Burned

Outside the city all was dust and ashes. Abby knew this — everyone knew — children left school for a day once each year to walk the walls and see the barren lands and hear the stories of the people of the past, who had failed to steward the resources God had given and so brought down devastation. Only the people of the city had survived, protected by the righteousness of the Father. “New Jerusalem,” he named it, the shining city on the hill, and only those who could show their value had a place within her walls.

Abby’s value was minimal at best, and she lived and worked in the outer periphery of the city, far from the high-value homes at the center. She walked from her drudging job as she had a thousand times before, as she expected to walk a thousand times hence, ‘til death or the fire took her.

But this night there was something different.

This night there was music.

It was muffled, faint, and it sounded like crying — the sorrowful heartbeat of drums and pain vibrating strings. And it was real and it was vibrant and it resonated in her soul. She’d never heard anything like it in the mush that filled the proper airwaves, but as she walked past a dark and quite visibly deserted building she heard fragments that sent her head spinning to follow them. But the building was vacant, with boards across the doors and bars on the dark windows. And she was on the verge of being late for curfew, and had not nearly enough value to save her from a broken Rule.

It was hard beyond belief to tear herself away from the sound of something real and head back into the world that she lived in, but she did it. Her footsteps pattered quick across the pavement as she hustle-stepped her way back to the dormitories she lived in, tucking her hands inside her light coat to warm them. She had no time for the cold, crisp breeze of late winter, the sprawl of slowly disintegrating buildings untouched by gentrifying hands, the blockaded entrances to abandoned transit tunnels now home only to rats and rebels. The consequences of breaking a Rule were not to be imagined, but her ill-trained mind kept trying to bring them up anyways.

She broke into a run trying to escape her thoughts, and arrived at the door of her dorm panting and disheveled and with several minutes to spare. She placed her thumb on the scanner next to the steel-framed glass door and it swung wide. Once inside, she nearly knocked over a potted piece of plastic greenery that spread its branches a little too wide in the entryway. Her soft shoes whispered on the gray tiles of the floor, but not quietly enough.

“And what time do you call this to be coming in, Abby?” said the hefty woman sitting behind the built-in desk lining the far wall of the entryway. The woman looked as if she tossed treetrunks for fun on her days off, thick legs straining to support her girth and built arms crossed forbiddingly across her ample chest.

“Sorry, Miss Ada,” Abby said, “I stayed behind to help finish up at work, and then I missed the bus. I had to walk.”

“You should have walked faster. Girls these days! Staying out late getting up to all kinds of trouble, it wouldn’t have been stood for in my day, I tell you that!”

“But I really wasn’t causing any trouble,” Abby rebutted softly. It was a mistake.

“Don’t talk back! You just head up to your room now and be thankful I don’t report you for lateness.”

“I’m not late,” Abby said, softly but firmly. “And my ID scan proves it. But I will go straight to my room, Miss Ada. Thank you for looking out for me.”

Without giving Miss Ada time to respond, Abby marched on past the desk and through the first floor hallway to the elevators. She pressed the button, waited a moment, boarded the tiny cubicle, and selected the fifth floor without even looking at the keypad. When the elevator arrived, she exited into a hallway twin to the first floor, headed down the left hand side, and scanned her thumb at the fifth door on the left, labeled 530. She opened the door and headed inside, sighing the pent-up sigh of everyone who spends long days out of doors and can hardly wait to get home and relax.

Not that you could ever quite relax in the city, but at least you could put your feet up for a while. 

Abby’s home was simple, soft blue walls and flecked brown carpet, with a single window on the far wall and a little kitchenette with gray countertops, complete with fridge, next to the door. Just past the kitchenette was a plain white and gray tiled bathroom. The remainder of the dorm had quite enough to handle to fit a neatly made bed, a desk perched beneath the window, and a small viewscreen hanging on the wall.

As the door swung shut behind her, the viewscreen on the wall flared to life. “Welcome home. You have three new messages,” the voice of her computerized assistant program said in a pleasant contralto.

“Play messages,” Abby said tiredly, hanging up her coat, kicking her shoes across the floor, and swinging the fridge door wide. She surveyed the contents with her mouth twisted to the side, vaguely dissatisfied with the little she saw and yet completely unwilling to bestir herself to make something fresh. 

“First message,” said the assistant, and then the pleasant female voice was replaced with a hyper-excited male voice screeching about the opportunity of a lifetime!

“Delete!” Abby interrupted hastily. She settled on a container of leftover fish and aioli, pulled it out, and put it in the microwave. As she punched the buttons, the assistant continued.

