by C. B. Stone
The second problem is a tiny bit trickier though. When Selection does occur, how will I make sure they Select me? I’m the least likely person to get Selected. No one’s going to be suspicious of my beliefs. Absolutely no one. I sigh, incredulous that unbelief is a bigger problem for me right now than Believing. That’s why I’m out here, kicking around the charcoal of the Old World. I kind of hope me being out here at all is enough for them to look my way, but I don’t think it is. They never noticed my frequent trips into the Old World before, so why would they start now? No, I’ve got to give them a bigger reason. A reason they can’t ignore and I’ve decided what that reason will be. I’m going to find something banned and get caught with it.
Unfortunately, it’s not enough to just get caught with a book or clothing or something they know is from the ruins. Instead, I’ve got to come back with something bad... something from a church for instance. The ghost of a grin crosses my face, and I can’t help feeling quite pleased with myself in spite of the direness of the situation. So that’s what I’m looking for, a church. I hope Jacob was right and this charcoal landscape is where the old churches used to stand. Even more so, I hope amidst all the rubble I can find something truly incriminating.
I haven’t had a lot of luck as of yet and it’s starting to worry me. What if I can’t find anything? What if there’s nothing to find? There’s every possibility Jacob’s searching all these years has all been for nothing. Maybe—probably—the churches of the Old World are nothing more than rubble, destroyed completely by the people we now call the Elite. I bite off a sigh of frustration, but still refusing to abandon my big plan.
To my right I notice a building half caved in. It’s smaller than the others. It’s hard to tell, but I’m willing to bet it likely wasn’t one of those buildings that disappeared into the skies. Its bricks are blackened and what may have once been a door is little more than a pile of sticks on the ground near an opening. But there is an opening. I go to it and step carefully over the cracked wooden remains of the door. Inside, it’s stuffy and the air is stale. There obviously hasn’t been anyone in here since it was burned down.
Once inside, I’m not sure what kind of building it is. The inside of it is different from most of the Old World buildings I’ve seen or been inside of. Definitely wasn’t one of those sky scraper buildings, that’s for sure. Moving deeper inside, I continue to study my surroundings.
There’s a long middle aisle that covers the entire length of the large, single room. Wooden beams from the ceiling have collapsed on top of it, making it difficult for me to reach the other side. Gray light filters in through the non-existent roof, making the room appear ghostly. The quiet certainly doesn’t help. It’s not even the same quiet from outside. The quiet that fills the west side of the ruins is all about instant destruction. It’s about the feeling people didn’t even get a chance to take a breath before the end was upon them. This silence is different. I don’t know why though, all I know is it feels... more peaceful somehow? Weird. I shrug to myself and continue exploring.
Along either side of the middle aisle are rows and rows of benches. Many of them are charred completely black and are chipped so bad they’ve collapsed in the middle. Some have just been moved out of alignment, skewed so that they’re running into each other, and some even on top of others.
At the other end of the room it looks like there’s some sort of platform or dais, but the roof has caved down on it, covering it completely so I can’t see for sure what used to be there.
There’s little more than piles of dust and debris from the roof all along the floor. I jump over it and sidestep as best I can. It’s so quiet here I can hear my feet echo where they touch solid floor and creak where they hit wood. When I come to the wooden beams that block the aisle, I gingerly try to climb over them. Bracing myself with my hands, wrinkling my nose and hoping I’m not touching anything toxic, I dig my foot in and heave myself over the huge beam. I think I’ve made it and crawl over other pieces of wood to the other side, when I hear an ominous snapping sound.
I let out a cry just as the beams crack beneath me and I fall, landing hard on the ground with a grunt pain. My breath whooshes from my lungs on impact. A cloud of dust drifts up into the air, with light coming in through the roof making the individual specs of dust visible as they float on the air. I lay on my back, gasping for air and coughing, taking a moment to make sure I don’t have any serious injuries. I grimace, knowing I’m going to be sore later regardless.
I think I’m mostly okay, so I roll onto my side, ready to get to my hands and knees before pushing up to stand. Before I do though, I pause, my eyes caught on something I’d never have noticed had I not taken a spill of the beams. There on the floor, hidden under one of the long wooden rows, is a small book. It’s old and barely larger than my two hands put together. My eyes widen with surprise. I can’t believe I’ve found a book in this place. The only time I’ve ever come across books with Jacob was when we scouted schools and libraries, and most of those books hadn’t survived the brutality of time very well.
I worry this one hasn’t either.
With trembling hands, still shaken from my fall, I reach out for it, half afraid it might disintegrate the moment I touch it. But it doesn’t. I breathe a minute sigh of relief and gently slide it across the floor toward me. It’s covered in dust. I run a finger along the top of it and wrinkle my nose, coming away with a thick layer of the stuff. I wipe my finger on my pants, and taking a deep breath, I blow hard, blowing the dust off it, and making myself cough in the process amidst the cloud that rises in my face. I wave a hand and wipe my nose, struggling not to sneeze and pile on insult to injury.
When the dust clears, I can finally see the cover. I squint, but I’m only able to make out one word on it.
Prayer.
