Filtered Page 6

  “Sweetie, is everything all right? Why are you wearing your mask?”

  I cross the room before I respond. “Everything is fine. Mother is just worried. That’s all.”

  “Why is she worried? Did something else happen?”

  “She thinks what happened at the school is going to happen here. She says the subversives are back.”

  “She really said that? She worries too much about that stuff. That’s all in the past. I wish she could leave it there. Sorry, I don’t mean to bother you with our drama.”

  “That’s all right, I don’t mind.”

  “I know you don’t, but I still don’t want to burden you with it. Have you eaten yet?”

  “I haven’t. I’m starved.”

  “I’ll make us something to eat. Go ahead and take that mask off and come help me in the kitchen.”

  “I’m not sure I should take it off. I’m not scared or anything, but Mother was so insistent that I wear it. I’ve never seen her that serious before.”

  “Is she forcing you to wear that thing?”

  “Well, I guess you could say that. But it’s only because she’s worried. I’m sure she’ll want you to wear yours as well.”

  “That’s ridiculous. There is no need for that. Just take your mask off and have dinner with me.”

  “I really don’t want to choose sides.”

  Father’s response is cut off as Mother enters the room.

  “I can’t believe you, Allen! You’re trying to put your daughter at risk just so you can get at me! I know you won’t listen to me, but clearly Evelyn has. Even that hard-head Standish listened to me. Is it so impossible to admit that I’m right?”

  “Why are you talking to Standish?” There is a defensiveness in Father’s voice I’ve never heard before.

  “I ordered him to recheck all of the buildings’ air filters of course. You think I can sit at home and hear about people sabotaging air filters without taking action? I think not.”

  “You told him to do what? This is insane, you’re overreacting. It only happened in that one school.” Father shoves his index finger toward the ceiling for unnecessary emphasis. “We have nothing to worry about.”

  “You’re always so blind to what’s going on around you! The subversives are back and they’re coming after all of us!”

  “What you do is your own business, and if you want to have delusions about some secret enemy plotting the world’s death in the dark, that’s on you, but leave me and Evelyn out of this!”

  Tonight, like last night, I can feel that moment of tension before the storm. I’ve been out of this conversation for a while now, but now is the moment I need to get out of it completely. Wanting to be nowhere near when it erupts, I make the all-too-familiar dash for my room.

  The screams start the very instant my door slams closed but luckily the shock is deadened. I guess I can be thankful to the mask for one thing. Slipping under the covers I press my pillows over my head. That, in combination with the mask, all but erase the fight. Uncomfortable in my mask, I drift off to sleep. A maelstrom of white hot emotions stirs my dreams.

  Chapter Nine

  Morning comes quickly and in a bad way. My face is hot and sweaty from another night buried under pillows and trapped inside a rubber prison cell. My body aches with the pain of sleeping on an empty stomach and a troubled mind. Sitting up, I glance at the clock. Seven forty-five in the morning. Just like every morning, even through my mask, the sound of Mother’s shuffling feet is unmistakable. I hear her hand on my door. A shock of electricity runs up my spine. Which mother will I be greeted with today? The smiling and chipper one who wants to make me breakfast? Or the one with panic in her eyes and fear in her voice? The door opens and the terrified husk of my mother shuffles in. Her rhythmic, rasping breaths fill me with pity. I twist off my filter in preparation. She wastes no time approaching me with her hand outstretched, a new filter clutched in her grasp. Looking her in the eye, I take the filter and twist it into my mask. A faint click tells us it’s secure. Wordlessly she turns and shuffles out, leaving the door open behind her. I watch as she slowly crosses the living room then disappears into her room. A moment later the blue-white flicker of the television appears under her door. Today is starting to be another terrible day.

  Taking clean clothes with me, I leave my room, flicking off the light switch as I leave. Passing the couch on the way to the bathroom, I notice two pillows and a haphazardly folded blanket setting on the left-hand arm. I’ve seen Father sleep on the couch before, but the pillows and blankets have always been put away in the morning. I wonder how long he’ll be sleeping out here? Something has shifted in Mother’s mind and it is beginning to undermine the family.

