Redeemer (2 page)

Pounding feet vibrate the floor from the stairs below my room. “Hurry!” someone shouts.

Fear tightens my stomach, but after a moment, I realize the pounding is going down, not up.

I move to the door and peek out. A small herd of people hurry outside, and I race to the window in my bedroom. People line up in the road, one after another. The line goes on for blocks, making a sea of people amongst the crumbling buildings.

There is no glass in my window. I work to calm my pounding heart, and I clear my throat and call down to them. “What's going on?” My voice is hoarse and scratchy from all the crying I did last night.

“Allowances,” someone shouts up at me.

Allowances!

I pull on my shoes and run for the door. The line is already so long, it looks like I'll be waiting a while, but at least in the end I'll be able to eat and drink.

No one seems to notice me as I take my place at the edge of the sea. It moves so slowly we don't seem to be making progress, but eventually I realize the people are heading inside a building. The line snakes out of the metal doorframe and worms its way down the steps and onto the broken sidewalk. The people are like nothing I've ever seen. Tattered clothes, shoes with holes, frizzy hair, and dirty faces.

In all the times I came to the Lesser cities, I never saw this. That tells me not even the Greaters are shown everything. Of course, I should have guessed. The Great Supreme has many secrets. What else isn't he telling us?

Someone bumps me and I recoil.

“Sorry,” the boy says. He turns away and continues talking to the girl in front of him.

I glance at my arm, to the spot of filth he left on me. How will I get it off without water?

Shame pulses through me. Jamie has stood in these lines. Fischer has stood in these lines. For all I know, he's here again. Is there any way he escaped the prison riot without getting caught? Did he even make it outside alive? I don't see how.

“The line's moving.”

My head snaps up. “Sorry.” I shuffle forward.

The woman behind me smiles, and I'm appalled when I realize she's wearing pajamas.

The faster I get this over with, the better.

“What'd you do?” she asks. She must not have noticed I'm not in the mood to talk.

“Excuse me?”

“It's pretty obvious you're new, sugar. What'd you do to get here?” Her skin is dark like cocoa powder, and her black hair sticks out in disarray. White hairs pepper her head, too. Her days of youth were over a long time ago. Still, she seems lithe and able.

My face burns at her comments. It's like I have a sign announcing my status to the world.

“There ain't no reason to be ashamed of it. We're all in the same boat.”

I scan the dilapidated crowd, and her words hit me. I'm in the same boat as everyone here. Despised, dirty, and rejected. Like humankind before Christ, and like Christ before humankind.

“I think you've just given me a revelation,” I say quietly.

Her eyebrows rise. “Hm. Imagine that. Care to share?”

I chuckle and shake my head. “Never mind. I broke the law, that's all. Were you born here?”

“Nope. I broke it, too, but that was a long time ago.” Her dark hair shines in the sunlight, and a thick gap separates her front teeth.

This woman broke the law, and it landed her here. We really are in the same boat.

“Lots of people in this city broke the law. It's where they send all us delinquents.”

I look around and see hundreds of faces. They've all broken a law, done something criminal. How can I live here? How can I trust them?

And then I remember I've broken the law. I've done something criminal. How can they trust me?

“Why do they give out allowances this way?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “At home they were delivered.”

The woman smirks. “We're pretty far back in line. I bet you'll get to see why they do it this way.”

Her words make no sense and I frown, but I keep my questions to myself.

We finally reach the doorframe everyone has been moving through, and I realize two things. One, there is no door. It makes me wonder if there are doors on any of the buildings in Lesser City 4.

And two, we aren't anywhere near getting our allowances. Now that I'm inside I can see the line stretches on for what feels like miles. Metal catwalks zigzag back and forth. It reminds me of a stadium I saw in a book once. In the Early Days the people used them to play games called sports. The stadiums were splendid and exciting, but this stadium is broken, exposed, and falling apart.