“Second message.” And then an incredibly soothing voice spoke into the room, reminding Abby that the curfew was for everyone’s well-being and should always be complied with no matter the situation. The message ended with a brief reminder that the annual Ceremony of Value was only two months away and should, as always, be foremost in her mind. “We look forward to seeing you tomorrow at the weekly Gathering!” the soothing voice concluded.

Abby snorted. Very softly. The microwave beeped and she removed her food and took it to stand in front of the viewscreen, munching as she went. The fish wasn’t bad, savory and mingling with the garlicky sauce. Tasty enough, now that she’d decided.

“Third message.” From this angle she could actually see the video feed, but for some reason this third message had the video blacked out. A stranger’s voice spoke, male, rough and graveled and not computer-generated at all. “Citizen. Your presence is required at the Hall of Justice, Room 212, on Monday at ten o’ clock a.m.”

Abby froze with the fork halfway to her mouth.

“Please bring your standard ID card. Your absence will be cleared with your work shift.” A brief pause. “Do not be alarmed.”

Then silence. The bite dangling from her fork gave way to gravity and plopped, fortunately, back into the container. She saved the message with a word, then walked over and put her dishes into the sink. She’d lost her appetite.

Do not be alarmed. That phrase echoed through her mind as she went through her evening routine, allotted 5-minute shower and a quick brushing of teeth and pajamas on and lights off and into bed. Now why would anyone bother saying that unless there was usually a reason to be alarmed? And alarmed she was. She tossed and turned on the bed, finding none of the comfort in the thick warm blankets that she usually did. It was late when she finally dropped off, so late that it had turned right back around and become early. Her dreams were restless and dark, filled with fire and barking dogs.

*****

She woke late, jerking free of unconsciousness and casting a panicked glance at the clock. She would have cursed, had she known any words to curse with, and settled for spouting a half-angry, half-terrified list of all the fruits she knew. Apples. She threw on clean clothes, pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail, grabbed her coat, and ran for the door. Bananas.

She darted down the steps, too anxious for the elevator, and ran into the lobby, where Miss Ada sat idly flipping through a magazine.

“You missed the bus again, Abigail,” Miss Ada said, not looking up from her magazine.

“Already?!” Abby said. Strawberries.

“You’d better run. You’ll be late for the Gathering.”

Abby ran for the door. “Thanks, Miss Ada!”

Miss Ada shouted after her, “And do something about that hair!”

Abby raced through the streets of her neighborhood, her shoes padding on the pavement, the surrounding buildings decrepit but litter-free. But just when she began to think she might make it to the Gathering on time after all, she heard a man’s pained scream.

“Help! Help me!”

And with the scream, the meaty thwacks of a body being struck. Abby hesitated only a moment — lemons — then turned toward the alley from which the sounds came. She was nearly bowled over by two Justicars, outfitted in riot gear, and dragging a third man, beaten and bloody, between them. One of the Justicars held a dripping baton. The other noted her presence and said curtly, “Move along, citizen. This is not your concern.”

“What did he do?!” Abby gasped, horrified.

The Justicar holding the baton hefted it, voice thick with rage, “Stand aside!”

Abby flinched and closed her eyes, too terrified to move. But the expected blow never came. Instead, a low, rough voice spoke, oddly familiar.

“What transpires here?”

Abby opened her eyes, and found herself staring at a man’s broad back. He was clothed in black, and black was his hair, and even without seeing his face she knew who he was. Everybody did, of course. Ezekiel, Head Justicar and strong right hand of the Father, tested by fire and found worthy.

Oranges.

The Justicar holding the baton spoke, though the rage had fled his voice and left a cur’s whine in its wake. “This civilian was interfering with our investigation of a suspected rebel, sir.”

“I will handle the civilian,” Ezekiel said. “Deliver the prisoner to the Hall of Justice for processing.”

“At once, sir!” the two Justicars chorused. The one hefted his baton as they dragged the prisoner along, and Ezekiel raised his hand slightly.

“I remind you he will need to be conscious for questioning,” Ezekiel said.

“Of course, sir,” the cur said, and sheathed his baton.

Ezekiel watched them leave, and then turned to Abby. His face was a mass of lumpy, pinkish scar tissue, his eyes bright and watchful in the ruined wreck of the fire’s passing. But the scars were not the reason she couldn’t meet his eyes, any more than his position could stop her remembering him as Zeke.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” she told her hands, and, “What will happen to him?”

“He will be questioned, and the truth will come out,” Zeke said. “But it would be better for you not to concern yourself further with him. Come, the Gathering is about to start. I will escort you there,” a slight smile twisted his deformed mouth. “And perhaps keep you out of trouble for the rest of the morning, at least.”

