“Oh,” he stammered, “oh, but I couldn’t. I mean, I shouldn’t.”
“Am I not one of the Elect?” she inquired, feigning offense.
“Yes, Miss, of course.” he replied. “Forgive me. You are right, as always.” He scanned her wrist, then took the muffin with trepidation. He held it, joyfully, yet as if it weren’t really in his grasp. He giggled incredulously. “I’m almost afraid to eat it. Once I eat it, it’ll be gone forever.”
“You can’t eat your muffin and have it too.” Rachel said, shrugging. “I suggest you eat it slowly, so you savor it. That’s what I do with my favorite foods. Go on then, eat it.”
Thus encouraged, and seeing as no one was in the shop other than the two of them, the boy slowly began to eat the muffin, savoring every bite, just as Rachel suggested. He moaned at its deliciousness. Rachel realized he’d probably never eaten a muffin before. His situation struck her as a sad one she wished she could change.
He put half the muffin away for later. “Thank you, Miss. What can I get for such a kind lady?”
She leaned in closer across the counter. “Is Bartholomew here?” She repeated the original question.
He wiped the counter down with his rag. “Sometimes lowly muffin and coffee peddlers get too friendly with the customers. Of course, sometimes it’s worth it.” He flashed her a dazzling smile that revealed small traces of chocolate at the outer creases of his small mouth. “When that happens, and the Corporation doesn’t approve, they move them to the Toilback.”
“What’s a Toilback?”
He continued in hushed tones. “It’s the place of endless Convicted drudgery, along the Wall that separates your world from ours. The worst Toilback to be assigned to is the Wall’s Toil Market.”
Rachel knew the place. Everyone did. It was the largest economic retail powerhouse in the world, bar none. There was a Wall’s Toil Market in every Pearly Gates community in the Kingdom. They were the primary source of jobs for the Convicted, though she had rarely seen a human worker inside the actual store. She had to find out what had happened to Bartholomew. She felt responsible for his abrupt change of occupation. She stopped by home only long enough to do as Temperance had instructed her. With her Safechip’s tracking system temporarily disabled, she headed to Wall’s Toil Market.
The exterior of Wall’s was painted a deep red and blue and trimmed in white, the Kingdom colors. She went through the automatic doors and was immediately greeted by two large Spider-screens on either side of the entryway.
“Hello, how are you today?” the stereotype Asian man displayed on the screen greeted her in broken English. “We have many fine specials today. Simply touch the screen in any aisle to display our discounts. The prices are so low, they ought to be criminal!” He laughed.
She walked past, looking through the various aisles of perfectly stocked, priced, neat, shiny new goods. Sure, they were affordable goods. All goods had become affordable after the financial meltdown of 2008, though none could ever hope to compete with Wall’s prices. At the end of the aisle, she examined the Spider screen. It continuously repeated the same ads, with a reminder that buying at Wall’s retained jobs within the Kingdom, was patriotic and righteous, and kept the economy strong. It offered numerous options, all designed to keep her from encountering an actual human being. The screen wouldn’t help her find Bartholomew.
Rachel walked to the far rear corner of the store and began searching for a back door. She tried to make it appear she was merely browsing, as there were numerous Spider-screens at the ends of the aisles. Finally, she found the one door that led to the Toilback. A sign hung over the door labeled “No admittance. Employees only.” There was one Spider-screen she had to figure out a way to evade. Sighing, she realized she had no idea how to do so. This was going to be more difficult than she previously imagined.
Suddenly, the Spider-screen went dark and silent. Surprised, she looked around. Behind her a few paces was Paul, holding his remote control. Her eyes narrowed as she walked towards him. She folded her arms over her chest.
“I thought you said that thing only worked on the Spider-screen in your office?” she interrogated. “What about it, Paul? Are you really a spy, trapping me?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Rachel, if I wanted to turn you in, I have more than enough to do so with already. I thought about it after you left my office yesterday. They told me when they gave it to me that it only worked on the one in my office, but what if they lied? I thought I’d try it out.”
