The Undesirable (Undesirable Series) (9 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The incessant roar of the sewing machines made sure I didn’t fall asleep at my workstation. I looked at the clock.

2:45 PM.

Every day, these 12-hour work shifts seemed to grow longer and take longer to finish. I knew if the soldiers didn’t kill me, the sheer monotony of the work would.

I focused on the huge portrait of Maxwell Cooper that hung on the wall at the end of my row. I stared at his face while I made another shirt and remembered President Mary Anne Phillips. I remembered the day the newscasters told us she’d been assassinated during a trip to Toronto she took to once again negotiate the status of the Keystone Pipeline and the Canadian tar sands. An anarchist disguised as a waiter shot her in cold blood at a dinner with the Canadian elite.

I finally realized the gunman could not have been an anarchist, but one of Cooper’s supporters and probably someone from The Party. I didn’t remember a trial.

Had there been one?

3:00 PM.

“Maxwell Cooper is our father. Maxwell Cooper is our leader. Maxwell Cooper will take care of us,” droned the woman on the stool in the center of the room.

The clench of the gears in my sewing machine brought me back to reality. I almost sewed my fingers into the fabric. I pulled at the strings, saved the shirt, and glanced around at the other women in the room.

Had they ever stopped to think about all this? Ever thought about another life? Had they lost hope, like me? How long would they take this? How long would I take this?

The soldiers paced back and forth around the room while my hands finished another shirt with a few deft movements of the sewing machine. I lost count of how many shirts I had already made, how many I had made for The War Effort in total.

Not that I ever really cared.

We all heard the unmistakable sound of boots on the stairwell a few minutes later. Heavy feet clanged and crashed their warning as the door to the far stairs flung open. The Colonel from the day of the massacre darkened the door. I gulped.

“Stand up!” He shouted in that clipped accent of his. I shuddered in fear as his words crawled down my back.

Without a word to each other, we put down our shirts, took our feet off the sewing machine pedals, and stood up from the long tables. The Colonel walked down the long center aisle of the room. He made eye contact with each one of us as he walked. His boots beat out a pace like two drums in my ears. He stopped at the other end of the aisle and removed his lambskin gloves. He pulled out his black leather-riding crop and swatted the wall to his left.

“Ladies!” he screamed, and I saw his brown eyes glint with anger. “I know the work you’ve been doing. I know the effort you put in for The War.” In unison, a group of soldiers and Homeland Guard members marched in and then circled the perimeter of the room. They surrounded and faced us, but didn’t meet anyone’s eyes with their own.

I prayed my emotion would not give me away as I searched for Fostino. I found him two tables ahead of me. I fixed my eyes on his face. The sight stunned me. His sad eyes clouded and darkened. His jaw looked as tight as a rubber band slingshot. His mouth held a hard line and his blank expression fell right in line with the others.

What?

“Many of you say you are devoted,” yelled the Colonel. “Many of you say you don’t want Canada to win The War.”

I gulped again. My heart quickened in my chest.

“But some here, even now, don’t believe! Some people in this very room are not honest!” The Colonel pulled a folded piece of paper from the inside jacket pocket on his left breast and flipped it open. He cleared his throat. “Worker OHHC- 435. Marcy Havishham,” he read off the paper. “Come up here.”

Every woman in the room turned to a short, fat, red haired woman who sat two tables down from me on the left hand size of the room. Marcy’s plump face lost all trace of color and her eyes bulged. She crept up to the front of the room like a woman about to burn at the stake. My heart broke for her even though I had not talked to her very much.

“You, 435, stand accused of sabotage!”

What?

Marcy’s fear spread all over her round face. Her eyes bulged and she shifted from one foot to another. “I didn… wha… I mean… I didn’t sabotage anything,” she stammered and all of us heard her voice break. Sweat pooled on her forehead.

“Guards,” the Colonel shouted. “Bring the evidence.”

A soldier from the back of the room stepped forward with a black nylon bag. Mirrored sunglasses covered his eyes and almost wrapped around his head. He marched up to the Colonel and handed him the bag. The Colonel unzipped it and pulled out a mess of tan fabric. He held out the pieces like slabs of rancid meat.

“This.” He directed his words at Marcy. “Look at this. Tell me what this is!”

