The Circle- Taken Page 2

  The explosion pushes me to get home faster. En route, I pass fallen homes mixed with ones in perfect condition. The Atomic War began with one nuclear weapon dropped on an unsuspecting population. The world then erupted into battles that killed hundreds of millions. History books teach us that it all came down to chance. Only the lucky ones missed a bomb strike or survived the chemical and germ warfare.

  After the war, the world was divided into six zones, with elected governments ruling each one. They all answer to an elected president, a man who promises every week on the screen to guide us into peace. So far, peace seems elusive, a hope constantly out of reach.

  Outside the orphanage, I scan my palm and wait for the lock to disengage. The pristine white walls of the school’s foyer and the antiseptic smell of cleanser welcome me in. Our caretaker, Agatha, insists we keep the school in perfect condition.

  The scanner in the foyer reads the tracker embedded in my arm as I pass. The government surgically implanted it after they found me alone and scared on the beach. Required for every individual, it allows the government to track its citizens. After the surgery, I was dropped off to the orphanage, where I will be allowed to remain until eighteen. If I pass the test.

  “Alexia Edmonds.” The computer announces the name the government gave me. In the empty foyer, I am the computer’s only audience. “You are twenty-five seconds late.” The voice is rigid and unforgiving. “It…it…it is the…third…” The voice falters after repeating itself.

  Sighing, I grab my toolset from a closet. Inside the control panel, I spot the loose wire. As soon as I start to rewrap it, a small surge of electricity zaps me. Swallowing my pain, I finish the job and slam the door shut.

  “It is the third time this month.” The computer comes back to life.

  “You’re welcome,” I say, walking away.

  I stride down the hallway toward the classrooms converted into bedrooms. Inside the younger kids’ rooms, stuffed animals line the shelves. Curtains Jenna and I sewed cover the windows. Desks are stacked in the corners to make room for the mattresses lining the floor.

  I slow down as I near my communal room. On the threshold, I stare at the two mattresses that lie at opposite ends of the room. Pictures of Jenna’s lost parents fill her side of the room. Flowers she picks from the orphanage’s garden are inside a small water glass. Though nearly bare, this room and the orphanage are the only home I have known. And Jenna is the only semblance of a family I have.

  “Are you ready for the test tomorrow?” Jenna comes around the corner from the kitchen. The sound of children follows her.

  Jenna arrived at the orphanage a few weeks before me. Her parents were on the train to work when the Resistance released a virus hidden in a backpack. All one hundred occupants died within hours.

  “Sure.” I step back so my bare arms don’t touch her. I quickly search our room but fail to find a sweatshirt to protect myself from touch. “It’ll be easy,” I lie.

  “Yeah.” Jenna doesn’t sound convinced. She glances over her shoulder, and then lowers her voice. We are trained at hiding, even though she has nothing to keep secret. “People who don’t pass…” Jenna pauses, then stops.

  “What?” I ask, though I already know. Everyone knows. The muscles in my neck tighten. Fear dances down my spine even as I beg her to repeat the words.

  “They’re taken away.”

  Her terror is a whirlpool, threatening to drown us both in its vortex. Two months younger than me, she will receive her patch soon. Once, when I found her shaking with fear, I tried to tell her not to be afraid, but she couldn’t listen.

  We have grown up together and shared the burden of living under Agatha’s roof. Yet, I have never told Jenna my secret. Maybe it is to protect her, or maybe it is because I can hear the whispers in my sleep. Keep your secret. Like a mantra, it has become my lifeline to safety.

  Before I can respond, the younger kids rush around the corner. With only so many clothes available, they layer in donated scraps. Tears line their faces. They rush past us toward their rooms.

  “Dinner?” I ask Jenna, already knowing the answer.

  Every week, we receive cardboard boxes of processed grains packed with added vitamins. After adding water, we have a bowl of mushy goop. Pictures of healthy, happy kids on the box promise that we, too, can look like that if we eat the food. Having eaten it for every meal for five years, I know they are lying. But real meat is a luxury that only those with money can afford.