Rachel breathed in deeply. “Are you following me?”
“A little bit paranoid, aren’t we?” he said. “Yes, I was following you. I see you didn’t take my advice. You aren’t being careful.”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“Look, I saw you buy that muffin for that boy at the shop. How many muffin boys will you condemn to the Toilback this week by such shows of sympathy?” he scolded her. “You know the National Truths as well as I do. We are to have no sympathy for them. And because you seem to be unable to at least pretend outwardly not to have such feelings towards the Convicted, you are placing yourself in danger. Not to mention, every Convicted you...”
Paul stopped short when he looked at Rachel. Her face had contorted into a mask of guilt and sorrow and she had begun breathing in sobbing jaunts. She put her hands over her eyes and shook her head side to side vigorously. Paul reached out to her, sorry immediately that he had been so harsh with her.
“Rachel,” he whispered as he held her and stroked her hair, “I’m sorry, so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“All my fault,” she sobbed, “it’s all my fault that he’s been moved to a harsher job. I didn’t mean to cause any harm. I just wanted to be kind to him. He’s just a child.”
“Shhh,” he calmed her, “I know. I know. What, do you think I don’t feel the same way? I do, Rachel. I do. But we can’t ever show it to others. We can’t allow ourselves to let them know. If we do...”
He let his thought trail. He didn’t need to finish it. Rachel was aware of his breath on her cheek and his arms around her. Once again, they were sharing a private moment of human contact. It felt real to her. They both wanted to keep holding each other. Human contact had become so rare in their world. Paul realized the Spider-screen would switch itself back on in a couple of minutes and reluctantly pulled back from her.
“Now we know the remote works in other places, too.” he told her, walking away. “Be more careful, Rachel. You’re my only ally now. I don’t want to lose you, too.”
Paul had called her his “ally”. Where was their alliance leading? Why was he testing his remote on other Spider-screens? Did Paul have something planned that Rachel ought to know about? She realized the screen was about to resume its programming any moment. If she was going to get through the doors to the Toilback, now was her chance. Grinning at the screen in defiance, she raced through the double doors just before the sound of the screen could be heard.
On the other side of the Wall, it was noisy and steam was everywhere. A metallic scent, filled the area. She made a face at the stench. Looking up, she saw that the sky was a lighter shade of purple here than inside the Gates. A set of small hands were on her forearm, pulling her away from the doorway.
“Have you lost your mind?!” Bartholomew demanded. He motioned to the camera over the doors that she had narrowly missed being seen by. “What are you doing here?”
Bartholomew was dressed in ripped brown dirty rags and sandals with holes in them. He was covered in grime and sweat. Her hand flew to her mouth and tears filled her eyes. She looked past him, examining the Toilback. There were men, women, and children as small as five years old working in the same conditions as Bartholomew. When they had to relieve themselves, they used buckets stationed nearby, doing the deed out in the open, afforded no privacy whatsoever. She observed an elderly man being told his pay would be docked for taking too long. Rachel looked away, wincing. After a moment, her eyes met Bartholo
mew’s.
“This is my fault, isn’t it? I’m so sorry, Bartholomew.” she apologized, then whispered, “I never knew what you suffered.”
He was baffled by her apology. “Ma’am, there’s nothing for you to be sorry for. You’re one of the Elect, and I forgot my place is all. This is a fine job, better than not eating at all. If I meet my quota, by the end of the week I will have earned a bonus this year. One extra crust of bread for my family.” He grinned. Two of his teeth were missing, and others were not in good shape. She imagined they would all be gone by age twenty without dental care. But the Convicted couldn’t afford such privileges.
“In fact, “he continued, “I’m lucky to have any job at all, in this economy, crippled by the war. Not that I’m complaining.”