  Despite the brewing disaster at home, the questions and doubts I have about the world are so intense they shake everything else from my mind. Mother must be undergoing the same thing but with anxiety and fear instead. I wish I could ask her why she’s scared, but with the way she’s been acting lately, I think that’s probably just as dangerous as asking Speer.

  The bathroom door clicks loudly as the bolt slides into the wall. The bathroom is replacing the window as my sanctuary. Free from Mother’s prying eyes, I pull off my mask. A nauseating stream of sweat pours out into the sink. It takes all my self-control to avoid vomiting. How can she stay in her mask all day? Left on for days it must become a sweltering cesspool of filth that is surely no healthier than the poisonous air. Turning the shower knob, I step into the lukewarm water and begin scrubbing my face with soap. I trace a line of painful acne bumps where the mask makes a seal.

  Showered, my body and mind feel better. One look at the mask though and nausea erupts again. Opening the small closet door I take out a clean washrag and begin scrubbing the inside of my mask clean. After several rinses in hot water, and a good five minutes of scrubbing, it’s clean enough. Wearing a knee-length, yellow cap-sleeved dress I look like the women in the billboards when I put on my mask.

  Stopping quickly in the kitchen, I open the refrigerator and peer inside. Four boxes of two-week-old take out and a gallon of curdling milk. Has it really been two weeks since Mother went shopping? I close the refrigerator door and move on to the pantry. Equally barren. I settle on a hard slice of bread. My stomach still grumbling, I put my trench coat on, sling my backpack on my back, and walk out through the front door.

  Stepping out of the airlock, I emerge onto the packed and filthy streets. Masses of masked people push and dart past each other seemingly all on some important errand. I pay no attention to them, placing my eyes on the school bus, bobbing and weaving until I get there. Taking my regular spot half-way down the bus, I settle in. Closing my eyes, I think of that moment of calm before last night’s fight broke out. If I was back there again would I have been able to stop it if I had jumped up right then and there and interjected? I doubt it, but it makes a comfortable distraction while I pass the time on the way to school.

  The bus slows. The change in momentum nudges me forward, waking me from my daydream. I take a second to reenter my surroundings. Checking out how many kids are sitting in front of me, I can count them as they get up. I am thirteenth in line; I sit and wait. Row after row in perfect order and wordless discipline we do what we’re supposed to do. A fire of indignation erupts inside me. I sit at home, school, and here on the bus everyday telling myself I will find the truth. That I won’t put up with the way things are, but I never act. Enough is enough. Student ten stands, enters the aisle and turns to exit. My turn. Quickly, without the chance for anyone else or myself to lodge any protest, I jump from my seat. Taking large strides down the aisle, my backpack banging on every row of seats as I pass, I reach the exit in an exhilarating blink of an eye. Taking the short steps down off the bus, I feel invigorated. The worries of the last few days melt away. But no good thing lasts forever, and while still in the euphoria of victory, the world comes crashing
down on me.

  “You, stop!”

  Two large monitors in their brown uniforms and black rebreathers make their way through the line of students toward me. They must have figured out that Victoriana didn’t type in that search. I wonder how long they tortured her before they decided she didn’t do it? Feeling like an animal in the zoo, my fists tighten and my teeth clench. They picked the wrong day to bring me in, today I won’t go quietly.

  “You. Are you a twelfth-year student?”

  Expecting fighting words, I relax my guard. “Yes, I am a twelfth-year.”

  “Report to the parade grounds immediately.”

  Both monitors point in unison to my left. A line of monitors corral the other twelfth-years around the corner of the school out of sight. This could be a trap, a way of singling out who the real perpetrator is. Or maybe we’re simply practicing for graduation. Too many uncertainties. I’ll wait to run once I turn the corner. I’m not willing to comply, but I can’t start running without knowing what I’m running from.

  “Do you comply?”

  I desperately desire to say no, but fear and complacency hold me back.

  “Yes.” The word sticks in my throat.

  Not wanting to spend any more time under their gaze, I head toward the left hand side of the school. An iron gate normally locked stands open and flanked by monitors. I step through the gate, holding my head high. The monitor on the left locks eyes with me while I pass. In no mood to avert my gaze, I stare right back.

