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  “The greatest sacrifices of our Great Society have yet to be made. Are you willing to give everything to ensure the survival of the greatest human achievement?”

  After his words finally echo away, an image of a Peace Officer’s recruitment facility and Guardian’s barracks fill up the front wall of the classroom. The image lingers there, blaring, “Join Today,” even after Speer switches on the lights.

  Confidently standing in the diminishing light of the projector, Speer addresses us, his voice filled with energetic patriotism no doubt put there by the film.

  “I want all of you to take a moment and contemplate the heritage of sacrifice and turmoil our Great Society has endured for you. No matter which path you choose when you finish schooling and join the ranks of ours, the greatest of societies, always remember that giving your life in service to the Great Society is the least you can do.”

  The room falls silent. I see a few of the boys fidget with their sweaty palms under their desks. They’ve probably eaten the whole story up, taking each word as truth. I bet even now they’re planning their activities the day after our rapidly approaching graduation. They’ll wake up early, eat one last home-cooked meal from Mother then trod off into the muck-filled streets until they reach the Great Society recruiting offices. Inevitably there will already be a line and they will stand there for hours shuffling through soot in their haste to become thralls of the state. The last few years I’ve seen the lines with my own eyes, and no doubt most of these students will be there. Maybe once I would have joined them. Standing in line with them I would have dreamed of being a heroine of the state and having my own likeness cast in bronze to stand vigil over my grave for perpetuity. As desirable as that path may be for them, it is not the one for me. After watching the film, I am filled with new doubts. Were the walls and blockades built to keep them out or us in?

  Chapter Three

  “We will proceed to the dining hall. The Caretakers have graciously supplied us with emergency rations. I trust you all know how to use the liquid ports on your masks.”

  Speer’s words force me to put aside the questions still gnawing in the pit of my stomach from the documentary. I sit upright in my chair and focus on him.

  “Rise and proceed single file.”

  The room fills with the squeaks of chairs being pushed against the concrete floors. In silent choreography, the class lines up with mechanical precision. I do my part and fit effortlessly into the flow.

  The march down the hall is devoid of incident. Lockstep and staring at the feet in front of us, the only conversations that take place are safely contained within our individual minds.

  The dining hall is large with high, arched ceilings. It is the only beautiful part of the school. Its stone walls are carved with long, flowing lines and inlaid with white marble. This room’s beauty stands in stark contrast to the rest of the school’s rectilinear concrete monotony. Speer tells us that the whole school used to look like this but most of it was destroyed in a fire and when they rebuilt they did so in a more modern style. He says that the uniform concrete architecture is supposed to make us feel safe in its regularity and simplicity, but it feels just as isolating and suffocating as our masks.

  I stand at the counter holding my hand out ready for the emergency ration, having inched along in line mindlessly, mechanically. I’m constantly surprised at my ability to go through the motions without any effort of my own.

  “Take your ration. You’re holding up the line, student.”

  The server points at me from behind the box of rations. The server seems so out of place in his mask.

  “I’m sorry.” Tendrils of white-hot embarrassment dart across my face.

  I grab the small silver pouch and start to move toward the table when I hear a voice behind me.

  “If she was any more air-brained she’d blow away,” says the muffled voice from behind me.

  The embarrassment I’m already feeling intensifies and shoots down my neck. I don’t mean to zone out, but there is so little life outside my mind it’s hard not to retreat there. I make haste toward the nearest table, keeping my head low and my eyes fixed forward.

  I find a seat and place the silver pouch in front of me. I try not to look at the students passing by so as not to make eye contact with whoever made fun of me, but it is too late. She makes eye contact with me. Slim, tall, and flanked by other girls, Victoriana Zarrov is hard not to recognize with her bright blond hair flowing out from under her mask down to the middle of her back. She stares at me for a moment. It’s impossible to tell if she’s going to say something.

  “Oh, sorry. Just zoned out there for a second. Silly me,” she says.

  Her voice, normally too sweet to be genuine, sounds glassy and dark as it resonates through her mask. Her gaggle of friends erupt in a chorus of scratching, smoky laughter. The troop follows on Victoriana’s heels as she walks away, her shoulders back and proud. I close my eyes and let the stillness of my mind calm me down. She’s a terrible person and I just need to let her words go. At least she couldn’t see me blush today.

  I look down at the pouch. Its liquid contents jiggle when I pick up the bag. It feels thick and after my encounter with Victoriana I have little desire to eat. Placing the ration back on the table, my thoughts return to the documentary and the images of violence, war, and death. So much pain and suffering went into the construction of this world that I feel it seep through the very walls.

  Lunch hour passes quickly. We return to our classroom with the same automated enthusiasm and retake our seats. Speer sits waiting, reading a new copy of Drumbeat magazine. The projector is already warmed up, casting him in the dark blue shade of the flag. It suits him. Speer sits up when the last student enters and closes the door. While folding his magazine, he presses “play” on the command terminal.

