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  The ride to school is long in the ceaseless traffic of the city. The streets were built long before automobiles and mechanical contraptions were thought of and it seems that in the time between no one decided to take a break from building and plan things out. The resulting city is one where everything new is precariously built on the crumbling bones of the old. Typical, though. Advertisements, television—the Caretakers always want you to have something new, something more. They’re always pressing more and more down the city’s exhausted throat with little thought of the ramifications. New filters flood the markets daily, masks of every size shape and dimension. Custom fit, premium: you name it, they’ll make it. But it’s always the same thing. It’s always the same masks, same filters, and same trench coats with just enough changes to make you want them. Mother always insists on having the newest mask, the newest filters, and I always indulge her. Twice a year or more she throws away all the filters in the spare bedroom to buy this month’s version of Mountain Air filters, youth-small. Somewhere there is a mountain of discarded things, still good, still working, but garbage nonetheless.

  Coming out of my head, I look around to the other people on the bus. Neptus Memorial is a primary through secondary school so most of these kids are younger, but there are a few other older kids on the bus as well. Masks and trench coats make it difficult to tell who’s who on the bus. The masks further exacerbate the issue because it’s really hard to understand each other when talking. Isolated in the mask’s custody, we sit alone, stare out the window alone, and converse to ourselves. I shift my gaze back out the window to watch the blurs of people, cars, and propaganda posters pass me by.

  The transport begins to slow and I see the familiar landmarks that signal to me that school is only moments away. I pull the straps of my mask again to ensure they’re tight. Looking around, the other kids are performing similar last minute checks as well. Some are even going so far as to reform their seals by momentarily depriving themselves of air. The transport glides smoothly to a stop. We wait for a moment as the bus sits idle with the doors closed. I clasp the strap of my school bag tightly and prepare to exit. The driver gives the signal by raising her arm out toward the door. It opens shortly thereafter. Starting with the first row, right to left, everyone stands then walks out into the aisle and then down to the exit; ordinary, uniformed, disciplined. I watch the people in front of me go. Watching the girl sitting one row up and opposite me, I wait my turn. When she goes I count a single breath then follow. Shuffling down the narrow walkway, I keep my eyes fixed on my feet. I step off the bus and join the line for the school’s airlocks.

  Monitors stand along the edges of the line in brown uniforms under dark blue trench coats permanently stained black from ash. Their rebreathers are jet black like the ones the Peace Officers wear, only less threatening and ominous. My eyes haven’t moved from my feet and my legs have shuffled me forward out of reflex. The school frowns on disobedience and praises strict discipline above all other subjects a student is to learn while at school. I hate the school’s stifling rules, but the fear of repercussions and detention force me to bite my tongue and step in line. Approaching the door, I dare to glance over at one of the monitors standing by the airlocks. From her build I see it is clearly a woman, but the roughness of the soot-covered trench coat and harsh angles of the jet black rebreather make her appear like a hyper-masculine soldier from the posters littering the depressed area of downtown. Her head turns, and though it is impossible to tell, I am certain I feel her eyes piercing through me. Fear trembles throughout my body like a hot poison snaking through my spine. I look away, back at my feet. It’s too close to look around now. I hate this feeling of helplessness and isolation but what can I do? They are always there and always watching.

  Ahead of the person’s feet in front of me is the silver lip of the airlock. They step in and disappear as the door revolves around them. I’m next. I take a gulp of carbonized air and hope the monitor won’t pull me aside to chew me out and give me a demerit for looking up at her. My feet shuffle forward and all that lies in front of me is the silver of the airlock door. I lift my foot and it starts its descent into the chamber when a hand falls on my shoulder. Frozen, I turn to look; it’s the hand of the woman I made eye contact with. Behind the veil of my mask I grimace in anticipation of her scolding.

  “Do not take off your mask once you have stepped through the airlock. I repeat, do not take off your mask once you’ve stepped through the airlock. Do you understand? Nod your head to comply.”