As the fabric straightened out, we all saw the shirts in question. Some had sleeves sewn in the wrong places and oversized neck holes.

A mess. But sabotage?

“If you think for one second you’ll get away with this… you won’t.” He scolded Marcy in a voice so cold it scared me even more than any of his other screams. The Colonel waved the shirts in Marcy’s face. Then he turned to all of us. “Sabotage like this will not be tolerated!” he barked.

A man from the line of soldiers closer to the front stepped forward and pulled a pair black handcuffs from the back of his uniform. Once he reached Marcy, he slapped them on her and snapped them shut with a loud clink.

“I place you under arrest, OHHC-435,” the Colonel announced at that same moment.

Marcy cried out in a loud voice and mumbled something. The emotion rolled down her face. Her body heaved with every sob. I blinked back tears of my own and hoped no one would notice. The same soldier with the handcuffs pulled on the chain linking Marcy’s hands together, marched her down the aisle, and forced her through the back door.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Six minutes after 10:00 PM, I heard a soft knock on the apartment door. I slid the chain back and opened it.

“Hello,” Fostino whispered from the dark hallway.

“Hi.” I gritted my teeth. Fostino stepped into the apartment. I made sure the hallway appeared deserted before I shut the door. 

“This is like a regular thing. I stop here almost every night.” He flopped down on the loveseat. I could only stare back at him.

Didn’t he care about what happened today?

“Don’t your parents wonder if you’re here? They have to,” I wondered aloud. My gut sensed the awkwardness ahead.

“No. They’re distracted, like I told you,” he replied. “Everyone is. And I’m 19, Charlotte. You’re 18. We’re not kids anymore.” He shrugged.

I shut the door, and then reached for the remote to turn down the volume on the state propaganda scrolling across the 4-D TV. A newscaster narrated video about the latest British general The Party killed. I didn’t take a place next to him. Instead, I sat in the wooden chair.

Fostino frowned. “What? What’s going on?”

“Does it not even matter to you what happened today?”

“Oh, that.” He gulped. “Right. Well, I—“

THAT? Did it mean so little to him? Really?

I shook my head and glared at him. “I watched you today,” I said. “I saw you stand there, stone faced. You just watched it happen. Like it didn’t even matter to you an innocent person stood accused of… of… of whatever!” I pushed back on the wooden chair. Anger ran through my body in hot waves.

“What am I supposed to do?” Fostino looked at the dusty wooden floor.

I exploded. “I don’t know! It’s so horrible. Do you really think so many Undesirables hide in our town?”

He shrugged and kept his eyes on the grooves in the floor.

Oh my God. He did.

“This is wrong. No freedom. No rights. No hope. This will never end until we all die. They’ll kill us all. Can’t you see?”

He put one hand over his eyes. “Look, it’s not like I wanted to be there today. They made us go.” When he took his hand off his eyes, his face had paled. “I had to be there. I had no choice. Besides, like I said, we have to find the Undesirables.”

“There’s no way Marcy was an Undesirable.”

“You don’t know that,” he whispered.

I threw up my hands. “Can’t you see what’s happening? They’re killing everyone. They’re killing anyone.”

“There will be people alive at the end of all this. I know. And I plan for us to be two of them.”

How could I be around someone who would think all this was okay
?

“Why? They made us slaves. What do we have to live for?” My words pushed through my teeth as fast as bullets.

“I know you don’t want to work within the system,” he sighed. “But I don’t know any other way. Right now, I don’t. ”

“Oh, my God.” I pinched my nose between my thumb and my forefinger. An ache formed in the front of my head. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you would be fine with this. I can’t believe The Party would be okay with this. My mom is dead. They murdered her and they would have killed others!”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Look. I’m not happy about it. It hurts me too. Don’t you see? But what do you want me do?” he asked. “This is the way things are right now.”

“Well not for everyone,” I said in a soft voice. “What about the people who joined the SSR? What if we joined?”

“No. No way.” Fostino fixed his eyes on me. They turned black and hard. “I can’t believe you would even talk like that.” His voice sounded firm.

“Why not?” I demanded as I balanced my chin in my left hand. My words came out like arrows headed for a target. “Why not? Tell me. Now. You. Tell. Me. Now.”