  Once a year, during the holidays, the government treats the orphanage to a live chicken. As the oldest, Jenna and I are ordered to break its neck and de-feather it. Jenna always cries when the time comes to kill it, so I do it instead. For me, the choice between saving it and having real meat is simple.

  “Not enough food.” Jenna’s shoulder bones protrude from her paper-thin skin. “They’re still hungry.”

  At least a few times a week, we fail to get enough boxes. Suddenly the chocolate feels heavy in my pocket. I slip my hand in and feel the lining of the bag. Through the plastic, I trace the individual pieces.

  “Hey!” I stop one of the older kids running past. I glance down the hall to confirm Agatha is still out of sight. Then I toss the bag to him. “Make sure everyone gets a piece.”

  The boy, only a few years younger than me, widens his eyes. He clutches the bag with a joy they have lost since the war took their parents. He opens it carefully. The other kids gather around him and clamor for a piece. He takes two pieces and holds them out to me. “You should get more.”

  All the children stop and stare, their hungry faces waiting for me to take my pieces. “I had some earlier,” I lie. I feel Jenna’s gaze on me but walk past her without a word. In search of Agatha, I glance through the empty rooms before heading toward the kitchen.

  Long lunch tables from when the building was still a school line the cafeteria. Stacked books cover each one. The government shut down all schools, so now everyone learns from computers until they are assigned an apprenticeship at thirteen. The government decides your career based on need and one interview. The orphanage can’t afford computers, so the government lends us books that get changed out every month. Anxious to stay busy, I spend my days reading and writing. Any words that come to mind I put on paper. Poems, short stories, and lyrics fill pages of papers that no one ever sees.

  “There you are.” Agatha comes out from the kitchen. Strands of her thinning gray hair fall from her barrette. It is the same one she has used since I arrived at the orphanage years ago. Wrinkles spread from her eyes and mouth like a spider’s web. “Were you late again from your run? It would serve you right if security punished you for being out after curfew.”

  “Do you have my time?” I learned early on only to say what was necessary to her. If Agatha ever noticed, she did not seem to care. “For the test.”

  Agatha would have received the time slot. The government tells us our test dates when we receive the patch but waits until the night before to report the time. I watch as she carefully pulls out a folded piece of paper from her pocket. As if to emphasize her importance in the matter, she reads it, then slowly folds it back with perfect creases and slips it back in.

  “You are scheduled for the morning.” She says it without pity. To Agatha, the government is omnipotent and can do no wrong. She is their faithful servant. “Second group.”

  “Excellent. Thanks.” If she notes my sarcasm, she does not let on. Ready to be out of her company, I start to walk away.

  “If you pass, you will return here and finish your apprenticeship,” Agatha says to my retreating back.

  “And if I don’t?” I stand still, waiting for her response.

  “Then, I wish you the best.”

  THREE

  The early morning light streams over my face, forcing me awake. All night I tossed in bed, scared. Slowly slipping out of bed, I dress quietly so
as not to wake Jenna. A jacket over my top, then pants and long socks. A scarf tied tight around my throat, then a pair of thin gloves. Every piece is meant to protect me as much as possible.

  I pass Jenna’s bed without stopping. If I do, if I wake her to say goodbye, then it means I am never coming back. And I must return.

  The quiet halls of the school offer me the solitude I seek. Colorful stick drawings hang off the walls. I linger on one that shows a little girl with Jenna and me on either side. The girl who drew it insisted we were her protectors. Little did she know that I am not capable of protecting anyone. Suppressing the sadness that creeps up, I head towards the door, where the computer bids me goodbye as it marks my time of departure.

  Outside, the overhead sky transitions from a light gray to an orange glow as night gives way to morning. Only when I am far enough from the orphanage do I stop.

  Artificial trees sway in the light wind. Bomb radiation left most of the soil in our zone barren for new growth. So instead, the government planted fake trees and computer-generated sounds of birds singing to recreate the city’s gardens.

