Gated (12 page)

There are two newscasters on the screen now, a man and a woman. The woman captures my attention first. Her brown hair is streaked with blond. It’s beautiful, but impossible, the streaks almost perfectly placed around her face to make the most of her blue eyes. She’s wearing lots of makeup, just like the actresses in all the movies we’ve seen. I can’t quite wrap my head around the idea of getting bad news from someone so pretty. It makes everything seem less real.

“We have just learned that there has been a devastating earthquake in the Indian Ocean, resulting in a series of tsunamis which have attacked a number of coastal communities in Indonesia, Sri Lanka, India, and Thailand. Scientists believe that the magnitude of the quake might be as high as nine-point-three on the Richter scale, making this the third-largest quake in recorded human history. There is no word yet as to how many lives have been lost as a result of what many are already calling the Super-Quake, but many experts estimate that the death toll could reach into the tens of thousands. We will have more information about this tragedy for you within the next hour.”

I grab my mother’s hand. The screen blanks out for a moment before starting back up. There’s a new set of newscasters on the screen now and behind them is video of water rushing through the center of a town. I find
it strange that some of the people in the street are just walking, not running, as the great wall of water comes up behind them, knocking cars over and pulling whole sides off of buildings. It’s almost like they’ve already given up on surviving or maybe they can’t quite believe what’s happening.

Before yesterday I might have thought something was wrong with them—that maybe they weren’t very smart or something, but now I think I know how they feel. The suddenness of the whole thing must’ve produced some kind of shock—right up until the time that it reached them and they underst s thess ofood that it was really the end. By then it was too late, though. I can’t stop watching as the water reaches them. It isn’t long before they’ve disappeared beneath the wreckage of cars and buildings as the water surges down the street. And all the while I can see other people on the screen, watching from somewhat safer perches on roofs and light poles as this giant wave washes away everything and everyone below them. It makes me think of my parents down in the Silo yesterday, waiting to hear the sounds of the end, waiting to know that I was dead, but doing nothing to stop it.

The screen blanks out again before flickering back to life.

“And this happened two days ago,” Pioneer says.

Another newscaster comes on.

“Hurricane Katrina has just hit New Orleans. Water levels are rising fast and many experts now believe that
the levy will not hold. Most residents evacuated before the storm hit, but others decided to stay and ride out the weather. It is now feared that those who chose to sit tight are in grave danger, and with winds gusting up to one hundred miles per hour, any efforts to rescue them have had to be put on hold. Please stay with us for up-to-the-minute information in the coming hours.”

Behind the newscaster are pictures of trees being lashed by wind and rain. Boats slam up against docks and water washes over stone walls, crashes into buildings. Their walls buckle and then the buildings fold. They move out into the newly created river around them, no sturdier than if they were made of matchsticks.

The screen goes blank again and the room erupts into noise. Everyone seems to be talking over everyone else. Some people look terrified, but others look excited, almost eager. I can’t stand to see it, so I look away. I concentrate on the girl in the picture on the wall instead. Nothing about the last five minutes seems real.

Pioneer claps his hands, shushes us. “And this last is from just this morning.” His voice is somber, but his eyes are all lit up, just like the others’.

“Japan has been hit with an earthquake today. It looks to be one of the largest in recorded history. Within half an hour of the quake, a tsunami battered the country as well, sending a wall of water that reached almost a hundred thirty-four feet slamming into its shoreline. The entire area is now underwater. Many fear that the death toll will
rival any other natural disaster to date. No word yet as to exactly how many are thought to have perished, but as we get new information in, we will update you.”

The screen goes blue and then black. Mr. Whitcomb doesn’t turn on the lights right away. He looks too stunned to move—and so does everyone else around me. So much destruction has taken place in just the past few days. It’s hard to comprehend it all. These reports are concrete proof that Pioneer has been right all along—not that any of us have ever really doubted, but still, there’s a big difference between believing and knowing. We’re no longer acting on faith.

My parents huddle around me, hold me tight like the very waves and quakes we’ve just seen on the screen will be arriving at our door any minute to try to separate us.

“This is exactly what I saw in my vision last night. This is what we’ve been waiting for, the first signs, brothers and sisters,” Pioneer says as the lights come back on and he stands in front of us once again.

I can’t help noticing that his face is etched with lines and his eyes are rimmed with dark circles. The effects of the end are rearran sd austifyging the features of his face, changing the once-attractive angles into sharp edges. And his eyes are missing the warmth that they normally have. Right now his usual glow is more like a laser beam, too concentrated and bright to make me comfortable. It’s enough to make my fear, an ever-present flutter in the back of my head since last night, an almost unbearable throb.

“This is a flare sent out into the world too late to warn most of them that the end is coming. But there will be those who will recognize it for what it is. They will be hit with the sudden urge to survive, and that urge may very well drive them to our door. They will demand our care, and if we don’t agree to give it, they will try to take it by force. And if we fail in keeping them out, they will surely take all of what is ours—our food, our supplies, our very survival. So we are faced in these last days with some very clear tasks: to defend what is rightfully ours at all costs and to make our final preparations for entering the Silo as quickly as possible so that we are already inside before panic can lead others here.”

Will looks back at me, his face full of words he can’t say across the space between us. Words like
I told you so
. I know that he’s thinking about target practice again.