  “Two more documentaries today. The first will explore the boundless wonders of coal. And the second will explore the history of our gas masks and the airlock systems. Remember to pay close attention. I highly advise you to take notes as well.”

  The documentary begins. Speer retakes his seat at the head of the class, contorting himself around to watch the video projected behind him.

  Neither of these documentaries is as captivating as the first and I struggle to recall a single scene from either. The information was so perfunctory and obvious that it’s hardly worth taking up space in my brain.

  The end-of-day bell rings and Speer excuses us. Orderly, we rise and march toward the exit and the silver transports that await us. The line at the airlock moves quickly and I soon find myself outside. The contrast is stark. The wind is strong today and ash and soot swirl wildly, obscuring my vision. I double check the buttons on my overcoat, pull my backpack straps tighter, and press through the wind toward the transports. But as I draw near a nervous tension builds within me. The thought of continuing to follow the same mindless routine fills me with dread. I reach the doorway but my feet refuse to take the step. For the briefest of moments I hesitate. Staring up the stairwell I see the young driver and her golden pigtails. Her head begins to turn toward me. Before our eyes can meet I step off to the side and push my way into the wind and away from the transport.

  Tucking my chin to my chest to guard my neck against the rough and stinging ash and soot, I make my way across the street and into the unknown. In all my seventeen years, I’ve never ventured along these streets. Near my apartment tower I am familiar with the streets, which are well-trodden by my footfalls, but I rarely—if ever—venture this far from home and familiarity. It’s exactly the kind of thing I need to do. Get away from what I know and venture into the mysterious world that surrounds me and of which I know so little.

  The wind begins to ease up as I walk and the ash begins to settle back down onto the sidewalk and streets. Sweepers emerge almost as soon as it does and begin removing heaping mounds, but no matter how frantically they s
weep, the streets seem to forever remain black and slick with soot. The buildings here are just as choked and cramped as every other part of the city. Making matters worse is the black-grey grime obscuring every sign and banner that could clue me in to my location. I’m lost, but I guess it doesn’t really matter because I don’t know where I’m going. Just as long as it’s not familiar and not home.

  As I wander, thoughts of the dead school kids fill my mind. I imagine being in my classroom, surrounded by other students I hardly know, and choking to death on poisoned air as Speer looks on from behind his rebreather. In my last gasping moments I would be alone in a room of strangers. I have no friends or anyone that I could cling to for comfort in those final agonizing moments. Despite her cruelty, Victoriana would at least have her sycophants beside her to reduce the isolation of death. Death, choking, sacrifice. The foundations of our Great Society. My imaginary death mingles with the depictions of dead, mounded martyrs from the documentary, their bright red blood covering the ground as the ash does now. Such morbid and dark thoughts. I try to push them from my mind, but everywhere I look, with every breath I take, I’m reminded by death’s looming presence. Just a filter away.

  Just as I begin to think I will aimlessly wander the streets with these horrific thoughts forever, the muted sound of thumping, heavy music stirs me out of my mind. I follow the sound around the corner of the building on my right and look down.

  A long staircase leads below street level. At the landing is a door that was probably painted blue when it was new. A sign hangs above it, but its words are incomprehensible under a thick covering of soot. The music is coming from behind the door and entices me toward it like a siren. Normally I am repelled by loud obnoxious sounds, like those of the television, but this music feels different. It’s deliberate and foreign. I’ve never heard anything like it before.

  Carefully, I make my way down the slick steps. Twice I have to catch myself on the handrail bolted into the concrete. Stepping onto the landing, my body fills with euphoric anticipation. My hand hovers over the knob for a second. With tingling fingers I turn the handle and step inside.

  Chapter Four

  The music, muted from behind the door, hits me with its full voice and vigor as I cross the threshold. There is no airlock. It takes a moment before that sinks in. As I begin to try and figure out what that means I realize the people dancing are mask-less. Eyes closed, the throng of people jump and thrash about wildly. Sweat beads on their skin as they press together in an organic, undulating mass. Nevertheless, they do not appear to be rhythmic or orderly, but syncopated and chaotically individual. Their clothes, too, are not the trench coats, stained black from daily use, but bright, revealing clothing. It is close, hot, and uncomfortably alien to me but I cannot leave. This is worlds away from home and exactly what I wanted.

  Pushing through the dancing bodies, I work my way toward the back. Every footfall is labored with the suction of the sticky floor. Pressing deeper and deeper in, I feel awash in a sea of music, light, heat, and humanity.

  I spot a bar to my right serving drinks of every color in tall thick glasses, undoubtedly the reason for the sticky floors. I continue on. Pressing deeper, I emerge from the pack and find, against the back wall, a row of empty tables. It seems everyone is dancing and no one feels like sitting.

  After taking a seat at a corner table, I slowly survey the room. Across from the dark wood bar is a stage lit up in bright orange lights. A man stands behind a musical input device the likes of which I’ve never seen before. His fingers sweep, dodge, and weave through the projected light and I immediately recognize its connection with the ebb and flow of the rhythms within the music. I close my eyes and let it wash over me. I sway silently, letting the beat drift me away.