At the end of the catwalk is a field, and people stand shoulder to shoulder in the grass.

“What happens down there?” I ask my new friend.

“When you get to the bottom, you get a number.” She peeks over my shoulder to get a better look. “Then you can relax until they call you.”

“How can they ask us to wait all this time?” I complain. “What if I get thirsty, or have to use the bathroom?” Speaking of thirsty, my throat is parched. I haven't had anything to eat or drink since yesterday before they took me from Greater City.

The woman laughs. “You better not leave this line, sugar, especially if this is your first time.”

Again her words confuse me.

My mouth feels as dry as the vac chamber back in Greater City. The ache in my head beats out a steady rhythm. It reminds me of Keegan, strumming his guitar. Only these notes are off key and painful to listen to.

After what must be an hour, I reach the bottom of the catwalk. I step into the grass and relief washes over me.

“Where do I get my number?” I ask the woman behind me.

“They'll get to you,” she says. She isn't looking at me, though. Her gaze stays put on an area of high grass to the right. It's empty space, which is strange since everyone is clustered so tightly together. It seems they—we—should spread out more.

“What's that?” I ask.

“Stay away from it. Anywhere in the city you see a patch of high grass, you keep away.”

She doesn't explain, but her tone and intensity tells me she's serious.

I hug my arms around my empty stomach and sidestep to the left.

Just then, a loud whine pierces the air, and everyone in the crowd covers their ears. The speaker behind my head buzzes to life, and a voice streams through it.

“Attention citizens. The allowances have run out. If you haven't received your number, you may return tomorrow to try again.”

Chaos erupts from the catwalks. People yell and cuss.

I frown and look to the woman. “What?”

The woman sighs, her shoulders sagging. “I told you we were too far back in line.”

I glance around at the people shuffling out, mumbling and grumbling, some shouting and yelling, shaking their fists.

“You mean these people won't get their food or water?” The Greaters are deciding who will live and who will die, just like always. In spite of the horror of my situation, anger stirs in my heart.

The woman watches me for a moment, studying me, then she sighs. “You ain't got nothing to eat, right?”

I lift my chin. “No, I don't.”

“Come on over and you can have something at my place.” She begins walking without giving me a second glance.

Her words take a moment to sink in while I focus on the fact that none of these people have enough food.

She's climbing back onto the catwalks to get out of the crowded arena. I consider whether or not to follow her, but my empty stomach and dry throat win out. I jog to catch her. “Thank you,” I say. “My name is Hana Norfolk.”

Surprise lights up her eyes, but it disappears quickly. She nods and gives me a small smile. “Nice to meet you, Hana. I'm Isabel.”

 

 

 

 

3

 

The walk through the city streets isn't as intimidating when I walk with Isabel. People wave as we pass, and she has a friendly smile for everyone she sees.

A memory passes through my mind, the memory of when I first met Fischer in Middle City 3. He worked at the hospital where Mom received treatment for the mutation, and his kindness struck me more than anything else.

Isabel is like that.

Something pings in my heart, something telling me I should be connecting the dots, but I'm so hungry and thirsty I can't see a pattern.

Isabel lives a few blocks from my own apartment. It's deeper into the city, and the places here aren't as run down as my own. There is glass in most windows, and some of the brick has been painted a nice, red color. In the distance, I can see the river. I remember the guards calling it the Old Tennessee River.

She leads me inside and up a single flight of stairs. “Watch your head.” She ducks under a beam.

I move just in time.

Three doors line the hallway, and we move to the first one. She rattles the knob on her door, and it swings open easily. The inside of her apartment is clean and tidy, even though everything is old and worn. It feels cozy, in a way. Familiar.

An ember of hope sparks to life. Maybe I can make my own dingy place into a home.

I want to ask questions—does Isabel have a family? Does she live alone?

But I've only just met her, and those questions seem way too personal for a city full of cast-out criminals.

