The sound of the TV filtered through the thin partitions along with noises, dimly sensed, of the people in the surrounding apartments. A minor irritation he’d adjusted to long ago. He knew some of the less privileged areas had communal showers. Not for him. He’d stay calm, keep his job, and enjoy a quiet shower.
The ringing of the doorbell cut through his light doze like a klaxon, bringing him to his feet.
Heart pounding, Graeme stumbled to the living room. His stomach knotted. The metallic taste of fear strong in his mouth.
What was wrong? Had security failed? Is it an emergency?
Jim and Martha Fischer, neighbors, stood in the entrance, their hands laden with packages.
“Sorry to barge in like this,” Jim apologized, “but everyone’s being forced to double-up. Power’s cut down.” He held out the parcels to Helen.
Frustrated at seeing his quiet evening ruined, Graeme burst out, “But why?”
“It’s a migration, Graeme.” Jim leaned closer and dropped his voice as they moved toward the window. “They’re really on the move this time. They’re pouring out of the Wilderness Zones like never before. Already broken through the perimeter of the Farm Zone. If we’re to keep them out of the City Zone, we’ve got to put all the power to the grids we can spare.”
Speechless, Graeme stared out the window. This made it, what, the third—no, fourth attempt this summer. And they succeeded this time. They’d broken through. Did the bombing downtown today bear any relation? A diversion perhaps? Graeme wanted to ask, but fear kept him silent. It paid to trust no one.
Graeme pressed his cheek against the window pane and gazed pensively to the west. He could almost see past the buildings to the cliffs. An image of pounding waves crashing against the rocky base tossing spray high into the air rose in his mind. It seemed strange to him that such a wild body of water should be called Pacific.
“Dinner’s ready,” Helen announced, as she and Martha carried the filled plates to the table.
Graeme ate mechanically, hardly tasting his food. The conversation flowed around him. He was barely aware of it and only managed a noncommittal mumble when directly addressed.
“FLASH! YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE!” The darkened TV blared out with sound as a picture flickered up. A serious looking newscaster, seated before the Great Seal of Government, shuffled papers and assumed a confident manner. “We have overridden your home controls to bring you this important message from the Division of Control.”
Graeme noticed an uncharacteristic twitch in the corner of the reporter’s left eye as he continued to read the news bulletin. “We are in the midst of a large migration. The Controllers are fighting to contain them in the Farm Zone. However, a group escaped and is heading into the City. There is no cause for alarm, but precautions should be taken. Stay within your Complexes.” The tic became more pronounced, and for a moment his eyes darted nervously about the studio before he regained his mask of composure. “I repeat, there is no cause for alarm. The Managers have taken into consideration every possibility for the safety of the people during this short inconvenience. Thank you and good night.”
Graeme remained staring at the blank screen after the broadcast. What made them do it, he wondered? Why, after years of quiet did they suddenly explode in vast numbers and march across the countryside to hurl themselves over the cliffs into the sea?
“Now really, it’s no trouble at all,” Helen said, as she nudged Graeme. “Is it, Graeme? You and Jim were good enough to share your rations with us, and we don’t mind sharing our place with you. Do we, dear?”
Graeme knew he should say something, do something to help restore calm and order, but he just couldn’t make the effort. He felt awash on a sea of chaos as he watched his evening disintegrate. He wondered if another Irenex pill would help.
“Oh, I know,” Martha said, as she reached into her purse. “We can view the disc of our vacation that we won in the last Lottery.” She pulled the small package from her bag and held it out to Graeme. Her hand shook slightly. “I just picked it up on my way home tonight. It’s all approved. See the tax stamp is still on it.” Her voice held a pleading tone and trembled as though she held back tears. “It’ll help us forget all these troubles.”
Graeme nodded in agreement.
In a few minutes, the tapes flickered on the screen while Jim and Martha recounted the events they were watching.
In the darkened room, the light from the screen cast dancing shadows on the tense features of those watching. Their voices ebbed and flowed around Graeme, pulling him deeper into despair.
“See, that’s us at Vista-View Beach,” Jim narrated.
“Martha, I didn’t realize it would be so crowded.” Helen’s voice carried a stricken note that echoed the shock Graeme felt as he watched the scene unfold before him.
Graeme viewed the mass of bodies cavorting on what he assumed was a beach with a sinking heart. Vista-View indeed. View of what? He wondered when the company had taken the publicity pictures with their deserted white sands, scenes of limitless horizons of rolling surf, and intimate picnics for two.
“You must have enjoyed swimming in the surf?” Helen asked.
“Well, no.” Martha sounded wistful. We didn’t win the raffle, so we couldn’t.”
“Win the raffle?”
“Yes, you see, they held raffles—at least fifteen in our group alone. If you won, then you got ten minutes’ swimming in a roped-off area. I almost won.”
Graeme watched the scene unfolding on the screen. Lines! Line after line of people, boats, barges. He barely heard Jim’s running commentary.
“I got up high for these next shots. The roped-off area along the shore is for the raffle winners. Those long barges are for the scuba nuts. Then, the next line is the sailboats, then power boats and finally fishing boats. Did you ever see so many people having such fun?”
