Which comes first?
A shiver sends me hunting for wood. Forget the wolves—I’m building a fire here. I’m not heading back into the woods where they can lurk behind trees. They’re afraid of fire, right? Or is that from storybooks?
“I guess I’ll test it.” I’m growing more comfortable with the sound of my voice echoing off the blank atmosphere.
Dead branches line the edge of the lake. Even though it snowed recently, the tiny flakes never made it through the treetops and the branches are dry. Winter wind must have been fierce because my supply of fallen wood is endless. I gather as much as I can through the pain of bending and stretching. Every time I want to rest I force myself to pick up one more stick. I need enough to last through the night and, if there’s anything I know how to do—other than sewing—it’s how to build and maintain a fire.
The fire takes mere seconds to set ablaze. A couple blank pages from Reid’s journal spur the kindling. I’d like to think it would have started without the help of paper, but I’m more concerned about my low supply of matches than my pride. I have fewer than thirty.
The blaze grows. I build a second fire a few yards away. With plenty of wood to keep both going strong through the night, I feel more protected sleeping between them.
The mud is cold when I sit down—half frozen and half wet. I shiver and my wounds twinge. I stare at my injuries. They’re swollen and smell like something dead and decayed. They must be infected. What do I do against infection? The longer I stare at them, the faster my heart races. If the Clock isn’t mine, I could die in my sleep. Tonight. All because of these wounds.
I can’t sleep yet. I mustn’t, despite my body’s exhausted pleading. My small pouch of threads and needles tumbles out of my bag as I try to find it. I grip it tight.
It’s time to sew.
15
000.171.20.13.00
If I could sterilize my brain like I’m sterilizing my needle, I’d burn the wolves right out of it. My sewing needle rests on the shiny surface of the knife held as close to the fire as I can get it. It is bent like a crude fishhook, the product of my careful pounding with a rock. It still might snap in half.
I hold my hand still so the needle doesn’t slip. The heat licks my skin. My adrenaline still pumps and I take advantage of my courage while it lingers.
My injuries sting from scrubbing them with the lake water. Reddish streaks line my arms and legs, radiating from the wound. I washed the bandages and my wounds one last time with boiled water from the kettle, then hung the bandages on sticks shoved in the mud between the fires. They’re almost dry. Perfect timing.
I start stitching on my leg. The skin is swollen and separated. I clamp my lips shut. The doubled black thread hanging from my needle might as well be a noose. I can’t do this.
With a deep breath, I poise the needle tip by my skin. Five stitches. Five stitches and it will be over. The gash needs twice that amount, but I need a less daunting goal.
My thumb and forefinger tense, squeezing the needle. I press the point into my skin with a squeal. My skin moves from the pressure, but I feel nothing. I frown at the cut and push again. The needle goes through my skin, leaving the black thread hanging like a tail out the other side. I tap my leg with my forefinger. Nothing.
Health-wise, this can’t be good. Stitches-wise, it’s exactly what I need.
Once I get past the sickening fact I’m sewing my own skin, I tie up nine painless stitches. My arm is not so lucky. Every point and tug against the lacerations draws a choked, “Ouch,” from my lips. I leave the other cuts to fend for themselves—bandages will have to do once they’re dry.
My arm throbs and my leg is cold and bleeding, but I stitched myself up like a regular doctor. Reid would never believe me. Mother would say it’s about time.
Pride. It flows over me. I even pull out the sentra, aim it at my stitched leg, and press the button. I giggle at the prick in my thumb compared to the needle I shoved through my skin.
I place the expelled emotigraph between the pages of Reid’s journal for safekeeping and take out my first one from when I sat in the cave. The emotigraph is thin, but stiff. I resist the urge to snap it in half. It’s durable—an electronic device of the twenty-second century. The indented grey button on the top right corner beckons me. I succumb.