“No,” the woman next to him joined in as she unpacked goods, “we’d never complain at all. We know how good we have it compared to those heathens outside the Kingdom. They don’t even have clean water. At least we have a ration of that every day. It’s an honor to work hard and receive a reward at the end of the day.” A Mechanized Stock Assistant took the goods through the double doors into the store to be placed on the shelves.
Bartholomew leaned closer to her and said just loudly enough amidst the noise for her to hear, “Ever since Mary was murdered for trying to gain support among the toil line to demand privacy for bodily functions, we realize the futility of complaint.”
Without warning, a whip hit Bartholomew in the back, causing him to yowl and bend over in pain.
Outraged, Rachel yelled, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”
The Toil Master looked at her with surprise, examining her uniform. He ignored her and raised the whip again.
His voice was gruff, bitter, and angry. “Boy, how dare you stop working! That’ll cost you!” He began hitting Bartholomew again, then again, as Rachel screamed for him to stop. Rachel couldn’t take the unjust violence unfolding before her eyes. She reacted without a thought. Grabbing the Toil Master’s wrist, she twisted his arm, disarming him as he went down on his knees. Holding his whip, she stepped away from him, staring down at him, an expression of utter disgust on her face.
“You will leave this boy alone. Do you hear me?” she commanded him, as one having authority.
He stared back at her, shaking with thinly veiled rage. He managed to nod affirmatively.
“Also,” she continued, holding her head high and proud, “you will not dock this boy his wages or his bonus. It was my wish that he explains to me what he does here.”
The man stood, towering over her by several inches. He was pudgy, sweaty, smelly; his facial features twisted and ugly. His teeth were almost entirely gone, and he had several knots on his head and a scar across his left temple. Rachel realized this might be what would become of Bartholomew in a couple of decades. The Toil Master cracked his knuckles, unintimidated by her. She stood her ground, refusing to show the fear she felt.
“I don’t know what an Elect is doing here.” he replied. “I have to clear this with my Overseer.” He turned to walk away.
The women on the Toilback had been eyeing her curiously before, but now were reaching out to touch her clothing, then touch their fingers to their faces. They seemed to be enraptured by the experience. They asked for her blessing upon them, that they might be truly faithful and join the Elect one day. A pregnant worker asked her to bless her belly. The mass of people swarmed around her now that their Toil Master was temporarily off the line, frightening Rachel. She sought a way through the rapidly advancing crowd, finding none each way she turned. She felt hands on her, tugging her out of the center of the circle to safety. Bartholomew led her away from the line before they noticed she had freed herself from the circle. They weren’t yet completely away from the Toilback yet.
“They believe fervently that the King is returning soon. I want to believe. Desperately. Tell me, is he coming back soon?”
Bartholomew believed she had the answers because of her status and uniform. Did a white bonnet and dark dress make her a conduit for the King’s will? The women had seemed to believe she was as the Profit, her mere touch having mystical powers to dispel some of the gloom of their lives. Bartholomew had revealed the truth about the Convicted. Their lives were so grim that the hope the Profit offered them was the only thing sustaining them. Bartholomew needed that hope, too. Rachel could neither give it to him, nor take it away.
“The Divine Word says we won’t know the day or time of his return.” she responded. It wasn’t a lie, for the Spider-screens taught this truth often enough. But it wasn’t what Rachel believed. She believed in this truth until she saw the Toilback, then she knew it was but a tool to keep the Convicted from rebelling. Deep down, Rachel believed the King would never return, if indeed he ever really existed in the first place. But she couldn’t tell Bartholomew this. He would have to come to his own conclusions. She couldn’t destroy something he might need to survive another day in his situation.
Bartholomew told her how to get to 5th and Broadway in Purgatory. He began telling her how to get back into the Pearly Gates unnoticed, when his eyes became round as saucers. “Get down!” he shouted to her.