Graeme suppressed the panicky sob that rose unbidden in his throat. He had to get away. Away from the crowds of people on the screen. Away from the people filling his living room. They suffocated him.
“I’ve got to go out for a few minutes.” Graeme searched desperately for a plausible excuse. “I forgot something,” he finished lamely.
Blindly he ran for the elevators still operating on emergency power. No one moved aside to allow Graeme to enter. He elbowed his way in. No one cleared their throats or shuffled their feet. Instead of lowered eyes, Graeme met direct hostile stares. Flustered, he faced the wall.
* * *
Down on the street, Graeme headed for his favorite retreat, a service area. At one time, vehicles unloaded supplies there for the complex until a call for tighter security dictated that it be sealed up and a safer delivery area chosen. Few people remembered its existence. There, seated on the crumbling cement dock, he enjoyed looking straight up at the stars. Those vast, remote spaces of quiet—peace. All he needed was a few minutes alone.
Graeme turned into the service way, and stopped. Two men sat on opposite ends of the old loading platform. His secret sanctuary had been discovered. As he entered, they rose up to challenge him.
“Buzz off, buddy,” one snarled. He underlined the order with the club he brandished in his fist.
“Yeah, move out, there’s no room,” the other man, clutching a large chunk of concrete, muttered through clenched teeth.
Quietly Graeme backed off. First the bomb in his office, then the challenge on the tram, the threat of security failure, confrontation on the elevator and now this—outright threats. To him. Personally. He couldn’t believe it. Everything—every single thing was out of control. He ground the heels of his hands against his temples. His head felt ready to explode. He couldn’t stand it. He needed—needed—he didn’t know what he needed. Something. A place. Anyplace to be alone. Where?
A small spark of hope blossomed in the back of his mind. The cliffs. He’d always avoided the cliffs on his nightly walks. There were usually too many people standing there staring out over the sea. It didn�
��t offer the solitude he craved. But tonight, after the TV warning to avoid the cliffs, maybe tonight there wouldn’t be any people. Besides, the restless surging of the ocean seemed to match his mood. He looked yearningly to the west, toward the cliffs.
As Graeme stood undecided, the night became strangely quiet. People no longer roamed the street. He looked at the armored kiosk and noticed the riot guns hanging aimlessly down—unattended. Graeme listened for the night sounds, conspicuous in their absence. Then he heard it. Echoing down the narrow maze of streets, rebounding from the featureless concrete walls. The sound of shod feet growing louder as they neared him. Suddenly, Graeme saw them. A crowd of people, eerily silent, intent, their ranks swelling as men, women, children slipped out of doorways, flowed from the side streets, their faces composed, eyes blank. Caught up in some inner vision, they moved with purpose. Pilgrims who had found their answer.
Thoughts whispering along primal genetic lines stirred within him, reminded him. There was a place. A place to rest in pacific solitude.
Graeme stepped into the ranks as the assemblage headed up the street—to the west—off of the cliffs and into the sea.
All Orphans in the End
Donyae Coles
Editor: Turn off the light.
Selma gagged as soon as she opened the door, her question answered before she had moved her mouth to ask it. Shutting the door firmly, she took two steps back onto the cracked cement of the walk, waving her hand in front of her face to ward off the odor. There was no doubt about it, Rose was dead.
“Summer is a horrible time to die,” she mumbled to herself as she looked at the door. Somewhere just beyond it would be whatever remained of her friend.
She frowned. “I thought she was younger? She looked so spry.”
Selma lifted her thin shoulders and turned back down the walk. “That’s the way of it though,” she murmured to herself. “You never know when it will happen.”
She walked slowly down the path, away from the door to the rickety garden gate and paused, turning back to the house where she stood, thinking out loud for a moment. “I don’t really need anything, but maybe I should go in, make sure she’s decent?”
Rose would hate it if she lay naked on the floor or her hair was out of place. Selma shook her head slowly and finally turned away. She had seen what a few days dead in the summer heat would do with Murray and she had no desire to witness it again no matter how much it would have meant to her friend.
“Besides, I can’t move her, there’s no point in it,” she said out loud as she stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk. By the time Murray had passed there weren’t very many of them left, and it took a few days for them to realize one of them had gone.
Safely past the gate, she noticed the hint of decay under the heavy smell of flowers that sprung wildly from what used to be a garden. Pausing, she turned to face the small house. The paint was faded but it had once been a cheery peach color with white trim. Now everything was cracked and faded. A few more winters and there wouldn’t be much of anything left.
“She loved this house. No better place for her really,” she said to the dark windows that stared back at her before turning and beginning her trek home.
“It’s already getting hot,” she said as walked. The midmorning sun picked up heat as she passed by the empty houses, some of which hadn’t had residents in nearly twenty years. Still the structures held on, the paint fading, the roofs collapsing, the yards overgrowing. Most of them still had their windows intact. “There’s no one to break them and nature hasn’t been aggressive enough,” Selma mused as she passed.
“Mama wanted to die at home,” she remembered as she walked, letting her mind wander, “but we put her in that retirement village. Hmm, I guess there’s no need now. Every home is an old folks’ home.”