  It is a moment before I realize her words were not a reprimand but a warning. As quickly as I piece together her words I oblige her by nodding enthusiastically.

  “Step through.”

  She removes her hand from my shoulder. I follow her advice without another thought and step into the airlock. The system depressurizes like normal and pumps in clean air. The airlocks aren’t broken so they must be taking precautions after yesterday’s incident. Before I can think of anything else, the door opens and I’m face to face with a towering male monitor. He leans down to my level, placing the glass eye slits of his mask in line with the circles of mine.

  “Head down the hall toward the auditorium. Do not remove your mask. Repeat, do not remove your mask. Nod to comply.”

  I understand the redundancy is for our protection but the constant reminder of my powerlessness sits heavily in my stomach. I cannot stop a look of frustration from forming on my face. Yet behind my mask, this mini rebellion is concealed. These masks are good for some things I suppose. I nod out of deeply ingrained habit and walk past him down the hall. The kid who entered before me must only be in his third or fourth year. I start walking quickly, following his form down the hallway. I remember being his age at this school, and there was always an omnipresent feeling of fear and doubt. I do not envy him, even as I approach the end of schooling in a few short months and I’ll be forced to go out into the world. Being that young and coming from an earlier life of cartoons and bliss into this kind of regimented asylum for “the chronically under-disciplined” was a shock I think I’m still reeling from. It almost took the curiosity and life out of me. Almost.

  I watch the boy press open the auditorium’s double doors and enter. They swing closed behind him and for a moment I feel alone in the hallway. The thought of running away into the bathroom flashes in my mind. I could sit out the rest of the day in silence and avoid whatever awaits me in the auditorium.

  I entertain the thought for a few rebellious moments before the burning press of all the eyes of the countless students behind me drive it from my mind. I put my hand on the door handle and push while anxiety swells in my chest. I enter the auditorium, but my eyes are on my feet and my mind is far from the school. I wish to break free from the confines of school and its day-to-day monotony, from the masks we all wear, and the ceaseless fear that grips us all. I desperately want to break free, but I don’t know where I’d even start. My ignorance and doubt feed my timidity and the rising tide of action fizzles away. I don’t know what is holding me back more, the Great Society for filling my every waking moment with trepidation or the fact that I allow it to permeate my thoughts?

  Sensing the presence of the seats to my left, I pull out of my head and back into the auditorium. Looking up, I see the bleachers rapidly filling with students. Feeling the throng pushing at my back, I survey the seats and quickly find an empty one and press toward it. The steps up the bleachers strain under the weight of so many students and sway under foot. Ten rows up, I begin my shuffle to the sixth place down and the empty seat waiting for me. My small feet avoid other students with ease. No one looks up at me, their eyes are all fixed to their feet. I take my seat quickly without disturbing the students sitting around me. I’ve had enough of looking at my feet. It is all any of us ever do. Slowly, I lift my head and look around the auditorium. The bleachers take up the entire length of one wall. The two walls running perpendicular are plain except for
the identical sets of double doors in their centers. At the base of the far wall is a stage made of polished, dark brown wood. The wall behind it is decorated with sports banners and trophies, but larger and set off by its own gilded frame in the center is the large deep blue flag of the Great Society. The field of the flag is a dark blue, almost black. In the center is the depiction of a man and a woman holding their hands together under the radiating light of a star that has at its center a piece of coal. The auditorium’s walls are the dark grey of concrete which makes all the flags and banners, but especially the flag of the Great Society, stand out clearly.