“I am convinced that we have to enter the shelter early,” Pioneer says. “I have adjusted our duties so that if need be, we can enter the Silo as soon as the end of next week. Starting today we will be completing all of the necessary arrangements. I realize that some of you may be scared or uncertain … and of course you should be. I am too.”

Pioneer takes a moment to give us his warmest smile, the one that seems to attach us to him like a lifeline. Some of the warmth missing only a moment ago is back in his eyes. “We need to remember—now more than ever—what the Brethren have promised us. They know what we are facing. They have sent you—through me—a challenge.
Keep to the path. One day soon they will come here to meet us in the flesh. We must be grateful for their care. We must be ready to be what they require, which is a people purified, stripped of our need to be any part of the outside world or like those who live in it—consumers and parasites who take from the planet and from others to feed their own craven desires. Rapists, murderers, molesters, the lot of them.”

Someone behind me yells out, “Tell it to us straight, Pioneer! Go on!”

Others clap and laugh out loud. I try to catch the zeal I see in them, to find it in myself, but right now all I feel is fear. My chest is so tight there’s no room to feel anything else.

“Brothers and sisters, I’m glad you are excited. You should be. I myself am barely able to stay still.” He does a little sideways jig and the laughter and applause increase. “I am so pleased by your conviction. Hold on to it. Keep it tucked in your heart. Don’t let this world or its people mislead you. Not now. Not ever again. Continue to meditate on why we are doing this. We must survive. We are
charged
with survival. And if surviving means making sacrifices, then so be it. Let the final countdown begin.”

The whole room goes quiet. Then there’s an explosion of applause and cheers. I suck in a b
reath as what Pioneer has just said sinks in. We could be underground in less than twelve days. Even knowing what I do about the
earthquakes, tsunamis, and hurricane, I still want to beg the Brethren for more time, like somehow I can talk them out of ending things. Twelve days isn’t long enough. I find myself pleading under my breat sndehren foh, hoping that somehow they’ll consider listening. I ask for more time, for courage … for a miracle.

School and all other regularly scheduled activities are canceled for the first time ever. Pioneer posts our new schedule of duties for the week on the large board just outside the clubhouse’s front door while we wait inside the meeting room. The duties board is usually comforting to me, a constant reminder that we’re all safe. I like seeing all of our names neatly written in the squares. I’m connected to everyone and they to me by a grid filled with purpose, contained in a world small enough to be mapped out entirely on one wall. But not today. Today the board feels like a countdown calendar, a record of how little time we have left.

Marie and I are the first to huddle in front of it once Pioneer’s done. Normally we’re each assigned a specific set of chores, like mucking out the horse stalls or working the development’s gardens. Pioneer says it’s vital that we don’t let any Outsiders in if we can help it, so everything that needs to get done to keep the Community running is done
by us. But now most of us are assigned to the wood shop, and those who aren’t are responsible for all of the other chores as well as preparing the evening meal.

“Pioneer told my dad that we have to finish the final furniture pieces on back order,” Marie sighs before she kicks at the wall. “I hate the wood shop.” She jumps off the porch and starts running after Julie to see if she’ll switch duties with her. I can already tell by the way Julie is trying to avoid her that she won’t have much success. I can’t help chuckling under my breath. I take the path toward the wood shop alone.

Making furniture is our only source of regular income. Other than that, we have only the assets that each family arrived with—which were pretty considerable, I guess, since almost all of us were pretty well-off money-wise before we met Pioneer. Now almost all of that money has been used up in the building and maintaining of Mandrodage Meadows and the Silo. For the past five years, we’ve been making furniture to cover purchasing supplies and running the development.

We build high-end pieces to sell to the same kind of people some of us once were—the kind who have designers create their living spaces and spare no expense for anything one-of-a-kind and handcrafted. The furniture pieces are mostly reproductions of rare antiques and museum pieces. They cost a lot, so we don’t have to make too many to cover our expenses, but even so it takes a long time to make each piece. Usually only a few of us, those most
talented at woodworking, are assigned to the wood shop full-time with Mr. Brennan, who was a woodworker even before he came here, but now everything’s changed and it will take all of us working practically around the clock in shifts to complete the work we have left before we enter the Silo.

We have fifteen more orders to fill now, which doesn’t seem like a lot except that most of the pieces that were ordered are large, complicated, and ornate. Pioneer has set our deadline for the end of this week, when my family will go to town for the final time. We’ll vd auscomp deliver the furniture and then use the money we earn to buy all of the lastminute things that will complete the Silo’s stockpile. One week to finish fifteen pieces of furniture is crazy, maybe even impossible, but Pioneer feels that we can’t risk having any of our families away from Mandrodage Meadows any closer to the last days than this Saturday and so we have no choice.

In less than an hour my hands are covered in sawdust and my ears are ringing continuously from all of the electric-saw noise. It was hot before our morning meeting, but now it’s as if the air is on fire. It must be a hundred degrees inside the workshop, what with the sun beating down on the building and the heat from all these working bodies. We have at least ten large fans blowing, but the breeze is no cooler and my shirt feels like a second skin. My entire body is grainy, like the sandpaper in my hand. I
adjust my face mask and try to take a breath, but between the heat and the dust, I’m slowly suffocating.

Marie and I are supposed to be sanding down the carved areas of a couple of dressers with fine-grit sandpaper before they’re taken to be stained. At first we work feverishly, but with the heat as bad as it is, it isn’t long before we’re only dabbing at the carved leaves and roses in front of us. I can barely see out of our safety glasses because they’re so fogged up.