  As the sun takes its place in the sky, I am cast in the shadow of a tree. I take a step forward and then back, mesmerized by my shifting image from giant to dwarf. Around me, doors open as families pour out of their homes. They maneuver around the parked cars to fill the narrow streets.

  Pushed forward by the horde, I slip my hands into my pockets to avoid touch. Lost within the crowd, I have no choice but to follow the path toward downtown and the test site. The daily train rumbles over the concrete tunnel, drowning out my thoughts. Pink and blue peace signs from a time before me are spray-painted on the tunnel walls.

  “On your left.”

  A bicyclist zips past me toward the site. The handlebar knocks against my arm. Pushed off balance, I trip over my feet. Another cyclist trails behind the first.

  On my knees, I watch as people move around me. A few adults glance my way but then refocus on their children. On this day, no one cares what happens to anyone else. Their fear is for their own family. Slowly I rise to my feet and stare at the moving crowd. I could leave. No one would miss me.

  “They will find you.” An older woman gently lays a wrinkled hand on my covered shoulder. Burn marks travel up and down her arm. A dress fashioned from before the war hangs off her frail frame to right below her knees. “The tracker.”

  Her words burn like scalding water. I jerk back. The tracker pulses deep below my skin as if it has its own beating heart. With it, the government tracks my every move. My hands reach to tear it out.

  “Don’t.” The woman raises a worn, bony finger and points toward her grandson a few steps ahead. The sheer skin covering her throat contracts as she swallows. “His sister nearly died trying.”

  I stare at her as she rejoins her family. In seconds the crowd presses into me from behind. Younger children fracture the fear-filled silence with scattered spurts of chatter. Around me, the artificial trees sway in rhythm to the wind. Birds cry out in protest when the shifting leaves fail to shelter them. My breath hitches as a loud cry of agony fills the air. Everyone raises their faces and stares into the distance, waiting. Silence follows.

  “Move!” Safety patrol officers yell from their positions on the sidelines.

  Left without a choice, I put one foot in front of the other. With eyes straight ahead, I focus on finding a way to survive.

  ***

  An old warehouse waits patiently for us. The windows are boarded with pieces of flat, dark wood. A single set of double doors serves as both the entrance and exit. Families huddle silently together on the neatly trimmed grass as they wait for instructions.

  A woman swamped by a long white coat takes her place in front. Behind her, men and women are seated at long tables. Clipboard in hand, the woman calls out instructions. Her words, devoid of emotion, remind me of the computer in the school’s foyer. The already hushed crowd goes mute. I breathe in the terror that saturates the air. A calm, clear sky mocks the group of us.

  “Those with numbers starting with one, two, and five on your green patches come to the front.”

  I watch with envy as parents hold their sons and daughters tight. They whisper words to be brave, mixed with declarations of love. Unable to hear more, I stop listening and focus inward. Sweat lines my hand. I slip off my glove then wipe it on my pant leg.

  “Move now,” the woman orders, her threat to punish left unspoken.

  My patch flutters against my shirt where I pinned it this morning. Number 5768. I memorized it the day I received it. Now, I watch as one by one others move forward into single file. My heart starts to dance inside my chest. The line begins to grow. Two boys and one girl get in front of me. With small steps, I take my place. By focusing on the girl in front of me, I hope to forget my fear. Sweat seeps from the armpit of the girl’s shirt. Her hair, pulled into a ponytail, lies limp around her neck.

  I squint at the sun that hovers above us. It beats down on us almost with glee. Perspiration lines my upper lip. With a flick of my tongue, I wipe it clean, and then bite down on my lip to feel anything but fear. Out of habit, I search the crowd, but every woman is still a stranger. It is my desperate ritual in hopes of finding the familiar face I cannot remember.

  “I said your name and patch.”

  I jerk at the order, belatedly realizing the man is talking to me. The line has moved forward. A safety patrol officer lingering on the edge of the table focuses on me.