  The rest of the students have settled in and the monitors have moved from their places outside in the hall and are now standing at intervals around the room. Arms crossed, they stand along the walls creating a very real sense of being trapped. Two of the largest male monitors stand in front of the two sets of double doors. The auditorium is quiet with only the sound of shifting students and the slight scuffing of feet on the benches. The Authoritarian of Neptus Memorial steps out onto the stage. His black polished boots echo loudly in the stillness of the room. Taking his place at the small, dark wood podium I get the best look at him I’ve had in years. He is an old, stately looking man. Even through the glass disks of his mask, his eyes are piercing and as dark as the wood he’s standing on. Some of his grey hair is poking out under the straps of his mask. He wears the brown uniform of the instructors but it is made of higher quality fabric and stitched and tailored perfectly. His chest is covered in blue and black ribbons and a gold aiguillette hangs over his right shoulder. Even from the great distance between us, and the obscuring slits of the rebreather he’s wearing, I see contempt for us glistening in his dark eyes.

  “Rise for the Anthem.” He commands, his voice projected from a microphone in his mask.

  A great noise of a thousand students rising in unison to the Authoritarian’s voice shatters the silence. I find myself standing among them, without having given conscious thought to it. The hidden speakers in the vaulted room crackle to life and begin to play. The recording of the Einsam Children’s Choir guides us along as we struggle to sing with muffled voices. My lips form the words but no sound passes through them. Whether the other students are enthusiastic or not is hard to tell by their muffled murmurs.

  “The flag on high! Our society closely knit! Our Great Society marches, step, step, step! Together marching strong we drive subversives from our midst. Loyalty to each other, and from the Caretakers we’re granted gifts. With hard work and discipline we build a lasting peace. United in our purpose we toil, with heart, and grit.”

  The speakers crackle again and go silent. The students remain standing. A few have their heads lifted up, as if inspired by the song. I feel no inspiration, only bewilderment at the absurdity of a recorded anthem played atop a muffled mess.

  “Sit!” The Authoritarian’s voice booms. Startled, I sit obediently. The other students respond similarly and once again the silence of the auditorium is disturbed by the settling of a thousand seats.

  Waiting until the room falls again into stillness, the Authoritarian addresses us. “As I am sure most of you are aware, yesterday there was a tragedy at one of the city’s other schools. Their air filters failed and it resulted in the death of twelve students. As a precaution I have ordered that until our school’s air filters are checked, and redundant systems installed, all students and faculty will wear their masks at all times. I understand the difficulty the instructors and yourselves will have in communicating with your masks on so I have arranged that we will spend the next week or so watching some of the great films our Caretakers have created for us. Do not, under any circumstances, remove your masks. Any student found removing their own, or attempting to remove the mask of another student, will be severely punished and handed over to the authority of Peace Officers under suspicion of sedition. If you do what you are told this will be an easy few weeks for all of you. Do you comply?”

  In a thunderous roar, hundreds of muffled voices shout in chorus.

  “Yes, sir!”

  My lips stay pressed together tightly.

  “Starting from the right side exit row by row in an orderly fashion toward your respective classrooms. You are dismissed.”

  The students sitting at the far right end in the first row begin the process while the majority of the students remain perfectly still. No hand, head, nor foot dares to move out of sequence. Sitting obediently, we wait minute after minute in the silence of our minds.

  After having waited for what feels like an eternity, my turn to rise and exit lockstep with the rest of the school arrives. I stand and begin my escape from one room into the confines and restraints of another. The sounds of rhythmic breaths and footfalls serve to keep the time. I follow the other twelfth-year students out the door on the opposite side of the auditorium from where we came in. The monitors have spread out and are now filling the twelve branching hallways leading off to each year’s wing of the massive concrete and steel school. Keeping my eyes on my feet to avoid the monitors sharp glares, the journey down the long hall is mind numbing. Step, step, step, step. I shuffle along and envision myself on a chain gang like the ones I’ve seen in old films.

