Chase

by Kate Breuer

  Betsy nods without raising her eyes from her work. I’m sure she’ll be happy to work in peace for the rest of the day. A stack of finished pants sits neatly next to her. She has made a lot more progress than me today. I’m sure the foreman will notice, and I’ll have to hear all about it.

  We are told there are no quotas, and yet we get called into the office whenever we don’t meet them. They change for arbitrary reasons, and it’s basically impossible to please the foremen. Working hard is the only chance you have to stay out of trouble.

  I walk down the hallway of the office building that now serves as a factory. Each open door reveals women intent on their work. Some rooms are larger, with up to ten women working. Others are small, like the one Betsy and I share.

  A young woman in one of the rooms steals a glance at me as I pass but quickly returns her eyes to her work with a guilty expression. Curiosity is not a welcome trait in this city.

  After the dimly-lit factory, the sunlight outside blinds me, and I blink away the halos. The streets are deserted, as most jobs in the city don’t have flexible schedules, and people are still at work.

  The scheduling is one of the few advantages of being a seamstress. No one cares when I show up, as long as I work a total of forty-five hours a week and meet the arbitrary quotas. I can even take work home if I need to. Many of the women in the factory do, as it is almost impossible to keep up with the amount of work they expect from you. Except on days like today, I am a fast worker and usually don’t have to resort to this.

  I make my way down the empty streets. I spot a discarded newspaper and pick it up. Dale and I don’t have the extra coins to get the newspaper delivered even if we wanted to. Dale thinks the city newspaper is a biased piece of crap. I mostly agree but still enjoy staying up to date, even if it is in a biased way.

  I open the first page and peruse it while walking. As expected, tonight’s government ball is front and center. I skip over the article and fold the newspaper to the next page where a large graph details the population growth in the city, accompanied by an interpretation essay from a government official. I flip through the rest of the pages in search of something more interesting when I hear humming behind me.

  My heart skips a beat as two PCR guards in security uniforms—just like the one I was failing to sew—join me at the street corner. A security drone hovers behind them like a flying guard dog.

  I have to remind myself that I am doing nothing wrong. I fold up the newspaper, pocket it, and speed up a little to get farther away from them. I’m never comfortable with guards around. You never know when they are bored enough to get someone in trouble just because they are in the way. No, I don’t trust peacers.

  The drone’s ominous whirring grows distant, but I don’t dare look back. After I turn right on the next corner, I chance a look and see with relief that they are now a block behind. They are strolling through the streets without a care in the world. It must be nice to be part of the city’s elite.

  Since I’m out of their sight, I speed up to get as far away from them as possible. I make a conscious effort to calm myself.

  Ahead of me, an elderly man sits cross-legged on one of the building entrances, a ragged coat wrapped around his thin body and a metal cup in his crooked hand. He’s asleep and doesn’t look up until I get closer.

  It is risky for him to be here. His eyes fall on me, and his face turns into a mask of panic. He looks as if he is weighing his chances, wondering if I will help him or report him. Begging is dangerous in the city. It is prohibited to do any other job than the one you are assigned. I could turn around and alert the two peacers, and the man would be in serious trouble.

  He reminds me of a young woman with matted, black hair who used to sit at the side of the street near our house every night for a while. She always smiled at me when I walked past on my way home from work. Whenever Dale and I had some left to spare, I would give her a food coin or two. One night there were peacers hovering in the area. I rushed past the woman, not daring to warn her. From our window, I saw the peacers wait until most of the workers had cleared, then grab the woman. After the woman started to scream, they quickly silenced her, and Dale had to stop me from running out into the street.

  I don’t want to know what happened to her. But I sure don’t want it to happen to this poor guy. I sprint toward the man, grab him by the arm, and pull him along.

  “Come on,” I whisper urgently.

  He protests for a second, then tries to keep pace behind me. He doesn’t raise any questions. He walks as quickly as his bent legs can carry him. I pull him along, but his limp is slowing us down noticeably.