The sound of her chuckle carried though the empty streets, blending with the birdsong as she tottered back to her own small home. She smiled as she arrived, looking up at the windows and pointed roof. Like all the others, the blue paint was chipped and faded and the roof showed some age, but it was hers.
“There’s no lawn though,” she said, admiring the paved stretch of land that surrounded her home.
“There was no point in it, that’s what I said to Teddy. Of course, he disagreed but I said we won’t have children so what’s the point?” She paused, looking out at her long-ago handiwork, “I think that hurt him a bit when I said that. But it was the truth.”
After she had the concrete laid, a few of her neighbors did the same, she remembered. “Steve and Barb? Was it them? It was further up in the neighborhood, I think. I haven’t been that way since I stopped driving.”
She turned to look toward the stretch of homes beyond where she walked and wondered. “Could there be. . .?” She started walking that way before stopping herself with a shake of her head, the heavy white braid of her hair sliding back and forth on her shoulder. “No, we checked and moved down here together. There’s no one there.”
“Well, I didn’t move. I had already laid the cement is what I told them, and I was too old to do it again. And of course, Rose wouldn’t leave her house and Murray still had Sara to care for then. So that was that,” Selma said as she walked around the back to enter. She rarely used the front door.
She stood in her kitchen for a moment, letting her eyes sweep over the tidy space. She cleaned it nightly, washing down the fixtures. There wasn’t anything else to do. She pulled open the refrigerator door, her wrinkled fingers grabbing the neck of a soda bottle. She smiled at the treat for a moment before opening it and taking a long drink. It was the last one but the delivery would come soon.
She walked through the kitchen, past the breakfast nook that was perfectly sized for two, and through the living room with its small unused coffee table. As she walked, she tallied the things that would come in the delivery.
“Toilet paper, eggs, butter, bread, a little meat, some vegetables, pop, maybe some candy, and a book. This is the book delivery—and oh, yes! I have to tell them about Rose. Of course.
“The delivery was a good idea,” she continued as she made her way to her small computer and turned it on. “After all the Trouble, everything got to be so settled. If only people had waited.”
“Trouble” is what Teddy had called the kidnappings, as if it was just a little bit of a knot in a shoelace. Those deluded men had thought they could force women to conceive but it was never a matter of trying. “That’s why he moved us out of the city and bought our house when it was new. Perfect for spending a lifetime, just the two of us,” she said fondly.
Teddy had had his lifetime. Now Selma sat alone in front of the barely used computer, waiting a few seconds for it to boot up. Somewhere, buried on the hard drive, hidden only by a few taps of her fingers were photos and videos. Reminders of their life together. A life that she now lived out alone.
The machine settled. She moved her finger over the pad, selecting the icon for the reporting system, the screen loading in milliseconds.
The reporting system was designed to be simple and calming with only two icons on the main screen. The simple house image would take her into the system to request home repair or supply issues. The second icon was a person. She chose it and the screen changed again.
“Teddy called it the ‘obit’ screen,” she mused as she stared at the options for a moment. Here there were only two as well. A simple red cross to request aid and black cross to report a death. Teddy had always said it didn’t matter which one you picked because it was all the same. She had chosen the red one, once, for him at the end. Help came quickly but it was already too late. She didn’t blame the machines for not trying, though. She knew there was nothing to be done.
“His hand was so heavy,” she mumbled to herself, remembering the feel of her husband’s hand in hers in those final moments before they took him away.
Shaking off the memories, she pressed the black cross to bring up the reporting page.
“We
are so sorry for your loss,” a comforting voice said from the speakers, a familiar refrain to her at this point. Briefly, she wondered if the voice was prerecorded or generated and if that even made a difference. “Please, what is the name of the deceased?”
“Rose,” Selma said, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat and took another drink of her soda.
“What a beautiful name. What was her last name?” the computer chimed.
Selma thought for a moment, what had her name been? She was sure she had known it but toward the end, it didn’t matter. She was just Rose, and she was just Selma. Last names were for a wider world. Theirs had been so small. Just the two of them at the end.
“I don’t know,” she finally said.
“That’s fine,” the computer chimed in its pleasant voice. “Maybe I can help you? Was this Rose?”
A photo flashed on the screen of the old woman with her hair short, cropped close to her skull. The haircut had been Selma’s uneven handiwork. She didn’t smile; the photo was an annoyance. The drone showed up every six months to take their picture to ensure that there was always a current image on file. It had been an idea instituted in the early days when it became apparent that there wasn’t going to be anyone to help identify elderly men and women, like herself, when they went wandering off or worse, turned up deceased.
Behind her in the photo was Rose’s house, her home that she lay in now. “Yes, that’s her,” Selma said.
“Has she been interned?” the computer asked, mocking concern perfectly.
“Yes,” Selma answered without hesitation. Rose would be so upset if they destroyed her home. It was better to just tell them that they had buried her. After Murray died they had told the system that he was still in bed. His body had been collected in less than three hours. The bots that handled the job had broken in the door and ruined the carpet. Rose would hate that and it didn’t matter anyway. Selma was the only person left to mourn her.
Enter the Rebirth (Enter the... Book 3) Page 6