My lips tilt in a small smile. Jacob, here I come.
VII
I thought they would have come for me in the night by now, like they did for Jacob, but they haven’t. I’m still here, thrusting my hands into lukewarm water to wash the grease off used dishes. It’s my turn to help in the kitchen today. I don’t mind though. At least not much.
All the girls in the Home rotate chores. Some have to cook, some clean, some have to babysit the younger girls. Whatever needs doing around here, we mostly do ourselves. There are only five other women besides the Matron here who are adults and here by choice (we think), but the Home is their job and they have other tasks to perform besides chores.
Mostly tasks that involve keeping us all in line. Sometimes keeping girls from running away. I’ve never really understood that one myself. I hate this place as much as the next girl—it’s cold in the winters, sweltering in the summers; there’s very little food and what food we do have is terrible; we work ourselves into the ground for little more than a roof over our heads—but honestly, where would we run to?
Running away suggests there is somewhere out there better than here and I just don’t buy that. I’ve seen what’s out there, and it’s no better than anywhere else from what I can tell. Instead I scrub, even though the water I boiled when I started is barely warm anymore and a film of grease floats on the surface.
Miriam’s in the kitchen today, too. Her job is to dry the plates when I’m done with them. She’s been doing so for the last twenty minutes with a silence that feels deafening. We haven’t discussed Rehabilitation, Jacob, or much of anything since the night she told me what I would have to do to get my best friend back.
I don’t think we ever will discuss any of those things again and honestly, that’s fine with me. Thoughts of Trials have raced around in my head for the last three weeks, making me crazy. I don’t need anyone prompting a chat about them, too.
There is one question I’d like to ask her, but I doubt I ever will. It’s something I feel no one has the right to ask really. If I thought it would help get Jacob back, I would of course, but I don’t think it will. I keep my mouth shut even though it repeats over and over aga
in in my head:
Why were you taken?
When we finish, I drain the sink into two large buckets so I can dump the water outside. The pipes in the kitchen are so bad we try not putting anything in them if we can help it. When the buckets are full, I take one in either hand, barely able to lift them, and start to penguin walk toward the back door. I have to put down the buckets if I want to open the door and I’m just about to do so when Miriam opens it for me.
My lips part in surprise. Her task is done and she doesn’t have to linger, but she does. I can’t help wondering why.
“Thanks,” I grunt, struggling with the buckets.
When I’ve made it out the door and am perched on the back porch, she calls to me, “Selection is tomorrow Sinna.”
I drop the buckets too fast, making them splash over my legs when they hit the ground. I turn to look at Miriam, ready to ask how she knows, but the door is already closing behind her as she heads back toward the interior of the Home.
Tomorrow. I don’t wonder why she’s told me this. I know why. Because it’s my only shot if I want them to take me to Trial.
Clenching my hands into fists at my side, I take a deep breath. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, everything changes.
******
I sleep fitfully tonight, tossing and turning as visions of white rooms and blank stares fill my head. When I wake up, groggy and bleary-eyed, it’s dawn. Most of the other girls are asleep, unaware today is Selection day and they might just leave here forever. Except for Miriam. She’s up, sitting on the edge of her bed, already fully dressed. She’s brushing her ashy hair, staring at the wall and rocking back and forth slowly.
She knows what today is, and I consider for the first time how much it must terrify her. Chances are, she’ll never go back to Rehabilitation, but the fear must always be there. I can’t imagine it ever goes away once you’ve been taken. It doesn’t go away even if you’ve never been taken, like me. But I’m certain it’s even worse for her. Fear of the unknown can sometimes be less terrifying than fear of the known. Sometimes.
My mouth opens and I’m about to say something to comfort her, but change my mind at the last minute. There’s nothing I can say to make her feel better. I dress in silence instead, waiting like she does for the announcement to come that will call us to the courtyard.
By midday, the announcement has been made and we are all corralled to the courtyard. There we listen to the governing rules of the After World. They’re always the same. They scroll along the glass screen as well, but I’m too nervous to follow along. Most of us can’t read anyway, so it doesn’t matter.
I echo the rules in my head as they are broadcasted out to us.
Don’t repeat the mistakes of the Old World.
Don’t seek love, don’t engage in war.
And above all else, don’t Believe.
I don’t believe, I think to myself. But I need you to think I do. My hands are in my coat pockets, my fingers stroking the thin edge of the book I found in the ruins three weeks ago. Its edges are frayed and the book itself is half eaten away by time and the elements. But one word is still visible in the title and I know it’s enough. That one word will cost me everything, while giving me the only chance to get it all back I’ll ever get.
After the rules finish, several men start moving through the crowd. They are dressed in white suits customary to the Elite that appear immune to any dirt or grime. Maybe they only wear the suits once and then toss them so any dirt they’ve accumulated won’t stain their image. I have to suppress a nervous giggle at the thought.
The sterile image is super important for the Elite.
These men are Selectors. They’re here to weed through us and find the weakest among us. They’re looking for those who genuinely Believe—but are too young, stubborn, or stupid to hide it. They’ve stopped looking at me altogether when they come. No one thinks I’m a Believer.