  I have no clue why he trusts me—maybe he realizes I’m endangering myself by engaging with him. Or maybe all the fight has left him and he doesn’t care anymore.

  We finally reach the end of the street. I take a right to lead him away from the peacers and back in the direction of the factory. I hope the peacers will continue straight. I push the man into a side alley and urge him to hide behind a staircase.

  He looks at me questioningly, but I throw him a warning look. He recedes into the shadows. I walk back to the corner and peek around carefully. My heart is racing from exhaustion and anticipation. The two guards reach the intersection and turn into the street we just left.

  Damn it.

  I duck back into the alley, panting heavily, every breath ringing in my ears. I hope the guards didn’t see us. I dash along the small alley, the old man at my heels. He is panting heavier than I am, clearly not used to moving so much and so quickly. Every step echoes loudly, and I cringe with fear of detection.

  We reach the intersection back onto the street I had originally come from. If the guards didn’t see me, we’ll be safe. I usher the man into an entrance where he cowers like a scared animal.

  They wouldn’t walk in circles, right?

  I edge back toward the alley and peer into it. The seconds slow as I wait for the guards to reach the intersection. I retreat when their silhouettes appear in the light at the far end.

  Very slowly, I peek as they turn and investigate the now-deserted alley. I hold my breath and watch their every step until they pass and disappear behind the buildings.

  My heart drops with relief. We are safe. For now at least.

  I turn and look at the old man, who is still cowering in the doorway. I reach out a hand and pat his shoulder.

  “Go home. You’re safe now. They didn’t see you. Please make sure they don’t catch you in the streets. You’re not supposed to be out here.” The plea in my voice is strong. It takes me by surprise. I don’t know why I helped him, let alone why I care that he is safe. I just know I don’t want to see him vanish like the woman on our old street.

  If he was begging, he must have no other choice. I wonder for a second what makes him so desperate. Everyone is assigned a job with enough income for housing and basic living expenses in their assigned Circle. Technically, no one should have to resort to such desperate measures.

  I have a strong suspicion it has something to do with the government ball tonight. Over the last few weeks, every household in the Middle and Outer Circles has been asked to donate something to make the ball a success—a forced thank-you to the government for keeping the city safe and prosperous. No one felt as if they had the choice to decline a donation.

  But even with the lower rations, no one should have to starve without making a lot of unwise decisions about their allotted food coins.

  The man looks at me but doesn’t say anything.

  “Will you be okay?” I ask tentatively after a moment.

  The beggar answers in a small voice, “Thank you. If those peacers had spotted me, it would have been the end of my pitiful life.”

  I’m shocked he called them peacers. A joyous, rebellious feeling spreads through me when I realize just how far the term has spread. I started this nickname for PCR guards years ago as a joke. I had pointed out to Dale that “PCR” looked and sounded a lot like “peacer,
” as if the name was trying to show people the guards were actually officers upholding the peace, not enforcement and surveillance. We’ve called them peacers ever since, and it spread. Apparently, it has spread farther than I thought.

  “I’m glad I saw you before they did.”

  He squeezes my hand and shuffles away, putting as little weight as possible on his right leg. I watch him until he vanishes into a building near the one I originally found him. I hope he will be okay.

  I walk back down the street. I could take the alley I just ran through. It would be the shortest path home, but I avoid the alleys when I can. They are too sketchy. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, I don’t really feel like going through there again. No matter how often the government assures us there is no crime in the city, I don’t trust them. If there is no crime, why are there so many guards patrolling the streets?

  I walk fast like I always do, no matter where I go. Walking slow makes me feel trapped. I grin when I think about Dale, who always complains about my walking pace. He frequently asks me what I am running away from.

  My thoughts are racing faster than my steps, chasing each other around in my head. Not one of them sticking long enough to truly contemplate. I don’t pay attention to where I’m going but soon realize I am walking home like a programmed robot.

