Swarmed

by Simone Pond

  Nobody answers when I knock on the door, so I start pounding with more force. Still no response. The rain is coming down in sheets. I’m not about to go out in that and get stuck in the muddy driveway. I settle into one of the lawn chairs to wait it out.

  After a few quiet minutes, the front door creaks open, and a bare-chested, rail-thin man with scraggly hair stares at me.

  I jump up out of the lawn chair. “Morning,” I say.

  “A little early, ain’t it?”

  “I need a passport.”

  “Don’t say? Well, come on in, you purty little thing. I’ll see what I can do ya for.” He winks, causing my insides to cringe.

  Though the hairs on my arms bristle with warning, I ignore my better instincts and follow him into the house.

  Inside isn’t much better than the front yard. Piles of garbage have been shoved into the corners. The couches have multiple cigarette burns, and metal springs are coming out of the worn fabric. Panels of floorboards are missing, either from bad plumbing or rain damage. A metallic scent of chemicals cuts through the mildewy air. I fight back a gag.

  “Take a seat.” He points to an armchair mired in dirt and twigs that might be a nest for wild animals.

  “I’m actually in a bit of a hurry. Are you able to get me a passport?”

  He takes out a hand-rolled cigarette and lights up, then picks a speck of tobacco from his grayish teeth. “What’s the rush, missy?”

  “I need to get off-grid.”

  “In the rain? Why don’t ya make yerself comfortable for a spell?”

  As impossible as this request sounds, I nod and sit on the cleanest edge of the chair, ready to make a quick exit if necessary. He blows a puff of smoke in my direction and grins, showing off some holes where teeth used to be. I notice he doesn’t have a DOD imprint on wrist. I’ve never seen anyone without the glowing mark.

  “Where’s your DOD?”

  He laughs and takes another drag of his cigarette. “Suppose they need to keep me around.”

  I assume he’s talking about the Technocrats, but for the life of me I can’t figure out why’d they’d want a non-contributor like this guy to continue living. According to the SOB, he should’ve been removed a long time ago. I’m not sure what to say, so I respond with a polite smile.

  “You got any currency?” he asks.

  “Two silver coins.”

  He lets out a witch-like cackle that turns into a hacking fit. “Yer funny, missy.”

  “How much are you expecting?”

  “Ten times that amount.”

  The blood drains from my head, along with any hope of getting off-grid. I stand up to leave, not wanting to spend another second in this creep’s den of squalor. “Well, if you can’t help me out, I’d best be going.”

  “There are other ways to pay.” He steps closer, his toxic breath soiling the space between us as he touches my chin with his grimy fingers.

  Bile rushes up my throat, but I hold it down. Showing a sign of weakness will give him leverage. I tilt my head to the side, letting my long dark waves cascade over my shoulder. “That’s awfully kind of you. Why don’t you get me something to drink? And we can discuss compensation options.”

  “Sure thing, missy. You go on and relax. I’ll be right back.”

  The second the kitchen door swings shut, I fly out of the house and run to my bicycle. Of course, it’s no longer resting against the tree. I’ll have to hoof it.

  “Hey, where ya going?” A loud shout comes from the porch.

  I don’t look back and haul ass down the muddy driveway, as fast as my boots will carry me. When I get to the main road, I glance over my shoulder, but the creep isn’t following me. I doubt he would’ve made it down the front steps without stumbling to his death. I keep up a fast pace, splashing through the pouring rain, all the way home.

  *

  By Sunday morning, the rain has stopped, leaving behind a cloudless vibrant blue sky. The scent of eggs and toast waft into my room, letting me know my father is home today. I roll out of bed and thrown on a shirt and some dry trousers. The letter from Achilles sits on my desk, reminding me that I still need to find a way to Savannah.

  I enter the kitchen to find my father standing over the hot stove, flipping and scrambling all sorts of breakfast foods.

  “You should be resting on your day off.”

  “Compared to those rails this is rest.”

  I point to the kitchen table and pull out a chair, gesturing for him sit. “I should be fixing you breakfast.”