That’s why I’ve brought the book, and drop it, making it as obvious as I can, letting it slip out of my pocket to fall to the cobblestone ground at my feet. And when the Selector nearest me sees it, I make a point to kneel down to retrieve it. The key is to make it fast enough to look suspicious, but slow enough he still sees me do it.
It works. My heart is in my throat, but my ploy works. The Selector—a middle aged man with a severe face, frown lines, and a shiny bald head—sees me reach for the book, snatching it up. His eyes narrow and all of his attention focuses on me, much to the relief of everyone else in the area I’m sure.
“You there,” he barks at me.
I turn away, pretending like I don’t hear him.
“You,” he says louder, stepping toward me. His hand reaches out to grip my upper arm, then he spins me around to face him. Eyes wide, I stare up at him, mute. This part is not an act, I’m so nervous my mind is blank for a moment. Gripping my arm tighter, he asks, “What was that you just picked up?”
Recovering some of my poise, I make a point to shove my hands deeper into my pockets and avert my gaze as I mutter, “Nothing.”
His eyes glance down at my jacket pockets, then back up to my face. “Empty your pockets,” he demands.
I hesitate. I’d like to say this moment of hesitation is just part of the act, and I’m not deathly scared of getting caught with the book, but that’s a lie.
I’m terrified. I can barely keep myself from visibly trembling. It’s too late to go back now. Moving slow, I turn my pockets inside out and the book falls once more to the ground with a dull thunk. Everyone around us freezes, as though we all collectively sucked in a breath and held it tightly in our lungs at the same time.
The book has fallen face up, the word Prayer easily visible on the cover.
After a moment, the Selector squats down awkwardly and retrieves the book. He doesn’t open it, doesn’t examine it. He just straightens and shoves it into his jacket, hiding it from view.
“Come with me,” he says and the icy tone of his voice lets me know there is definitely no arguing. My stomach knots and I’m torn between heaving a sigh of relief or throwing up in fear. I do neither.
My plan worked. I’ve been Selected.
VIII
They take me away from the courtyard, movements brisk but calm. The man who picked me out still holds onto my upper arm painfully, but he’s been joined by five others, each wearing the same pearly white suit. Two are women, the rest are men, and they all are dragging someone else along beside them. Most of the people they’re dragging are young children, though there’s one other who is around my age. A boy, but I don’t recognize him at all.
One of the children is struggling, a little girl with red hair split into pigtails. Her heels are dug into the ground as much as she can, but it does nothing to slow the relentless progress of the man who is holding tightly to her wrist. He continues to drag her along, not even registering her resistance.
The rest of us go quietly.
I glance just once behind me and watch as the crowd in the courtyard disperses, returning to their everyday lives as though nothing of much importance has happened at all. It hasn’t for them, but my entire life is changing before my eyes as I move farther and farther away from the yard.
The Selectors remain silent the entire way, dragging us along.
After a short walk, we reach an open space in the wall that surrounds the Gate. A road leads out from it, in the opposite direction of the Old World ruins. Parked beside the opening is a white van. It’s huge, but easy to miss. It’s practically invisible amidst all the snow. It’s exactly like the van that drove off with Jacob months ago.
When we reach it, the Selectors open up the back doors and urge us inside. The little redheaded girl goes last. They have to shove her inside and hold her down to buckle her seat belt. When she’s strapped in, they close the door and lock it.
There’s no point in trying to escape now, I know. The doors are locked and can only be opened from the outside. We’re stuck in the van until someone lets us out.<
br />
The little redhead tries anyway, and I can’t help but admire her persistence. After the first few miles though, she finally gives up. Even if she did manage to get out, where would she go? Home is several miles behind us, the Elite Center is almost an hour ahead of us and between those two things lies nothing but a harsh, empty wasteland filled with snow.
She’d be dead before she ever made it anywhere.
“Where are we going?” she asks aloud.
That explains her behavior. This is her first time. I can tell already that, despite most of them being young, everyone else has already gone for Trials before.
With a sigh, I cross my arms and settle back into my seat. I’m not going to waste my breath answering. She’ll find out soon enough. Instead, I stare out the window, watching the barren landscape pass me by.
We arrive about an hour later. There is a large wall that surrounds the Elite Center, painted white with no windows to speak of. The van stops just outside this wall at a gateway nestled there. A man dressed in white—not a suit, but some kind of uniform that marks him as a soldier instead of just an ordinary Elite—comes out of a guardhouse that sits just beside the gateway.
He leans in through the driver’s side window of the van. “Papers?” he asks, his voice dull and bored.
The bald man who grabbed me in the yard is driving. He leans over to grab a file folder off of his dash and hands it to the guard.
The guard flips through the folder, barely even reading any of the information written on the papers. “Alright. Go on through.”
He waves the van on, stepping back as he does so to press a large red button on a silver panel. The gate opens to allow us entrance. We drive down into an underground garage—all covered in white tile, of course—where several other identical vans park.
The Selectors get out of the van and yank open our doors. I knew it would come as soon as the doors opened and so did they. The little redheaded girl jumps out of the van and makes a mad dash for the entrance we just drove through.