  The triangular-shaped building forked in between the two roads appears ahead of me. It reaches fifty feet up into the sky with hundreds of windows glittering in the evening sun. I like the building, with its modern shape but antique materials. It is the only building in the area that stands out a little.

  Most buildings here look the same: tall, gray buildings with story above story of low-income housing. The Outer Circle doesn’t have any single-family homes like in the Middle Circle—too many people, too little room. I don’t have to read an essay on population growth to know there are too many people in the Outer Circle.

  I walk up to our building with a last glance over my shoulder. The touch of my hand on the handle opens the door and releases my mail through a slit in the wall. Without really looking at it, I discard a flyer about the government ball with what I’m sure are cheerful slogans of why we should be thankful for their donation-funded event.

  As always, the elevator shows up without me calling it and welcomes me with a loud ding. I rifle through my mail, and it takes me a moment to realize I am not alone in the mirrored space. The batty old lady from down the hall leans on the opposite wall and smiles excitedly.

  “Lovely to see you, dear. Did you hear about Mrs. Ted?” asks Mrs. Swenson.

  I shake my head. I don’t really care about the newest building gossip.

  The woman goes on, obviously unaware I don’t care to hear any of it. “Mrs. Ted—you know, the heavy black woman in 1204?—heard her arguing with her daughter this morning. Apparently, the girl is enjoying the company of quite a few young men. At her age, I ask you! Young people nowadays have no respect for their bodies. And black women”—she scoffs—“no respect. No respect at all.”

  I don’t answer. I’m not in the mood to argue with the woman, not that she would hear a word of what I tell her. Mrs. Swenson might be nice and pleasant in her way, but her opinions on things? No, it’s better I keep quiet.

  The elevator ride stretches on forever with her gnawing my ear off about the inadequacies of our neighbors. I suppress a sigh of relief as I step off the elevator on the twenty-third floor and the doors separate me from her chatter.

  The corridor ahead of me is bathed in a dim light. There are more broken lamps than working ones. The gray walls add to the image of a cave tunnel. The monotony is broken only by the heavy metal doors in the walls, each the same shade of rusty red.

  This path through the building always makes me uneasy. There is something sinister about the place—at the very least, neglected. It’s hard to stomach because the building looks beautiful from the outside, promising better conditions inside.

  I wonder if someone wants to keep up appearances to passersby—like Dale and I do with our marriage but on a much larger scale. Again, I feel there is something seriously wrong with this city.

  I reach the door labeled 2311 in rusty numbers that I’m sure were golden at some point in their distant past. I hold my hand around the doorknob, and it beeps in confirmation as it unlocks. The light inside turns on automatically when I close the door behind me, and I feel the last bit of anxiety slip away.

  The apartment might not be particularly new or clean or pretty, but it is home.

  4

  Nate

  “This is fucking ridiculous.” I grimace and pull the bow tie off my neck for the third time.

  A laugh tells me my sister has arrived. I turn around, and my jaw drops. I cannot believe my eyes. Liz has shed her usual floral long-sleeve tops and skinny jeans. No high ponytail. Tonight she looks stunning with her amber hair in elegant waves around her slim face. Whatever she’s done with her makeup makes her green eyes sparkle. The watercolor flower tattoo glows next to the white of her dress.

  I rarely see the tattoo due to her preference for long sleeves. It’s better than jewelry. The design is perfect for her, a perfect combination of innocence and strength. I stare as she walks up to me, balancing gracefully on high heels. She will be turning some heads tonight.

  One glance around the room to evaluate the situation. Her eyes linger on the glass on my nightstand. Ice cubes melting into the last of the amber liquor. A flicker of judgment in her eyes. She doesn’t like me drinking.

  She grabs the crumpled mess that is supposed to be my bow tie from my hand. “Oh, brother, what would you do without me?”