The prick is followed by a wave of uncontrolled sadness and fear—fear of death, despair at the loss of Reid’s companionship. He hadn’t wanted to come home to see me on our six-month Assessment. Didn’t he care about me?
Moments after I think this, the negative emotions vanish and my state of pride and victory return. I almost can’t remember the despair. I turn over the thin emotigraph.
“Wow.”
It works. I just took a swallow of emotions opposite to my mood. They didn’t feel like mine. Emotigraphs—pictures of emotions. The name makes more sense now. The concept, however, remains foreign. How does a tiny button collect and record that? Are emotions something that run in my blood? I spent a week giving Skelley Chase my emotions, but never experienced this side of the emotigraph. This is what my readers will feel.
A headache flicks my temple with a torturous rhythm. Darkness is thick beyond my fires. I can’t bear to look at it, to provide my imagination with ammunition for nightmares.
I adjust my pack as a pillow. The bandages are dry, but I allow my cuts to gather air until morning. Before going to sleep, I eat a full slice of Mother’s banana bread and add thick branches to my fires.
The night is restless and cold. I don’t move much due to the pain from my injuries. Twice, I wake to nothing but glowing coals before piling on more wood in a frenzy. Fitful hours later, light arrives over the treetops with welcomed warmth. My fires crackle high, the sun beats on my skin, and yet I shiver.
A fever.
I rummage in my bag, pull out the banana bread, and slather a slice with Mother’s caramel apple butter. My first bite brings memories of last Christmas, when Mother served it with milk toast for breakfast. The thick butter sauce glides across my tongue. The fragrance of December and spices hits my nose.
I chew the soft bread longer than necessary, savoring every texture, every flavor. After this, it’s dried meat from the rag holding Mother’s funny mixture of food. If only I could thank her. Instead, I’d scoffed at her attempts to help me survive. I was too obsessed with my own death.
The dried meat takes more effort to chew than I’m willing to give. My jaw grows tired and my headache increases as I try, so I resign to suck on it. My sick, empty body welcomes the salt. I take another nap while the fires burn low and the sun enriches the chilled dirt. My first thought upon waking is my need for a plan. As I chew on another slice of bread, I spread my belongings out in front of me.
My gaze falls on the nanobook from Skelley Chase. Do I want to complete this? Do I want to fuel Skelley Chase’s attempt to use me to boost his fame? I don’t understand his motivation behind betraying me. I guess my story wasn’t good enough without me risking death.
I hate him, but I can’t stop the vision of Radicals falling off the cliff on this side. If I help Skelley Chase publish my story, maybe other Radicals will find hope—hope for survival and purpose. I need to do this for their sake, for my family’s sake. They need to know I’m alive and I’m fighting.
The blame for our world’s separation may fall on our ancestors’ shoulders, but no one ever petitioned to take down the Wall—to renew the destroyed Earth. Did this separation kill the people who chose to stay on the West? Did we kill the Independents?
Then again, the Independents rebelled against government. They wanted to live in a wasteland. They used their own destroyed cities to start the Wall. Whatever happened to them on this side was likely deserved.
Still . . . what happened? It’s possible to survive without a government, without electricity, and without technology, right? I’m
doing it right now. These people stayed here for that very reason—they must be alive. Somewhere.
I must find the Independents. I want to see how they live now. Is it better than our structured system in the East? Do they have Clocks? Are they happy? Do they need rescuing? Could they help me rescue Radicals?
I look around the beach. I won’t find anyone here. After encountering the wolves, I don’t blame the Independents for avoiding this place. They must be further in the forest, away from the canyon.
I open my journal to record my thoughts. Seeing them in print may help me organize them better. When the nanobook turns on, the Contact bubble pulses red. I press it and a screen evolves with the title Messages From:
Below this is one pulsing bubble name:
Skelley Chase
I tap it. His message is short and rude.
