The Block

by Ben Oliver

  I glance to my left and see Galen gesturing offstage. His panic fills me with happiness. The show continues, cutting to Maddox.

  There is a murmur from the crowd now, as Galen drags a soldier onto the stage and points up toward Apple-Moth.

  I know that time is running out. Once they kill the drone, I’m next. I’m sure I’ve already done enough damage, but I need them to see that it’s not the government that is running things, that Happy is behind all of this.

  “… you should be thanking us,” the Maddox projection says. “We are repairing your broken species, destroying a diseased batch and starting anew.”

  The sound cuts out and the image behind me disappears as a sonic round slams into Apple-Moth. I watch the tiny drone spin in the air, one of its rotor blades badly damaged, but its lights still flickering, green, pink, yellow.

  A second round hits Apple-Moth, and the drone’s lights go out completely. There will be no self-repairing this time. Apple-Moth is gone.

  Goodbye, friend, I think. You did great.

  A thousand heads turn and watch in silence as Apple-Moth falls to the floor, listening as it smashes to pieces. And then they turn back to the stage.

  I’m grabbed by two hosts and held firm. I’m not struggling, though, not trying to break free.

  I watch the crowd as Galen steps back up to the platform. Finally, his soldiers have seen him for who he really is; finally, their eyes have been opened.

  Galen’s projected image flickers back into being behind him as he straightens his tie and smiles.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Galen says, regaining his composure eerily quickly, “it appears today we will not be joined by the leader of the revolution. Instead, I ask you, the survivors of Earth, what should become of him?”

  I wait, scanning the blank faces, anticipating the first angry cry of revolt against Happy.

  “Kill the rebel!” a voice calls from the middle of the crowd.

  “Kill the liar!” another joins in.

  And then they’re all shouting, baying for my blood, screaming for my death.

  I’m frozen with disbelief; I can’t speak, I can’t move. I watch the angry faces of a thousand soldiers as their words become a jumble of sound.

  I had expected to die today, but I dared to hope that I could open some eyes before I left.

  Galen raises his hands, and the hall falls silent. He beckons offstage and an executioner with a heart trigger walks by me. The crowd are now so silent that each of the tall woman’s footsteps can be heard echoing around the enormous room. She stands beside the Overseer.

  “Mr. Kane,” Galen says, his voice now echoing too, in the silence. “The people have spoken. Is there anything you would like to say?”

  I’m going to die, I think. I’m going to die, and it was all for nothing. They don’t care. This man’s followers don’t care. I showed them the truth and they don’t want to see it.

  I look around. The faces are frozen in sneers and anticipation of my deletion.

  They won’t listen, I think, but there are hundreds of thousands of survivors around the world who are listening.

  “Never give up,” I say, raising my head to the camera drones. “History is not the words written on a page; history lives in hearts and minds and in the rocks and the oceans. It can’t be erased by evil. You are fighting for what is right. They are clinging to power with frayed minds and fingertips. Remember, we don’t do running away.”

  Galen nods to the executioner. She hands the small tube of metal to him. Galen points it at my chest, and I hear three beeps coming from deep inside.

  I smile, knowing that all across the world there are people just like Pander, like Molly, like Igby and Malachai and Pod and Sam and Blue and Kina. People who will find a way to win.

  I look out over the heads of the crowd, and I try to picture Kina Campbell one more time.

  “Kina, I love you,” I say.

  Galen releases his grip on the trigger.

  There’s a sensation of falling.

  There’s time to feel all the beauty of the world.

  And then nothing.

  It doesn’t hurt.

  This is my second published book, which makes me twice as lucky as I ever thought I’d get. And, yes, luck plays a huge part (even though some will tell you it’s all TALENT and HARD WORK and DEDICATION and blah blah blah).

  The Block was written in a bit of a haze. I was working full-time as an English teacher, driving two hours a day, and surviving mostly on coffee.

  Without a long list of people, this book would be mostly incoherent rambling (hopefully it’s not still incoherent rambling …). I want to thank some of those people here:

  Sarah Robb—I wouldn’t be able to do this without you.

  Chloe Seager—I wouldn’t have a writing career if you hadn’t taken a chance on me.

  Kesia Lupo—for helping to turn my first draft into a book I’m really proud of.

  Laura Myers—when I could hardly think straight anymore, you made things make sense.

  Fraser Crichton—for making some incredible catches.

  Jazz Bartlet Love—for a million awesome ideas.

  Barry Cunningham—your enthusiasm got me over the finish line this time.

  Samantha Palazzi—for keeping me sane while my first book came out during a pandemic.

  Vault49—for designing the brilliant cover of The Block!

  Darren and Dave—I hate you both.

  Mum and Dad—I thanked you in the last book … I SUPPOSE I’ll thank you in this one too!

  Cammy Angus—FoB.

  BEN OLIVER grew up in Scotland and began writing long before he could spell. He attended the University of Stirling, where he studied English but spent most of his time trying to write a novel. Ben’s first short story was published when he was eighteen, and since then he’s been published in over a dozen literary magazines and anthologies. Fueled by astounding amounts of coffee, Ben completed The Loop—his first full-length YA manuscript—in Edinburgh, where he currently lives and teaches English at secondary school.

  Copyright © 2021 by Benjamin Oliver

  All rights reserved. Published by Chicken House, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, CHICKEN HOUSE, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Chicken House, 2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  First edition, May 2021

  Jacket design by Maeve Norton

  Jacket art © 2021 by Vault 49

  e-ISBN 978-1-338-58935-1

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

 

 

 
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