She moves soundlessly to her cabinet and pulls out a box, then moves back to me where I stand in front of her door. “It's probably going stale, but at least you won't starve.”

I take the box of oats without complaint. “Thank you.”

She nods and looks around. “Would you like to stay for a while? It gets lonely around here.”

Her offer answers my earlier questions about her family, and I have no interest in going back to my own empty place. “I do have a lot of questions. They didn't tell me anything when they brought me here.”

She smirks. “Isn't that something?” She sits on the couch and pulls her legs up under her, then pats the seat beside her.

“Thanks again,” I say, holding up the box. My stomach growls, and she laughs.

“Eat while we talk. I don't mind.”

I stick my hand right into the box and pull out a hand full of oats. Back home I would have boiled them and sweetened them with honey, but I'm grateful for anything right now.

“What would you like to know?” she asks.

“How often do the allowances come?”

“Once a month if we're lucky,” she says without hesitation.

“A month?” In Greater City we were given daily allowances for food, and we were able to buy whatever else we wanted whenever we wanted it. Back home in Middle City 3, we were given weekly allowances for things like food, water, and entertainment.

She shrugs. “That is, they're monthly if you're one of the lucky ones who get in line on time. Tomorrow should be better, though. We'll get out there earlier.”

“What about the elderly? How do they get their food?”

Isabel is quiet for a moment too long, and I know whatever she says isn't going to be pleasant. “Well, mostly there aren't any elderly around here, but we take care of the ones who are.”

Sadness fills the room, dimming the sunshine at the windows and chilling the air.

“And what if we don't get in line in time tomorrow?”

“We always store whatever we can, because you never can tell.”

Storing up food, in case none comes next month. That makes sense, even if things here are worse than I imagined. If I don't get in line in time tomorrow, I won't have any food for an entire month. A shudder rattles me when I realize this could happen months in a row. There has to be a better way.

Memories fill my head, and a realization dawns. I will plant a garden. I can help the others, too. If I learned anything from Dad, it was how to grow vegetables and fruit. This way we will have food regardless.

“OK, how do we get our assignments?”

Isabel's eyebrows shoot up. “Assignments? Most of us aren't lucky enough to get work. Those of us who were demoted are treated worse than the natural-born Lessers. They get the work, and we get enough to live on. But the few jobs out there are with the trash dump or keeping things running for the guards.”

Trash dump? That explains the awful smell. But her words make no sense to me. After everything I've seen, I shouldn't be surprised by one more lie, but I am. The Greaters never intended to let me better the lives of the Lessers. They couldn't have. But then, what was their purpose for me? Why bring me to Greater City and drill me with questions about how they can improve the Lesser cities, when the Lessers are so unimportant to them?

Isabel sighs and moves to the kitchen, then comes back with a tin cup of water. “Here. Drink this. So, can you tell me where you came from? Or is it still too fresh?”

“It's not too fresh, I just don't know where to begin.” Saying I was Greater feels like a lie. I was only there for a few short months, and I accomplished nothing—well almost nothing. I did get the truth to all the prisoners. “I was born and raised in Middle City 3. I had a normal, quiet life.”

“Now that ain't true or you wouldn't be here, but that's OK. You don't got to tell me nothing you don't want to.”

I chuckle. “It is true, I promise. It was normal and quiet until the end. My mom got sick, and that's when things turned confusing.”

Isabel nods, her springy, black hair bouncing on her head. “That makes more sense.”

She stops pushing, and I finish eating.

“You ever know a Lesser?”

“Yes. I know a boy who tested from Lesser to Middle.”

Isabel whistles. “That's rare.”

Not that rare, but I keep it to myself. “He became a medic in my city before I tested. I met him when my mom got the mutation.”

“I'd bet he's what got you demoted. Am I right?”

Her words are bold, and not so far off the mark. “It's not what you think. It wasn't any relationship that got me demoted. I started questioning a lot of things when my mom got sick, and he helped me find answers.”