  I pass through the gate and continue the length of the school. I’m struck with the realization that nothing happened. All those years I sheepishly looked at my feet and I answered their questions with zeal I was only bowing to authority they didn’t possess. What would they have done? Beat me for looking them in the eyes? There is no rule saying you can’t, no grounds for their power, it’s just one of those social cues you pick up: “Never look them in the eye or they’ll beat you.” “Never back-mouth, they’ll whip you.” A bunch of crap. One monitor, at one school, one time must have beaten some poor kid into a pulp and by the time the tale made its rounds to all the schools, it turned into a full-blown myth. How much of our imprisonment is self-inflicted?

  The corner of the concrete wall approaches. Muscles tensed, tendons loaded, I prepare to bolt, but when I turn the corner there are no Police Officers waiting to grab me. Instead, a few dozen meters away in the parade field there is a stage set up. All the twelfth-year students are forming neat rows in front of the stage. A wide ring of monitors encircles the gathering students, and farther away a ring of skyscrapers disappear into the soot-filled sky encircling the black ash-covered field. Nothing like this ever takes place without months of notice. The unexpected nature of this is baffling. Trying to wrap my brain around it, and with no other good options, I cross the field leaving a trail of footprints in the layer of slag and soot which covers the dead yellow grass.

  With every step I grow closer and the fuzzy objects on the stage become clearer. The Authoritarian is standing in the middle of the stage behind a steel microphone. Behind him is a table with a large cloth-draped box sitting squarely in the middle. Other than that, the stage stands empty. What could possibly be under that cloth that they couldn’t show us in the auditorium? And why only the twelfth-year students? This has something to do with Victoriana—I can feel it—but it’s so unprecedented I can’t place my finger on it. Finally across the field, I slip into the middle of a row, never taking my eyes off the Authoritarian. He stands motionless; soot builds on his wide shoulders.

  The wait is agony not because of its length, but because of all the uncertainty. Would they pull me up on stage and subject me, in front of the rest of the class, to whatever horrors lay hidden under the cloth? Or will they pull it back to reveal Victoriana’s twisted and mangled corpse as a lesson in asking forbidden questions? The anticipation turns my stomach into knots. My nerves reach a fever pitch. A desire to run overwhelms me. But that’s exactly what they want. They don’t know who did it. That’s why we’re here. They’re looking for the first one to flinch. I recall Delia’s final words to me: blend in, cover your tracks, and don’t make waves. They’re waiting for me to break, but I won’t give them the satisfaction. I steel my resolve, prepared to wait until soot doesn’t fall. With my rekindled purpose, I stand resolute and unwavering.

  We stand in silence long after the final student arrives. Smog blows in on the wind, soot piles on our bodies. The Authoritarian’s will breaks first.

  “You all must be wondering why I brought you out here. I wanted to give you all time to think. Recently, you were given the important lesson on how and why our Great Society came to be. You were witness to the sacrifices and many toils of our forbearers. You were shown the many ways through which you can contribute to the Great Society’s legacy of peace and prosperity. Yet some among you spit on the graves of our patriots and snap at the hands of the Caretakers like rabid dogs! They would say this whole world is a lie! They demand proof that the outside air, that we ceaselessly guard you against, is truly poison. I do not bow to the whims of the weak and ignorant and I am not doing this to satiate them. No, a mind that sees lies when staring at the truth can never be satisfied. I do this to protect you, to codify your own beliefs so you can stand vigilantly against your subversive peers who would erode your faith in the Great Society. Bring up the girl.”

  Inspector Aldridge appears on stage. Her large hands grasp all the way around Victoriana’s tiny arms. I cannot see Victoriana’s face, but her clothes are tattered and her body bruised. I can only imagine how deformed and swollen her face must be underneath her mask. Aldridge brings her to the Authoritarian then releases her grasp. Victoriana falls like dead weight. A plume of ash billows up as she falls, momentarily blocking her from view.

  “Stand! Face your peers so they might know whom among them is the bad seed.”