~You’re going to have to do better than that. Are you a writer or not? -SC
I imagine his bored smirk and press the reply button. “First, Mister Chase, I’m not a writer—you said so yourself. Second, since you programmed this device to send you everything the instant I try and save it, I have no opportunity to add to or edit my entries.”
The nanobook scripts out every annoyed word, adding italics and capitalized print where necessary. I press the Ss since it’s the obvious button on the screen.
His reply comes within seconds with a tiny pop sound like a soap bubble bursting.
~I see you’re still alive and sassy. Say the word, “Save” or press S. The Ss button means save-and-send. -SC
I’d prefer a more offended response, but at least he provided me with some guidance. Seeing my journal entries now, they do look bland, especially when I think of my feelings at the time. I edit them and elaborate, inserting details. A chill runs through me as I describe the skeletons coating the canyon floor.
To spite the Enforcers, I mention the Newtons. Tears escape when I say the name aloud. I try not to think of the two little girls being eaten by wolves. Their fate is the hardest to handle. Mrs. Newton was more kind to me in the few months she lived on Straight Street than all of Unity Village has been in the entirety of my life.
Once finished, I press Ss. I pray my words are enough to show readers the horrors of the West thus far. Maybe even grow compassion for the Radicals, though they’ll gain more insight from the emotigraphs than my writing. This thought reminds me of my thin emotigraphs tucked inside Reid’s journal. How do I send them to Skelley Chase?
I fish them from between the pages and examine my electronic journal. A long slit lines one side—the perfect size for an emotigraph. I insert the short side and the nanobook sucks it in. It whirs for a moment, makes a ding! and spits the emotigraph back out. On the screen of my journal entry, the picture of my boot shows up alongside a small bubble saying, Press purple button for emotigraph.
The expelled emotigraph is now a clear silver. I insert and download the other emotigraphs to my journal, save them, and return them into a long slit in Reid’s sentra. The sentra whirs and settles to silence after each one. I don’t send them to Skelley Chase yet. They’re too personal to give to someone who betrayed me.
I return to the Messages page to see if he sent me any further sarcasm. His name-bubble is still, floating messageless, but my eyes fix upon a new bubble. It pulses beneath Skelley Chase’s with a single word in it:
Unknown
I frown. Unknown? Is it something new from Skelley Chase? When I press it, a single sentence shows up in what looks like hand-written script, nothing like Skelley Chase’s flowing cursive.
~I’m currently rushed for time, but if you are alive, you may return.
16
000.171.02.25.57
I swallow a lump of cement and stare at the script. Return?
My fingers shake. I look around my fire haven, but nothing is different. How does this person know where I am? Is this Skelley Chase changing his mind? I peer back at the screen. I mustn’t get my hopes up. Too nervous to speak out loud, I click the Talk/Type bubble and type a response.
~Who are you?
Blood pounds in my ears as I wait for a reply. Is it Mother? Reid? Who else knows I’m alive on this side? My nanobook releases a tiny pop. Unknown has written.
~You’ve survived! I did not know what the West held. Have you found any other Radicals? Are the Newtons alive?
I study the questions. My first impulse is to answer them, yet this person still did not reveal a name. It’s not Mother—the questions don’t match her character. Father wouldn’t know how to use a nanobook. Reid might pull out technology like this. The curiosity behind the questions match his personality.
~Reid? My breath quickens. He does care. Did he know I’d survive? Was his faith in me so strong that his odd attitude at my departure was just a form of peace? Perhaps I’ve misjudged him.
Pop.
~Reid is your brother, right?
My entire body slumps. Not Reid. Not Mother. Not anyone I know because everyone who knows me wouldn’t have to ask. So who is this stranger telling me to return? ~For time’s sake, who are you?
~My name is Solomon Hawke. I’m an Enforcer in Unity Village.
I let out a long breath. Hawke—the young, attractive Enforcer who escorted the Newtons. The one person who expressed true sorrow over my situation.
~You want me to return? Through Opening Three? How? When?