  The tranquil blissfulness is disturbingly interrupted with the forceful sting of my mask being ripped from my face. Panic pulls me back into reality and I clutch at my mouth and nose in a pathetic attempt to keep the poisons out. A pungent aroma of alcohol, sugar, and sweat overwhelms me. I know I should have nothing to fear, all these people are dancing wildly, gulping deep breaths of air, but I’m so conditioned against the idea of breathing in buildings without an airlock that my hands remain over my mouth. Turning around to see who pulled off my mask, I come face-to-face with a woman not much older than myself. She is striking and her eyes burn with the reflected orange light from the stage.

  “If you’re going to try to fit in here you should at least look the part.”

  She practically shouts to make herself heard over the thundering noise of the music.

  “But there’s no airlock.” They are the only words I can think to reply and I immediately regret them.

  The woman tilts her head back and roars with laughter.

  “You are definitely not from around here. How old are you? I bet you’re still in school.”

  “Neptus Memorial. I only have a few months left before graduation.”

  Her face turns up in amused understanding.

  “Rich kid. I don’t think mommy and daddy would like to find out you’ve been hanging around a place like this.”

  “My parents don’t care what I do.”

  “Tell them you’ve been here and I’m sure you won’t have that smug look on your face.”

  I notice my smirk and drop it from my face. As we shouted to hear each other, the conversation escalated faster than I think either of us intended.

  The woman takes a deep breath and relaxes the tense look on her face.

  “I’m sorry kid, what’s your name?”

  “Evelyn. Evelyn Brennen. And you are?”

  Her face lights up with a smile.

  “Delia. Pleasure to meet you Evelyn.”

  She extends her hand toward me. I pull the glove off of my right hand and grasp her hand, firmly shaking it. We release hands and the music overtakes the silence growing between us.

  “If you want to talk, there is a quieter place.”

  “Sure.” I reply.

  Standing up as I speak, I follow her out of the dancehall through a door I didn’t notice on the way in. As I close the door behind me the music muffles and I can hear my thoughts again. I follow her farther into the room looking around at the walls. They are draped in bright fabrics. Covering the floor are similarly bright carpets dotted by pillows of assorted sizes and wild patterns. Taking us to the back, toward a particularly large and comfortable looking set of pillows, she plops down and beckons me to do the same on the one across from her. She turns my mask over and over in her hands.

  I fall onto the pillow. It wraps around me in a soft embrace. I relax for a moment then realize I still have my filthy overcoat on. Hastily I unbutton it and pull it off. Standing back up, I look at the now soiled pillow.

  “Don’t worry about it kid, happens all the time.”

  Sighing, I sit back down onto the pillow.

  “It’s just so beautiful. I’ve never been any place like this or seen…” My words trail off as my mind struggles to take in the radical vibrancy of the room.

  “I figured as much. I was much the same way the first time I ventured off the beaten path.”

  “I just can’t fit the two places together. The streets above and this place here are as different as night and day. There’s life here.”

  “Uncomfortable, isn’t it?”

  “It’s overwhelming.”

  “It gets better, but you’ll always have that nagging doubt that this place is wrong. That it shouldn’t be.”

  “But it should—it has to be.” I reply. The passion in my voice startles me.

  Delia smiles. “Agreed. But sadly that’s just not the way things are.”

  I pause for a moment. The way things are. The Caretakers, our Great Society. Regimented, isolated, dark, terrifying. “But why?” I reply. My words sound pathetic, but I feel their meaning deeply.

 
Delia’s face stiffens. “Maybe we should change the subject. How did you find this place?” Her tone is more somber and serious than before.

  “I was wandering around and heard the music. I followed it down here.”

  “Wait, you weren’t invited? You could hear it on the street?”

  Delia jumps up from the pillow with alarming speed and dashes back through the door. For a moment the volume rises then recedes as the door slams shut. Instinctively, I stand and begin to put my overcoat back on. The muffled music stops. As I finish the top button, Delia returns. She hurls my mask at me. I catch it, stinging my hands.

  “Come on. We need to get out of here. Follow me.”

  She breaks into a run back toward the dance floor. I don’t hesitate and quickly catch up. Following closely behind her, we press through the frantic swarm of people making it for the door. I fight not to lose sight of her vibrant green shirt.

  The front door is swung wide open from people mashing against each other to get out. The atmosphere, so inviting before, is now electric with terror. Seeing the open door, and the falling ash outside, my heart sinks.

  With trembling hands I haphazardly pull on my mask. My hair snags painfully on the rubber straps. Shaking, I’m overrun with fear. I don’t know what’s happening.

  As I begin to shut down, a hand firmly grasps my hand and pulls me toward the exit.

  “Come on, Evelyn!”

  Delia’s voice is clearly audible over the panicked cries of the crowd. Coming into the doorway, I am pressed from all sides and struggle to remain standing. Clawing hands and pressing bodies send waves of pain rippling through my body but I don’t let go of Delia’s grip. I struggle until I’m free.