  “Sorry.” I barely get the word out with my heavy tongue. “Alexia Edmonds.” With shaking fingers, I unclip my patch. I hold it beneath the scanner he grips like the head of a snake. The computer repeats my name.

  “Your arm.”

  I glance at his fingers and then my hand. I hesitate — one touch and they will know.

  “Do we have a problem?” The lines around his mouth tighten.

  “No.” I struggle to stay calm as I hold my wrist out. As he gets closer, I silently beg my body to shut down. He stops an inch above my skin and pushes the button. I breathe out my fear and relief. The computer repeats my name before the man hands me a clipboard of forms.

  “Fill them out and wait for your name.” He cranes his neck to see behind me. “Next.”

  Anxious to be alone, I find a secluded spot near the side of the building. Just as I start to fill out the forms, a shadow falls over me.

  “They want to know if I’m a liar.”

  I look up and see the boy from last night.

  “Girl from the orphanage, right?” When I don’t answer, he offers, “I’m Kyle.”

  “Alexia,” I say, hesitant. Wanting to be alone, I refocus on my forms when Kyle smacks his board with the back of his hand.

  “If I say I’m not a liar, do you think they’ll know I’m lying?”

  Confused by his nonchalance, I continue to read the questions. They range from asking whether I have ever lied to exploring my desire to hurt others. The final ones ask whether I would ever kill someone or support those who do. Desperate to keep my secret, I answer no to all of them.

  “If I answer yes to them, will I fail?” Kyle continues. On my silence, he nods as if in agreement. “You’re right, bad idea.”

  “Yesterday you thought you wouldn’t pass,” I finally murmur.

  He shrugs in response, then leans back on his forearms and stares at the sun. “What about you?”

  With one touch, I could tell him the truth about what will happen to him. I could tell every person here their future, except mine.

  “I don’t know,” I say, shutting down.

  He tosses his clipboard to the side. “They kill the people who fail by injection.” He points to an elderly couple in the distance. Their sights locked on Kyle, they wave to him. “My dad works for the government. Kill before killed. He says it’s the only way to stop them from hurting others.”
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br />   Kill before killed. The words repeat in my head, louder and louder until they drown everything else out. Suddenly there is a flash, and then a memory from nowhere tugs at me.

  My muscles cramp up and then begin to twitch. In a closed room, I’m locked in. A fist comes at me, then a second. Instinct drives my arm up to block the blows. I pivot, and using a maneuver deeply embedded into my subconscious, I drive my foot into my opponent’s stomach.

  “Alexia!”

  Kyle’s voice breaks through the foggy image. Disoriented, I reach for more details, but the memory drifts, refusing me. Kyle’s hand grips my jacket-covered shoulder. Coming fully to, I glance around, struggling to remember where I am.

  “They’ve called our names.”

  Two security officers watch us. When I don’t rise, they step forward, their hands on their weapons.

  “Alexia Edmonds. Kyle Smith.” The anger spews over the loudspeaker, pulling everyone into its current.

  “They’re coming for us. Get up!” Kyle bites out.

  I force my body to move. My gaze shifts from the security officers to the families gathered on the front lawn. Everyone stares at us, waiting, watching. Through them, I map a straight path toward town. Fast enough and I would be free. The memory reminded me there is someone out there for me. My mind set, I get ready.

  “What are you doing?” Kyle follows my line of sight. Understanding dawns on his face. “They’ll kill you before you reach the line of people. And then me for being with you.”

  Beneath his words, I hear the fear. My decision would decide his fate. Simply for being with me, he would be punished. My resolve falters and then fails. I drop my head, recognizing the absurdity of my plan, and accept the inevitable.

  “I’m right behind you.” As soon as we step forward, the officers step back. On reaching the front, we hand off our forms.

  “Get in line,” the woman barks, angry at our delay.

  In line, I fixate on the door to alleviate my fear. Silence surrounds us as we wait. The door opening shatters the stillness. Kyle jerks at the sound. His face flies up and then down again. His earlier bravado gone, he takes a shaky breath.