  He hobbles over and plunks down. “I enjoy doing nice things for you.”

  I pour him a cup of coffee. “You already do a lot for me. Food, shelter, security. What more do I need?”

  “Time together,” he says, taking a sip of coffee.

  “Yeah, well, that’s not how the SOB works, now is it?”

  He’s quiet for a few minutes, while I fix him a plate of scrambled eggs, hash and buttered toast. I contemplate mentioning the letter but decide to wait. I don’t want him to figure out my plan to leave the grid. He’ll try to stop me, and that simply cannot happen. This way he’ll be completely surprised when I walk in through the front door with Achilles. We start digging in to our food, and he peers over at me. “Thought we’d visit your mother today.”

  “Couldn’t think of a better way to spend my Sunday.”

  We finish breakfast and take his truck to the cemetery, passing through Main Street. The shop owners have their doors propped open letting in the fresh spring air. Families stroll together in their Sunday best. The sun sparkles, making everything feel just right. Perfect almost. Until I glance at my father’s DOD. No matter how hard he works, he can't seem to buy more time. His date of death remains within the same range–three weeks out. The thought of him being removed from the System of Balance before I can get to Achilles fuels my desire to get off-grid. With Achilles back home, we can be a family again. He can help me take care of extending our father's DOD.

  "What's on your mind?" His voice penetrates my worried thoughts.

  "Just thinking about ways to fix that." I point to his wrist.

  “Are we going to talk about the letter that came last night?”

  “It was from Achilles.”

  “I figured. What’d he have to say for himself?”

  “You sound angry. Thought you’d be relieved.”

  “Of course I’m angry. He ran off when I could’ve used some extra help around the house. Paying bills. Putting food on the table.”

  “You mean taking care of me?”

  He tightens up unable to provide an answer.

  “I’m going after him and bringing him home,” I tell my father.

  “How are you fixing to do that? You don’t have a passport or currency. More importantly, you’re graduating in a week.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I don’t care about my dammed DOD assignment!”

  He grips the steering wheel so hard I'm afraid his arthritic knuckles will burst. “Kalliste Reines, watch your mouth. And your temper.”

  “I’m sorry. Let’s just forget about it for now. It’s your day off. We should enjoy this rarity.”

  "You're not leaving the grid and screwing up your DOD. Do you want to end up like me?"

  “Everything will be okay. My grades are the highest in my class. I don't get into trouble at school. Or anywhere.”

  "Usually," he adds with a slight smile, alluding to the time I got caught in a speakeasy and got hauled in. Though my grades are stellar, my extracurricular activities haven’t been exactly wholesome. But he knows from experience that arguing with me is pointless. It only encourages me to fight harder.

  "Don't worry, I won't do anything until after graduation. Okay?"

  "Just be careful. We live in a system that has zero regard for justice."

  We're quiet as we pass through the ornate iron gates to the cemetery grounds. Driving along the winding road, I flashback to the night my mother was removed from the SOB. I’ve tr
ied to erase the memory a million times over, but the images are imprinted on my heart … I'm clinging to my father in their bedroom as a swarm of flies surrounds my mother; the two of us watch helplessly, unable to stop them from taking her down.

  Glancing over at my father, I pray I don't have to watch him go through the same thing. I study the lines around his violet blue eyes, his skin is weathered and leathery from years of hard labor. It's taken a toll on his body—on his life—leaving very little to contribute. And if I don't do something, those flies are going to swarm in and take him down just like my mother. At this point, getting Achilles to come home and help is my best option.

  We park near the path that leads to my mother’s grave, and I pry my father's calloused hand from the steering wheel, holding it in mine. Silently vowing to bring our family back together.

  6

  After school on Monday, I make my way down to the detention room. I recognize some of the students from the speakeasies. Short-Timers and Low-Bottoms who don’t care about their futures, and who won’t do much contributing to the system after graduation. Long-Timers like Noah and Parker torture these type of students on a daily basis.

