twenty-eight." Next, he points to Ceres and me. "You two share number twenty-four. Wopung stocked with food and laundry. Clean your own laundry. Food handed out every new moon. Not like New Amana. China have plenty!” He looks from Shale to me and back again. “Any questions?"
We shake our heads. All I want to do is get away from him and his zealous patriotism to the relative safety of our wopung.
He continues, seemingly oblivious to my discomfort. "When morning song plays, assemble outside with rest of New Amanians for the start of righteous day. Glory be to Great Land!" And with that, he rushes off.
I look around at the orderly wopung, crouched low to the ground as if in fear of a stalking hunter. Their single windows are lit from within, but the light seems empty, without warmth.
The one closest to us is number fifty-two. They seem to descend as they go forward, so we begin to walk quickly, our shoes digging into the packed-dirt ground. Our bodies cast long shadows in the streetlamps, a trio of dark, faceless figures invading the compound. Beside the whispering wind and our shuffled footsteps, there is absolute stillness.
Ahead, I see a willowy, tall Chinese woman speaking with a young Chinese man. They are dressed like Monitor Wang was, in dark blue jackets and pants. Thick wooden sticks hang from their belts. They must be Monitors.
“It’s best if we go our separate ways for tonight,” Shale says softly. “We don’t want to attract any unwanted attention. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
“All right.” I can’t tear my eyes off the Monitors, though they haven’t noticed us yet.
Shale forks away from us to go on to his wopung while Ceres and I continue forward. The Monitors are deep in their conversation and do not look our way. I breathe a sigh of relief when we turn and are no longer in their line of sight. Something about the Monitors disturbs me on a deeply personal level, though I can’t yet put my finger on it.
Our wopung has the number 24 painted on in a dark red hue by the lone window. I wonder if the color was originally meant to infuse warmth. Now, in its peeling, dirty state, the effect is anything but.
The door doesn't have a lock, and yawns open at the slightest push of my hand. The inside is neat and smells of citrus and cleaner. There are two knotted rope cots with thin mattresses on top, a small kitchen, a bathroom, and a tiny main area with a small television set. A laminated note taped to it says: Turns on nightly at 8 p.m. The small green clock on the wall says it’s thirty past. We’ve managed to miss the programming for one night.
I open up the closet, riffle through the gray wool tunics and pants in there. When Ceres walks up to me, I put my arm around her thin shoulders. "I think this will be good for us. It’s a new beginning.”
We change into a pair of clean, but clearly not new, wool pajamas that we pull from the closets, and wash our hands and faces. Then we sit on our cots, facing each other. We are only a few feet apart in this small house, the only light coming from a small oil lamp next to me. I watch my sister, her big golden eyes darting from one shadowed corner to another. She looks impossibly small, impossibly frail. A wave of weariness washes over me again at the thought of having to keep her safe in this strange land. In New Amana the dangers were ghastly, but they were familiar. How do you keep ahead of something you don't know?
"It'll be okay, Ceres." My words fall flat; I fail to convince even myself. "You know that, don't you?"
Her eyes catch mine, then jerk away as she continues to survey the space, looking for unseen threats.
"I'm going to keep you safe," I say with a conviction I’m fighting to feel. "And Shale's going to keep you safe."
I turn off the lamp and we lie in the darkness, the scratchy rope strings of the cot digging through the flimsy mattress and into my back. I command my heart to slow down, to cease its erratic jumping. Tomorrow—I don't know what tomorrow will bring. Or when we will have to pick up and move once again. For now, in the black darkness of tonight, I can fool myself into believing nothing has changed. That we are still at sea, sleeping peacefully, waiting for sunrise.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When the music begins to blare, trumpets blaring, I'm fast asleep. I dream of moonlight glittering on blood and babies wrapped in seaweed crawling on the ocean floor. I startle awake, my mind struggling to orient itself to day and place. Sitting up, I realize it must now be morning. A quick peek through the window confirms it: the indigo sky is streaked with fingers of pink.
Ceres sits up, scrubbing her eyes with her fists. "Vikki?" Her voice is husky with sleep.
"It's okay." I speak loudly over the din coming from a speaker mounted to our wall that I hadn't noticed last night. "It must be how they wake us up. Let's get dressed and eat."
We are in the midst of eating our breakfast of beans—warmed over the small gas stove—when the music stops. The silence is profound, and after the assault of the fast-paced notes, it crushes against my eardrums. A long pause, then a man's voice comes on. By the way it wavers, I imagine that he is quite old. He speaks in Chinese, the words unintelligible to me. But then he begins to speak in English, as if he is translating what he said for those of us from New Amana.
"It is five-fifteen a.m. on December 12th, 2078 in the Great Land. Prepare for a day of hard work so you may serve the Great Land as it serves you. Formation in the courtyard will begin at five-thirty a.m. May your day of service be fruitful."
And the music begins to blare once more.
◊ ◊ ◊
We don our wool jackets and step outside. The air is icy and redolent of a freshness I have never smelled, not even on the clearest mornings in New Amana. I inhale deeply, marveling at how my lungs expand, so differently from before, in my home country’s polluted air. I can’t help but check for fallout, my eyes sweeping back and forth looking for the telltale black particles. But they aren’t there. I feel my blood, rich with nearly-untainted oxygen, pumping to all the muscles in my body. My stomach is full of food and milk; I've never felt this much energy coursing through me before.
New Amanians stream by our wopung, talking softly with
each other. I reach out and squeeze Ceres's arm, thankful to be here, safe in this moment. She smiles at me. It’s a small smile, but it’s there.
We join the swarm of people heading to the courtyard, and a few feet from our wopung, Shale joins up with us. As we walk in the throng of people, I feel the heat of his hand on my lower back. He speaks softly in my ear. "How did you sleep?"
My heart begins to race at the weight of his words against my hair, the warm breath from his mouth against my cold skin. I blink, trying to dispel the feeling.
"Well," I reply, meeting his eyes only for a moment. In the emerging sunlight, they look dusted with gold.
We walk on with the group for a little while longer. The sun is brighter now, and I see the compound is much bigger than I had thought last night. There are small shops at the front of it that sell food and medicine, where we can spend our meager wages. We pass by a cobbler's and a tailor’s small, dark storefronts. The Chinese shopkeepers—two men and one woman—come out to stand in front of their shops, staring at us with ink-black eyes as we walk by. I feel the cold disapproval in their gazes and remember what I’d heard in New Amana: that the Chinese view us as second-class citizens.
As the people at the front of the group begin to take their places in the courtyard, I wait my turn and wonder when I will have the opportunity to inquire about medical care. I would like Ceres to be examined as soon as possible. In spite of what Trigger told us, I’m hopeful.
Then it is my turn to enter the courtyard. Twenty meters long, it is made of tightly-packed dirt nearly frozen this winter’s dawn. In the center is a large flagpole from which the flag of China, a single blue star on a black background, flaps in the chilly air. At the very top of the flagpole is a speaker. Someone has set up a large chalkboard by the flagpole, but there is nothing written on it. There's a sort of tense anticipation in the air, the flapping of the flag punctuating our wait.