Fostino’s jaw flexed and he pointed out the window. “If you think what’s going on out there is bad, life with the SSR is worse. Much worse. Jesus, Charlotte. Why can’t you get it? I wouldn’t wish that on anyone— and for sure not on you.”

I wanted to ask him to explain, but I did not. The weight of this conversation stifled me.

“I know you really do care about me,” I admitted. It was the truth, but I also wanted to end the conversation. I just needed it to be over. I took another deep, steadying breath.

Fostino nodded and stood up. He reached a hand out to me. Once I took it, he pulled me out of the wooden chair and into his arms.

“I more than just care about you. I mean that.” He looked down at me; his eyes widened and searched mine. He pulled my face toward him and kissed my hair.

“I’m falling in love with you,” he said after a long moment. “No — not falling — I do. I love you.”

My face softened. My stomach twisted and burned. I pulled back and gazed back up to him. I saw in his eyes that he meant every word. I didn’t need to think about what I should say next. The words sat on the tip of my tongue.

I just didn’t say them.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Three weeks later, I opened the door of the factory and pushed myself out into the night. Behind me, other factory workers scattered to their homes.

One hundred or so of the original women remained at the factory. Some of the women disappeared in daily arrests at the factory; others would just stop showing up at the job at all, no doubt victims of the evening roundups at people’s homes.

The walk to the apartment had become my favorite part of the day; it had become a chance to take time to slough off the pain and stress of the forced factory job and get ready to see Fostino. With each step home, my breath came out easier, my shoulders relaxed, and so did my eyes.

I rounded the corner at the end of the block and stepped onto the main street around 7:15 PM. The summer mosquitoes buzzed about my face. Huge Humvees roared by, filled to the brim with mysterious Party members. Planes roared over my head like dull lions in the jungle.

I made sure to keep my head down and make eye contact with no one. I knew the path so well I could walk it in my sleep. My feet hit the perimeter of the central city park before I heard the voice.

“Charlotte.” It whispered from somewhere among the children’s playground. I didn’t look up. Ever since the massacre, the park made me sick. Instead, I took a few more quick steps.

“Charlotte.” The voice tried again, a little louder this time. This time, I stopped. I glanced around, but didn’t see anyone. I walked a few steps more, my feet slower with each one.

“Over here,” he said.

I stopped again.

Where did this voice come from?

Within a few seconds, I saw movement next to the far corner of the brick restroom building. My gut told me to walk toward it as my breath quickened. As I got closer, I saw a tall, barrel-chested man. He stood just out of direct sight of the road in a beige pair of pants, silver belt, a lightweight tan jacket and thick boots. The hair on my arms stood up straight. This man wore the uniform of The Party. A cloth band held his dreadlocks away from his mocha face. He crossed his arms when I walked up to him. I scowled.

What the hell? How could I do this?

“You seem confused.” The man’s eyebrows knit together.

“Well, who are you?” I asked. I tasted my fear in the front of my mouth. I rubbed the sweat on the inside of my palms. The man stepped back so his back leaned up against the far wall of the restroom building. He motioned for me to do the same.

“The name’s Thompson.” He held out his right hand as if to offer me a handshake. I didn’t take it.

Instead, I kept my face in check and focused on the road. In my head, I figured out how long it would take to get to the street. I decided if I needed to get away, it would take under five seconds with my fastest run.

“You still didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m the person who has the answer to the question you’ve been asking yourself for weeks.” Thompson smirked. I swallowed hard.

“Think about it,” he continued as his eyes widened. “You’ve considered this for some time. You want a way out. You don’t want this life.” Thompson gestured towards the factory with his left hand. I flexed my jaw. “You don’t believe me. Why should you? I’ve given you no reason to. Believe me when I say this thing, Charlotte. You need me. You need my help. You need a way out. I have one.”

“Why?” I said at last. “Why do I need it?” He helped up a calloused hand.

“I’ll tell you in a second. First, give me your arm.” I didn’t miss the sternness in his eyes.

I held out my right one. He shook his head. “I didn’t make myself clear. Give me your other arm. The one with the Hologram Watch on it.”

Frowning, I complied with his orders. He undid the band around my wrist and flipped the watch over. Then his thumb pushed the back of the watch.

“Wait, what? We’re supposed to—”

“Wear these at all times?” he finished. “I know. I know all about that. But here’s the thing: this is not just a watch. It’s got a GPS tracker on it.”