  Knack is already sitting at a desk by the window. He gives me a quizzical look when I pass by the empty spot next to him. I’m not at all angry about him ditching me on Friday night or giving me the address to that creepy house, but I don’t want any distractions while I devise my plan to get off-grid. I find a desk in the back of the room and start scribbling down ideas about how to turn two silver coins into twenty.

  - Sell some of Dad’s medicine

  - Go through Mom’s stuff to pawn

  - Accept the offer from creepy passport man

  I scratch out all three ideas. I’m not willing to do anything of those things— especially barter my virginity. Think, Kalli. Think. I could find the poker game somewhere in town. Or maybe I could sell some speakeasy access codes? I’m deep in thought when an object, accompanied by a loud thump, hits my desk. It’s a brown leather messenger bag. The dark-haired, well-dressed Noah Brenson is sitting across the aisle, staring straight ahead and refusing to acknowledge me.

  “What’s this?” I ask with bafflement.

  “Looks like a bag.”

  The teacher on detention duty scans the back of the room. “What’s going on back there, Miss Reines?”

  “Nothing, sir. Dropped my pen.” I glance over at Noah and whisper, “I know it’s a bag, but—”

  “I owed you a bag,” he whispers back, still not looking at me.

  I stroke the soft leather and bring it to my nose, inhaling. I’ve never owned anything so nice. My old bag was a piece of garbage in comparison. I open the pockets and compartments with the excitement of an explorer on new terrain. I catch Noah watching me, and a warm blush rises. I let my hair fall forward to cover up my burning cheeks.

  “It’s way too nice,” I finally say.

  “Whatever. I’ll take it back if you don’t want it.”

  “No, I’ll keep it. It’s just, um, thanks.” I toss my schoolbooks into my new and improved bag. “What are you even doing in here?” I ask.

  “None of your business.”

  Rolling my eyes, I add to my list of ideas: Pawn new leather bag.

  Noah starts fiddling with his gold pocket watch, then mumbles, “I got caught breaking into the tech lab.”

  “The tech lab?” I laugh. “Why would you go there?”

  “I needed to use one of the computers,” he explains.

  He doesn’t look away, so I figure he’s interested in continuing the conversation. “For what?”

  “Speakeasy codes.”

  I lean closer to his desk, my curiosity growing stronger. “What’s your sudden interest in the speakeasy circuit?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Fine.”

  I don’t pry because I really don’t care why Noah Brenson is visiting speakeasies. And I have an escape plan to devise. I could probably get about ten pieces of silver for the leather bag, which is great, but still not enough for a passport. Sunlight glints into my eyes, distracting me. Noah’s back to fiddling with that damn pocket watch, catching rays of sun against the gold. It sure is a fine piece. Probably worth a lot down at Old Petie’s pawn shop. My heartbeat quickens. I jot down another idea.

  *

  Detention ends, and before I have a chance to discuss my idea with Noah, he bolts out of the room. I try chasing him down, but his long legs give him an advantage. By the time I get to the parking lot, he’s nowhere in sight. Out of habit, I go to the bicycle rack, forgetting my bike was stolen.

  As I’m walking away from campus to start my three-mile walk home, car wheels crunch over gravel behind me. I move off to the side, making room, but the car pulls up next to me. It’s Noah Brenson. I thank the heavens for my good fortune.

  “Forget your bike, Kalliste?” The way he says my name sounds like a cobra hissing. I know he’s trying to rile me up, but I stay calm. I need to talk to him without anyone else around—namely his repugnant friend Parker. The nicer I play, the higher the probability of having a productive conversation.

  “It got stolen on Saturday. I was trying to—”

  “Actually, I don’t care about your bike.” He fakes a cordial smile, sunlight catching the golden flecks in his hazel eyes, then starts to pull away.

  I act fast, hoping to keep his interest. Smiling, I flip my hair over my shoulder so the late afternoon sunlight beams into my blue eyes, bringing out their violet hues. I bite my bottom lip and tilt my head. “You’re right. It’s not that interesting.” And though I don’t approve of resorting to my girlish wiles, I know from the way Noah’s lips curl upward that he’s all in.