Zeke, as a citizen of high value, had a personal vehicle. He walked her to it, held the door, and then got in himself. He started the engine and they were off, the only sound the barely audible hum of the engine. The silence stretched for a long moment, and then Zeke said, “How have you been?”

In twenty years? Abby thought, but replied instead, “I’ve been well, thank you. And you?”

“Busy, mostly,” he replied. “I understand you work at the Recycling and Reclamation Center?”

How did he know? But of course it was his business to know. “Yes,” she said. “Cleaning bottles and jars for reuse, mostly. Not very impressive compared to some.”

“It is necessary work, and therefore valuable.” Zeke said. “And here we are. May I accompany you inside? It is long since I have had the time to attend a Gathering.”

“Of course,” Abby said, speaking to her hands again. They exited the car – Abby managed to get her door open while he was walking around to do so – and they headed for the building housing the Gathering, a huge and lofty edifice adorned with colorful banners and images of the Father. In pride of place at the very center, a massive banner depicted the Father with arms raised, calling in the rainstorms as he did at the conclusion of every Ceremony of Value. There were many doors, but most of the citizens were already inside, the Gathering nearly begun. The young usher manning the door Zeke and Abby approached went pale when he saw them, and swung the door wide hastily.

“Father’s blessings upon you,” he said, only somewhat shakily.

“And may they rain on you as well,” Zeke replied. Abby, well aware that this was turning into the strangest day of her life, said nothing.

The usher held out his pocket scanner and they both placed their thumbs on it, Zeke with a bemused expression. Then the usher abandoned his post to walk them inside, leading them into the main room with its raised stage and rows and rows of seats. He walked them right up to the front row, where a well-dressed couple lost their looks of complacency and their spots at the same moment, decamping for the standing room at the back. Zeke waited for Abby to sit, then did so himself, and at that moment the lights in the room dimmed and the Gathering began.

It started, as it always did, with music and singing. Abby stood and swayed with the best of them, with Zeke standing still beside her, face set as stone. In the dim light it was hard to see, and in the raised voices of the congregation impossible to hear, but she thought she saw his lips move every now and again. This had always been one of her favorite parts of the Gathering, but now the memory of the music she’d heard in the alleyway robbed her of all her joy in singing. Every note the band played seemed artificial, designed to manipulate emotion rather than to express it. 

That vague dissatisfaction continued throughout the speaking. The exhortations reminding people how important it was to respect the Father’s will, that the Council knew best, that radicals should be reported and punished, that fiery torment awaited those who failed to uphold their end of the Covenant struck between God and Man … for some reason today it struck her wrong. She’d always tried her best to find a way to improve herself and her standing with God in every speaking, but for the first time she admitted to herself that the words left her feeling terrified and isolated before a fiery and merciless eye. The music she had heard on the street had been pained, true, and sad, but wrapped her in a feeling that her pain was heard and shared and that she was cherished. As if her value had never been in question.

Tears sprung in her eyes at the thought, and she ducked her head just as the speaker was reaching crescendo. Fortunately, so did most everyone else, overcome with humility … or at least the appearance of it. Beside her, Zeke – who had sat motionless through most of the service – was gripping his knees so hard his knuckles were white.

The Gathering ended, as it also always did, with the reminder of how many days were left until the annual Ceremony of Value. Abby chose not to think about that, as undoubtedly did most of the congregation. She stood to leave, prepared to shuffle her way out of the pews with the rest of the mass, and found the crowd parting before her like water as the congregants saw whom she walked beside.

Abby headed for the doors and paused only when she reached the freshness and brightening sunlight of the late February morning outside. She took a deep breath and heaved it out.

“Did you enjoy the message?” Zeke said, and she turned half-startled to meet the query.

She floundered, and honesty got the better of her. “Not today, I’m afraid.”

“Surely you found it illuminating and revelatory, you mean,” he said, and was it his scarring that twisted his mouth so?

She hurried to recover. “Of course it was an excellent speaking. I must be overtired.”

“Late night?” he asked.

She didn’t feel like going into the mundane details of her near-disastrous brush with curfew-breaking. She went on the offensive. “Why the concern?”

He hesitated, just for a moment, and in that brief second of uncertainty she saw a glimpse of the boy he’d been.

But it ended, and he was Head Justicar once more. “The Father’s eyes are always watching,” he said, and then, as if it pained him, “Remember that.”

Remember that? They’d learned that truth as children together. As well remind her that water was wet, or that fire burned. She watched him climb into his vehicle and drive away, and stood there staring after him for a long moment after he was gone. Then she started her walk home, puzzling over her bizarre morning the entire way.