She turned just in time to see the Toil Master’s whip slash at her upper right arm. She cried out in pain, clutching her bleeding wound. Bartholomew stepped around her and rushed at his Master, slamming into him with his full body weight, knocking him off balance. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to topple the larger man, and the Toil Master grabbed the boy’s head and began crushing his head between his hands, dropping the whip. Adrenaline coursing through her veins like liquid fire, Rachel picked up the whip and, coming up behind him, wrapped it around the Toil Master’s throat, forcing him to drop Bartholomew. The boy scurried away to safety. The Toil Master flailed, reaching behind him, yanking her bonnet off and clutching it in his right hand. She leaned her back against the wall and put her knee in his back, tightening the whip further, till he made no sound and his struggling was to no avail. She continued to strangle him for a minute after his body went lax and his face had turned purple. Then she let go of him. His heavy corpse dropped to the ground with a dull thud. His death felt good. It felt righteous and noble. Much of the noise of the line had ceased. The Convicted were staring at her, mouths hanging agape. Bartholomew was safe now, that was what mattered, she told herself.
Suddenly realizing what sort of trouble she would be in if her deed was discovered, Rachel raced away from the scene. She didn’t stop until she reached Broadway. Her heart pounded so loud and fast she thought it would explode in her chest. She bent over and leaned against the side of a dilapidated brick building, catching her breath. Scanning the area, she saw that there were no Spider-screens anywhere in Purgatory. The buildings and tenements of the Convicted were old, crumbling structures barely fit to reside in. Trash littered the alleyways and streets. But for all their poverty, they still had their faith in the Profit and the King.
Indeed, they were more fervently faithful to the Profit’s message and the Kingdom than most Elect seemed to be. Posters of the Profit were unscathed and in pristine condition, covering the sides of buildings. Rachel had a hard time comprehending how they could believe so deeply in ideas that were used against them. If only they would rise, rebel, and save themselves. But, once again, Rachel was committing Heresy. No one can save themselves; this was an indisputable National Truth. Only the King’s grace could save, and only the Profit determined who had been granted the King’s grace.
Breathing evenly now, Rachel examined her surroundings. Evening was approaching and the streets would undoubtedly be unsafe soon. The building she had been leaning against was a large, Gothic structure, with stained glass windows. The doors were barred with rotting wooden beams and a sign that indicated the structure was condemned and not to be entered, by order of the Profit. Rachel ripped the boards off the doors and went inside.
The interior was structured like the Kingdom Meeting House. This must have at one tim
e been a meeting house for a smaller area, Rachel thought to herself. She couldn’t figure out why it had been condemned. With a little cleaning and work, it could be functional once more. She discovered a book inside a hidden drawer of the large oak altar. She dusted off the cover and read the title of the book aloud, “The Holy Bible”. Her words echoed in the empty meeting house. She’d never heard of it, but thought it was fascinating nonetheless. So, this was what a book felt like in one’s hands.
Before she could peruse it, she heard a clatter just outside the doorway. Putting the book into her pocket, she called out, “Who’s there?”
“It’s just me.” Temperance replied, entering the ruins. Smiling, she took her place next to Rachel behind the altar. Facing her, she reached out and held her hands. Rachel felt her heart begin racing a bit and swallowed hard, ridding herself of the lump in her throat.
“I worried you might not make it.” Temperance told her. “Did you have much trouble?”
Rachel twitched. “No, it was fine.”
“You don’t lie well.”
“We’ll have to work on that, then.” Rachel answered.
“Oh, please, no,” she insisted, “our world is full enough of its own lies. I’d rather we didn’t invent more to tell to each other.”
She reached out, gently running her thumb’s edge down the outline of Temperance’s face. Temperance closed her eyes, breathing a tiny bit harder than before, enjoying the feel of Rachel’s touch. Rachel pulled back her hand and Temperance’s face moved towards it. Her eyes fluttered open.
2042: An American 1984-Dystopian Thriller Page 8