  “You want a ride?” he asks.

  And the house wins.

  “That’s awfully kind of you. Are you sure?”

  “Yes, everyone has gone home already, so no one will see us together.”

  Though his words punch my chest, I open the door and get in before he changes his mind.

  Without any lead-up or warning, I blurt out, “I have a proposition.”

  He glances at me. “This should be interesting.”

  “I need a passport. Unfortunately, I’m a bit short.”

  He scoffs. “You’re not begging for currency, are you? That’s not very attractive.”

  “I’m not begging,” I snap.

  I fold my hands in my lap, calming myself before I continue. If I want him to hear me out, I need to appear amiable, which means I’ll have to swallow my pride. This braggart is my last hope.

  Noah turns onto my street, closing in on my house. I don’t have much time left. “I can get you speakeasy codes,” I say.

  “You’re bartering codes? For what?”

  “Access codes for your pocket watch.”

  Noah almost hits the curb as he pulls up to my house. His glare could burn a hole right through me. “You’re not getting my watch, Fly.”

  “Please, Noah. I really need a passport.”

  “Now you’re begging.”

  I fight back the tears building in my chest. “I don’t enjoy having to do this, but I’m desperate.”

  “Why do you need to get off-grid so badly?”

  I hesitate. If I tell him the truth, he’s liable to report my brother. “It’s probably best if I keep that to myself.”

  Irritated, he reaches across me to open my door and force me out. His arm grazes my chest, causing my skin to tingle. He pulls back as if struck by a lightning. We avoid all sorts of eye contact.

  His voice is rough as he says, “I don’t need speakeasy codes from you. I have my sources.”

  “But you got caught trying to get codes last time. I can get them for you, no problem.”

  “I said I don’t need them.”

  “Okay, forget about your precious watch. Maybe you can just loan me the money? I’ll pay you back.”

  His face has hardened to stone. “Why would I help you?”

&
nbsp; This might be the most humiliating moment in the history of shameful occasions. Still, I look him squarely in the eyes. “You could help me because it’s the right thing to do. The genteel thing to do.”

  Noah stares out his window, avoiding me. “I’ve already saved your life. Got you a new bag. What more do you want from me?”

  I choke out a laugh. “It’s your fault you had to drag me out of the river and get me a new bag. You could’ve stopped Parker from acting like a buffoon.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a few moments. “It’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think? Helping someone I don’t even know,” he says.

  I don’t bother reminding him we’ve gone to school together since kindergarten. Before the tears start rolling down my cheeks, I get out of the car and yell for all the neighbors to hear, “Never mind. I don’t need your damn help!”

  “Good!” He peels out and speeds away, leaving me on the curb.

  7

  When I get into the house, I don’t bother turning on the lights. I don’t go to the kitchen to prepare my father’s medicine. Or turn on the radio. I run straight upstairs to my room and collapse face first onto my bed.

  After a hearty cry, which lasts precisely five minutes because I don’t have time to waste wallowing in self-pity, I brush away my tears and start combing my drawers for something to pawn. I don’t need Noah Brenson’s help. I don’t need anyone. I rummage through my desk, pulling out scraps of paper with half-written notes, dried up pens and a couple of birthday cards from when I was younger. I come across a stack of old photos shoved far back in the drawer—my mother cradling me in her arms when I was a baby. My beautiful mother with her long blond hair and pale blue eyes. In one of the photos, Achilles is standing by her side, the sun gleaming off his blond hair. He inherited our mother’s light coloring, while I got our father’s dark hair and violet-blue eyes. I’m mesmerized by the faded image. The sapphire necklace glimmering around her neck catches my attention. I had forgotten about that piece of jewelry only worn on special occasions. A small flicker twinges in my chest—that necklace would definitely procure enough for a passport. I can’t. Can I? Pawn something so precious. I don’t even know if it’s still around. Beads of sweat gather on my forehead. I know my mother would want me to find Achilles and bring him home to save our father. Something far more precious than some jewelry she no longer needs.