  Victoriana attempts to stand. Her body is convulsing from the effort. Halfway on one leg, she falls back onto the sooty stage.

  “Do it! Not so defiant now, are you?” The Authoritarian looms over her, adding further sting to his words.

  Still trembling, Victoriana rises. A howling wind blows across the field filling the air with thick black ash. Swirling around the stage, and among all the students, I can’t see the end of my own filter through the clouds thickness. It passes quickly but we’re all left covered in the staining, dark filth. The world feels different now and the exposed skin on my legs and neck begin to itch and burn.

  “Now this is the moment I want you to take with you the rest of your lives,” the Authoritarian says. “Inspector Aldridge, remove the cloth.”

  Aldridge obeys dutifully. Pulling the cloth off sends another cloud of ash into the air. When the ash settles, the box is plain to see. Made of glass, the cube contains a small orange cat.

  “Now witness what happens when you throw away all good advice and breathe in the air.”

  The Authoritarian turns, stepping past trembling Victoriana, and walks around the table. Standing behind the box, he leans forward placing his hands flat on either side of the box.

  “Cinnamon? What are you doing with my cat? Why are you doing this?”

  Victoriana’s words are distant and weak. They have no effect on the Authoritarian. Yesterday’s same remorse erupts inside me and threatens to topple me. With awesome speed he lifts up the box. Immediately the cat begins to cry, a terrible wail the likes of which I’ve never heard and never wish to hear again. Breaking into convulsions the poor cat begins to flop about violently. The assembly wavers and the soft whimpering cry of a hundred students fills the field. Victoriana falls to her knees. With her head in her hands she begins to wail.

  “Cinnamon! No! Stop this! I’m sorry for whatever I did, I’m sorry, just please don’t kill Cinnamon.”

  Victoriana’s pleas fall deafly on the Authoritarian’s unsympathetic ears. Cinnamon’s eye
s begin to bulge. Bloody foam comes from her mouth with each ever-more-shallow breath. I can’t believe my eyes. I did this to her, I killed Victoriana’s cat. All because I couldn’t accept that the air outside really is dangerous and there is good reason to wear our masks. It doesn’t matter that I saw Delia without her mask. I should take the cat’s place in that box.

  I wish I could take the beatings and bruises Victoriana received and transfer them to myself. How could I have done this? Because of what Delia said? Because she piqued my curiosity? I have blood on my hands. Unable to look any longer, I turn my head away and stare off into the roots of the towering buildings all around us. Parked next to a diner across the road from the field, and shimmering an eerie silver in a city of black and grey, a large truck rumbles to life. Brushing off the lenses of my mask I look again to make sure I’m not seeing things.

  The truck appears to be a large canister. From the distance it’s impossible to determine the symbol on its side but it looks similar to the warning labels on the back of the cockroach poison Mother keeps under the kitchen sink. Walking out of the diner, I see the unmistakable profile of a Peace Officer. Carrying what must be leftovers in his hand he hops into the idling truck. As it drives quickly away, I’m left with a horrible sense of unease. I know what I just saw. There is no denying that Cinnamon is dead. But why beat Victoriana? Isn’t killing her pet enough? They’ve had us for eleven years and only now do they feel it’s necessary to give a demonstration? And for that matter why have they never done something like this on the news? You could get the whole city at once, not just a single twelfth-year class at a private school. The Authoritarian’s words echo painfully in my thoughts. “A mind that sees lies when staring at the truth can never be satisfied.” Is that me? Someone so convinced that what she sees isn’t real that she tries to justify it to herself even when she’s staring the gurgling, horrible truth in the eye? No, it doesn’t add up. That truck, the field, the news reports without photos. Something else is going on. I can see the soot, I understand that. But soot doesn’t cause a cat to flat-line in seconds. It doesn’t necessitate beatings if you question its lethality. My heart aches for Victoriana and Cinnamon, and if I could trade places I would, but I can’t so I need to do what I can. Delia’s words return to me: what’s hidden in the silver trucks? A terrified shiver runs down my spine. She knew something, but I don’t think she knows how bad it really is. I’m not sure I do. But I know what I can do. Find the answers. Find the truth.