  I laugh at her mocking tone. Both grateful for the help and happy to see her. I watch her tie the stupid thing around my neck. A perfectly symmetrical bow.

  After a final adjustment, she steps back to inspect her work. “Better.”

  I feel uncomfortable with her inspecting me.

  “You look gorgeous, Liz.”

  Liz shifts from foot to foot, and her cheeks flush. I’m not the only one who’s not good with attention. She is always beautiful, but seeing her this dressed up makes me smile. She’s grown up so fast.

  Seeing her excited for the ball I don’t want to go to lifts my mood a little. She always cheers me up, no matter how bad my day is. I can’t believe how lucky I am to have such a great sister—or half sister in this case. But that doesn’t change anything, she’s still one of my best friends.

  After my mother’s death eighteen years ago, my father was matched with a new wife, Josephine. Josephine is a lovely woman, always trying to please everyone. Unfortunately, it means she barely gets what she wants. Always my father’s wishes. She didn’t have a child when she moved in. Shortly after, she announced her pregnancy.

  I have no idea how a woman like her has raised a daughter as tough as Liz. Living with my father must have done the trick.

  I glance up at the clock over the desk. Shit. We’re late. I grab my phone and usher Liz out of the room.

  We hurry through the cold night. My jacket over Liz’s shoulders covers most of her dress. When we arrive at the Imperium, she hands it back and hooks her arm into mine with a chuckle. With her by my side, I step through the door.

  I barely recognize the assembly hall. It looks remarkably different from yesterday. The chairs and podium have gone. A small stage has been added at the front of the room. A jazz band is playing something pleasant and smooth. Round high tables with golden fabric draped over them line the walls. I spot Zeke at one of the tables and steer Liz toward him.

  “Wow, Liz. Not a little girl anymore, eh?” Zeke looks her up and down with an approving, brotherly expression on his face.

  While Zeke and Liz exchange pleasantries, I look around the room. My father is talking to important-looking men. Josephine is hovering at a table behind him. She looks lost.

  “Your mom doesn’t look too happy. Is everything okay?” I point her out to Liz, and she grimaces.

  She g
lances at Zeke but decides he can hear what she has to say. “They argued again today. Mom cried a lot. I think”—she clears her throat—“I think he hurt her.”

  Liz looks down at her shoes and crosses her arms in front of her. I watch her thumb move in circles across her own skin. As if she’s trying to comfort herself. I put an arm around her and pull her closer.

  “What do you mean, ‘hurt her’?” My voice is barely more than a whisper.

  “You know Mom. She wants to make everyone happy. But Dad . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “Is an asshole,” I finish for her. “It’s okay. Tell me.”

  “He is such an angry man. I think he hurts her when he’s unhappy. And he is unhappy a lot since you moved out.”

  My insides go cold. I know my father is no saint, but hitting Josephine?

  Zeke looks uncomfortable. Unsure if he should enter the conversation. I tilt my head at him, inviting him to voice his opinion.

  “Liz, are you sure? You know I am not your dad’s biggest fan, but don’t you think your mom would tell someone?” He looks up at me in search of support.

  I can tell he hopes Liz is wrong. Zeke has listened to me rant about my father for years, but I know Zeke wants to trust in the system my father represents. A leader who beats his wife is definitely not a leader Zeke can trust.

  Liz nods. She’s looking at her shoes again. “I don’t think she would. Ever since her first husband disappeared, she doesn’t trust her judgment. She blames herself. Thinks he would have stayed if she had been nicer to him.

  “But I don’t think it would have mattered. It’s not like they got divorced or something. He simply vanished. I don’t even know if it was a choice . . . She sounds regretful whenever she talks about him. I think it’s why she works so hard to please everyone. It’s annoying.”

  Liz looks up and watches her mother in the distance. “My bedroom is next to theirs. I can hear them. She cries in the bathroom after—you know. And there were bruises on her arm a while back.”