If I continue to rest here by the lake, I might be healed enough in a few days to climb back up that cliff. But the wolves . . . could I face them again? I’d have to.
~I’m the temporary Wall Keeper at Opening Three until the new one arrives. I can have it open until darkness falls. I know it’s not long.
My heart sinks like a victim of quicksand. Not long? That’s not even twelve hours. I could never return and climb the cliff in that amount of time, even if I found overhangs on which to rest.
~It’s not enough, Mr. Hawke.
Every letter erases the residue of hope on my heart. I want to beg for a longer window, ask Hawke why he didn’t contact me sooner, demand freedom, but something twists my heart like a wet rag. It’s a pull to continue seeking. If I returned now, would I feel relief or would I feel like I missed out on my chance?
I escaped the wolves. I survived a fall from the top of a cliff. I stitched my own leg. I can’t stop yet. I want to leave behind a story and show people what I’ve pushed through. Will Skelley Chase keep his promise to publish my biography after my Numbers run out?
Something nags at my mind. He never promised. He said he’d try. What if it’s already published? I’ve been gone, what, three days? Four? Has it been that long already? Memory of home feels like a faded life of yesterday.
I pull The Daily Hemisphere from my pack and scan the table of contents on the side. I don’t see my name, Skelley Chase’s, or the word Radical anywhere. The same holds true for the three days before now. The only interesting headline is about new medical lenience from the government: Flu Shots Now Available to Citizens with Numbers 6 Months and Higher.
As far as I know, Skelley Chase hasn’t published my biography yet—that, or the government is trying to hide it, but news and government have never been friends. They feed off each other’s drama. The newspaper will spill anything the government tries to hide—including my survival across the Wall. I’ll keep my eye on the news until something leaks.
A pop alerts me to a new message from Hawke.
~You’re sure you can’t make it? Have you seen the Newtons? How many people are over there?
His questions hold desperation, but I have no answers to satisfy him. I try not to dwell on the Newtons, but I can’t help thinking the skull I tripped on was awfully tiny.
~I am the only one. I don’t think the Newtons survived. I’m sorry.
My finger pauses over the send button. A sense of guilt brushes against me. Wh
y did I survive when the Newtons died to stay together? Perhaps his offer of return was more for the Newtons than for me. Either way, I think I owe him an explanation.
~I survived by miracle alone, Enforcer Hawke.
A long pause follows my message. What is he thinking?
~I understand. I’m sorry, Miss Blackwater. Keep your NAB close. If I find another way to help you, I will.
I stare at his words. They are sad. Blunt. Like they’re written by someone who’s resigned himself to an aching heart for the rest of his Numbers. ~What’s a NAB?
~A nanobook. It’s the device with which we are communicating. I must leave for now. Tally ho, Miss Blackwater.
His bubble remains still after this. Something in me sinks with disappointment. I enjoyed the momentary communication. I want to share with someone—share my pain of trying to survive. Instead, I remain alone. My communicators are a betrayer and an Enforcer.
Did Hawke replace the Wall Keeper whom the wolves devoured? What a sad death for the Wall Keeper after his many years of service. He was a Radical all this time. Or did he sneak through for his Good-bye? If he had control of the Wall, he could have skirted the system.
My fingers tremble around the NAB edges. I itch to contact Mother, but I can’t trust Skelley Chase to convey a message to her. They share a secret. When Mother didn’t come to my hearing, she’d been with Skelley Chase. What emotion painted her face when I asked her about it? Guilt? Nervousness? It had more to it than her just sewing a skirt for me. I wish I’d paid closer attention.
No matter. The less I’m vulnerable with Skelley Chase, the less power he will have over my family and me. Yet, I have to keep my family updated on my progress. They need to know I’m alive. I must keep them informed through Skelley Chase and my biography.
I sigh. Why do I feel so alone? Abandoned?
I’m here.
I jump at the words that enter my mind like fire. Did God speak or just implant the words into my consciousness?