  Reaching the classroom, I take my seat and relish in the end of our long march. I scratch at the itch created by the imaginary manacles on my wrists. A few minutes of silence pass as we wait for the other students to arrive from the auditorium. After a few blissful moments of quiet and peace, the last student enters the room and takes his seat. Directly behind him is Instructor Speer. As soon as he enters the room I long for those few seconds of stillness and quiet back. He closes the door behind him with a crash. Taking his place at the front behind his desk, he stands for a moment and observes us through his rebreather’s slit glass eyes. The sound of his rebreather fills the room. Why must the silence always be broken by shallow and meaningless noises? I’m positive I could learn more from my own silent and still mind than the gruff and trivial words of Speer. Normally his young face is visible and his expertly styled brown hair bounces gently while he pontificates and gesticulates. However, these outward qualities mask his true nature which, despite his youth, is cruel and vindictive. The rebreather seems at home on his body and makes him look the way I imagine he should.

  “I understand how sad and scared you must feel, but feeling scared or shedding tears after such a tragedy befell your contemporaries, is a sign of immaturity and weakness. A wise and strong person, such as myself, feels overjoyed. And I am overjoyed. Overjoyed that I have escaped a gagging, screaming death. But I also feel elated because now measures will be taken to prevent further tragedies. Your fellow students sacrificed themselves so that you could live in a world that is safer and more vigilant than the one they departed. Be thankful, and rejoice that you have such good Caretakers who were able to respond appropriately to this tragedy. That being said, how is the class doing today?”

  In a chaotic roar, each student responds boisterously with their own expression of “joy.”

  Letting my lips crack open, I let out a mutter, “Suffocated.”

  Instructor Speer’s reaction to the class’s outcry is impossible to gauge on his face hidden behind his mask, but his smug body language strongly suggests that he is relishing their sycophantic words. Now that his ego has been recharged, Speer turns to the wall behind him and presses his hand into the projector’s command module. His fingers dance in the rays of light awakening the aging projector which comes on in a flicker of prismatic colors. The equally antiquated speakers crackle like the ones in the auditorium. As the projector warms up, the start screen for a Great Society film comes into focus.

  “Because we will be watching films for the next week or so, I decided we have the time to start at the beginning. Today we’re going to watch one of my favorite films. Year One, the Origins of Our Great Society. This film tells the tale of how the Great Society formed itself from the
ashes of oppression and foreign invasion. You should take in the whole film and appreciate it all, but pay special attention to the story of our first High Caretaker Antonius Neptus. He is truly our greatest hero, having singlehandedly formed the nation and created a great and lasting peace.”

  I could sense my own disinterest among my fellow students, but after twelve years we’ve all become experts at repressing our true opinions. No one makes a peep, not even me.

  “Remain awake, remain attentive. When this week of movies and vacation is over there will be a test, a detailed one.”

  For a moment I contemplate living out one of my long-held fantasies. In it, all of the students spring from their desks, charge Speer, strap him to his chair then run out of the school. We’d run and run until the thick smog clouds of the city disappeared and the towering shapes of the countless skyscrapers faded from view. We wouldn’t stop until we reached that mythic Mountain Air. But deep down I know it will always be a fantasy. I have never risen up, and even if I did, none of my classmates would rise up with me. They’d be the first to hold me back.

  The projected image dances to life while the narrator’s dark and smooth voice fills the room.

  “Here in the fourth century of the Great Society, we all take for granted the wonders and bounty we have been born into. From time to time, however, we should all pause and remember the great patriots and martyrs whose blood and bones our civilization’s foundations are built upon. Be thankful and appreciative of what they have given you…”

  The film continues for almost two hours, but none of it sticks. Drifting off into my own world I watch the re-enacted scenes of the great evils of barbarity and hedonism in the old world and the great battles that were fought to eradicate them. I witness walls and blockades, made from the bodies of an untold number of patriotic martyrs, holding the rest of the uncivilized world at bay. The narrator names a dozen heroes and heroines, a hundred battles, and a thousand enemies, but their names all fail to imprint themselves within my mind. Only his final words work themselves out of the regular muck and propaganda that saturates everything that passes his lips.