Breathe (9 page)

This isn’t the version we get at school. There we’re told it was China’s fault—all those factories. It was India’s fault—all those babies. It was America’s fault—all those shoppers. The rain begins to come down harder. I open my mouth to the sky.

I’m meant to think of myself as one of the lucky ones—a descendent of someone who managed to survive. And how did humanity survive? We have Breathe to thank for that. I look over my shoulder, but the pod is well and truly out of sight. Breathe managed to concoct a solution, working away in their laboratories using scuba-diving airtanks to keep themselves alive. The tanks were filled and handed out to the deserving in society first—the doctors, judges, politicians. The artists didn’t stand a chance—what use could they be? And the homeless? The sick? They were the first ones to rot.

But the government ran a lottery, too; half the tanks and pod passports were given to randomly selected citizens under thirty years old. And so my grandparents, who were young and fit, both won places and were given tanks while they waited for the pod to be built.

My grandparents didn’t know each other at that time. They met in the pod, when they worked together in one of the recycling stations. They both died when I was small, but they never could believe they’d spent most of their lives under a glass dome. The pod was meant to be a short-term solution while the trees and plankton replenished themselves. But that was just a fairy tale: anyone with half an ounce of sense knew they’d never again live in the outside world or taste organic air. The planet needs a lot more time to heal itself. More years than we can imagine. Even now, so many years after The Switch, the oxygen level in the atmosphere is only up to six percent.

The Ministry works hard to ensure that its citizens hold out no hope of ever living beyond the pod, but maybe it was worse for my grandparents because they knew what they were missing. And they’d witnessed The Switch firsthand. They never got over it.

All four of my grandparents have their names engraved on The Cenotaph, but there was no point in telling Bea and Quinn that or stopping to look. I have no interest in seeing lists of the dead.

I pass dilapidated buildings, most of which are old houses, crumbling now and enveloped in moss. Many of them are piles of rubble. The silence is beautiful.

I notice a stack of bones on the pavement. A whole skeleton perfectly decayed—white and dry—pulled together into a neat pile, the skull balancing on top. Who did this? And when? Could these bones belong to Abel? No sooner do I think this than I realize it’s a ludicrous idea. How would he have made it all the way out here? Plus he’s been dead no longer than a couple of days. There’s no way he could be all bones yet. Is there? Which stage of decay is he in? Is he oozing and bloated? Is he filling with maggots?

I try to picture Abel as I last saw him: waving good-bye from the entrance to my building; giving me a theatrical wink when I tightened the straps on my backpack containing the tree clippings; congratulating me. He had no idea he was as good as dead.

And
I
might be dead if I’d stayed in the pod. If I’d been held at the border. If Quinn and Bea hadn’t saved me. Quinn looked so hurt when I left them. He’ll probably head back home and tell his father all about it. I’m sure he wants to be a good guy, but at the end of the day he’s Premium, and Premiums are not to be trusted. They have too much to lose. And I couldn’t bring Bea along; people in love are the most dangerous of all, the most likely to do something rash.
I
proved that. I wanted to love Abel. Now that he’s dead I almost feel that I did love him even though nothing happened between us. Since when does someone being dead make you feel more affection for him?

I’m doing it again, thinking about Abel when I should be focused. I could be ambushed at any time if I don’t watch out. The place appears to be deserted, but that doesn’t mean it is. There could be drifters anywhere. And Breathe could be out here, too.

Suddenly there is a rumble, like an old wheel lumbering toward me. I spin around and drop to the ground. I see nothing suspicious. The road is clear. Then the rumble sounds again and I see it’s coming from a lamppost that has fallen against a building. The wind is rolling the lamppost back and forth on a window ledge, creating the deep echo.

The last time I was out of the pod Silas was with me. He had a gun, and I had a knife. No one came near us. We didn’t see one drifter. Why couldn’t I have remembered to bring a weapon? I need to protect myself. But with what? I scan the street. There’s nothing I could use except rocks and broken bricks. But if someone gets too close to me, rocks will be useless. I need something to swing.

Though most of the street is lined with piles of rubble, some of the houses
are
still standing. And if I’m lucky, there will be kitchens in these houses, and knives in the kitchens, whole drawers filled with blades and skewers. And I’m cold, despite the one green glove and sweater Quinn gave me. The rain has turned to sleet now and the scarf around my head is completely sodden. I’ve nothing waterproof with me at all.

The nearest houses have had their doors kicked in and windows broken, which means they’ve probably been pillaged already. I pass a gas station with several cars rusting in the lot. One car even has the gas pump sticking out of its tank. On the other side of the road is a small hospital. I could definitely try in there. But I’m scared of what I’d find—how many stacks of old bones, how many beds of bodies. Up ahead are more houses, big ones with heavy wooden doors, and not all of them look like they’ve been ransacked. Apart from the moss covering them, they could very well be inhabited. That’s not possible though; I banish the thought because it’s actually scarier than imagining the houses empty.

My teeth are chattering. I decide to take shelter in one of the grander-looking houses.

I climb a low stone wall and make my way through a front garden, trying not to slip on the slick, mossy stones.

I wish I hadn’t left Quinn and Bea. It would be better to be with people. Any people, so long as they are alive. I am not afraid of ghosts, usually. But something about The Outlands makes hauntings seem almost plausible.

I push on the heavy, peeling door and it opens with a sour creak.

“What is she up to?” I ask, taking Bea by the arm as we watch Alina, who is several hundred feet in front of us, mounting a wall and making her way toward a pretty dodgy-looking house. “We’re going in after her.” Bea shakes her head and pulls up her hood.

“I would, but … no, I don’t think so.” Sometimes I want to shake her, tell her to stand up straighter and fight back, but I know that wouldn’t be fair. What right do I have to tell her to get her act together? She’d think I was being an insensitive moron, a Premium who didn’t understand, and she’d be right.

“What do you suggest we do?” I ask.

“Maybe she’s meeting someone. For all we know, that’s the Resistance hideout. And if it is, she’ll be safe and
we’ll
be in danger.”

“If she’s marching in to the safety of her own people, why’s she so jumpy?”

“Aren’t terrorists usually edgy, Quinn?”

“It doesn’t look safe. She may need help.”

“Follow her then. Go and save the day, why don’t you. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the fact that we’ve been creeping after her.”

“What’s eating you?” We don’t have time for this.

“Nothing. Nothing. I’m. Absolutely. Fine,” she says, just like that, as though each word is followed by a period. Why do girls do that?

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Really? What are you sorry for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well then don’t say sorry,” she snaps. We don’t have time to argue; Alina is already inside the house and we’re outside getting drenched.

“You know, I thought you had more integrity,” I say.

“Integrity? What are you talking about? I haven’t done anything wrong. Tell me what I did wrong?”

“You won’t help Alina.”

“We’re following her, aren’t we, even though I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want us to. What more do you want? If we hear something, we’ll go in, otherwise …” She trails off and crosses her arms in front of her chest to show me she isn’t moving, that she’s resolute, that she’d rather stand out in this clawing sleet than go into that house. If I rush in to protect Alina, will Bea come with me? I can’t exactly leave her out on the road. I pull at the strings of my hood and sigh. Bea isn’t looking at me and scowling anymore; she’s staring at the road ahead like she is mesmerized by it.

“Quinn,” she whispers.

“What?”

“Look.” She clutches my sleeve with one hand and with the other slowly extends her arm to point at something in the distance. Her eyes are wide and her grip tightens. I spin around, ready to throw a punch if I have to, but I can’t see anything threatening at all.

“What is it?”

“Look up,” she says, and I do, right into the cloudburst. “No. At the house. The window.” A thin figure is standing at the upstairs window of the house Alina went into.

We are being watched.

“Now what?” Bea is still clinging to me with one hand, her other hand on her facemask as her breathing quickens.

When I thought about protecting Alina from dangers in that house, I have to admit, I didn’t really think there would be anything particularly menacing to protect her from. I just thought it would be a brilliant opportunity to seem brave without really having to do very much. So now what? I poke the ground with the toe of my boot.

“Quinn,” Bea presses. I could wrestle a man to the ground if I had to, but what if the house is full of drifters? What if the house is full of dead tourists and empty airtanks?

“Let me think,” I say.

“We’re going in,” Bea announces all of a sudden, pulling the knife from the loop in my pants and unsheathing it. “The hammer,” she reminds me. I throw my backpack to the ground and rummage around until I find it. The hammer is smaller than I’d like it to be. “We need a plan,” she says.

I stare up at the window as the figure slowly draws the curtains and disappears. “I suppose we should try not to get killed,” I suggest.

Each strip of yellow paisley wallpaper in the hallway is unfurling. The beige carpeted floor is stained and moldy in most places. To the right, a large set of open double doors leads to a grand sitting room, and at the end of the hall is a kitchen. I start by taking off my soaked outer layers and leaving them in a pile by the front door. The house is cold, but at least the wind and rain can’t get to me in here. Even so, I won’t stick around for long. Just in case. I’ll look for something to wear, find a weapon, and leave. I need to get into the city before nightfall. I don’t want to be out walking the roads when it’s dark.

The sitting room is furnished with dust and patches of green damp. But this was once a fine house: a red marble fireplace faces the double doors; a grand piano nestles in the corner; at the far end of the room hangs a huge, cracked entertainment screen.

I leave the sitting room and move down to the kitchen, which has been ransacked. The back windows are smashed and the garden strewn with rotten furniture—chairs and a table, an ornate headboard, a broken high chair lying on its side. During The Switch people went crazy; with no hope they took to destroying things, anything they could find. I’m surprised the piano is in one piece.

The floor of the kitchen is a mess of broken dishes and glasses. I sift through the debris with my feet in search of a knife. The one I find is completely rusted and sticky with grime, but the blade is long, about twelve inches, and still quite sharp. I keep it in my hand as I walk back along the hallway and up the creaking stairs to the bedrooms. When I get to the landing I pause. Do I hear something? The house is so still, any noise at all startles me. “The dead can’t hurt me,” I say aloud.

The carpets upstairs are moldy, too, and even mossy in places. I continue along the landing, avoiding the trickles of rain coming through the ceiling, and push open the door to a small pink bedroom, the walls plastered with pictures of unicorns and fairies. I move to the door opposite, which must have been the parents’ room. The roof in here is undamaged and so is most of the furniture. I place the knife on a large dresser and open one of the drawers. There are piles of clothes in the drawer—thick sweaters and dry socks. Quickly I choose a few items, strip down to my underwear, which is damp but bearable, and change into the clothes I’ve found.

I go to the wardrobe because I still need a waterproof jacket. The wardrobe is heavy with clothes—all kinds of sparkling dresses and sharp suits and shelves of pointy shoes and belts and hats. The double bed is unmade, as though the couple who shared the room jumped up and rushed off to work, and for a moment I wonder when they’ll be home again, and if they’ll be upset when they catch me pillaging. This is senseless: even if they survived The Switch, they’d be old and withered by now. I can’t find a waterproof jacket, so I grab a black cap and heavy duffel coat instead. Then I pick up the knife from the dresser and make my way back to the hallway, passing by the bathroom, which, even through the facemask, I can smell is disgusting, like the toilet was used a hundred times and never flushed. I have everything I need, and I should leave, but curiosity makes me check the last door in the hallway, which is slightly ajar.