Gods of Anthem (11 page)

“Let me go! I got lost. It wasn’t my fault. Please.”

My box still lies in the street. “Wait. Let me get my things, at least. Please, they’re my family’s last … it’s all I have left … you can’t just—”

The guard stops, and at first, he seems like he’ll relent, before he says, “Resisting arrest is an offense against the Authority.”

Then, he whips out zip ties and starts to anchor my hands together.

While they’re being pulled tight, my anger boils up like never before, and I brace myself, legs stiff.

“No.”

The guard clips something to the zip ties and his leash goes taut when he tries to walk on. But I’m not following.

“I said, no.”

He tugs, which makes me take one step, and then another.

My brain seizes. “No!”

With all of my strength, I pull back, and the guard unexpectedly flies backwards. We topple to the concrete together, where he lands on top of me, his heavy weight forcing my breaths into a frantic wheeze.

His baton is high above him one moment before flying toward my face.

Pure instinct has me diving in a worm-like movement, through his legs and out the other side. A clank of metal-on-concrete pings loudly in the silence as the baton lands where my head had been only moments before.

My teeth lock together, and my vision goes white. In a move faster than I’ve ever made, I’m behind him with the leash wound around his neck.

The leash is tight in my hands while he flails, trying to hit me with the baton, though I’m dodging his swings effortlessly.

My voice is deep, foreign. “Is this how you get your enjoyment? Beating up little girls in the street? Sick people who carry everything they have left in the whole wide world!”

He finally relinquishes his weapon to scrape at his neck instead, while thrashing silently on the pavement.

I’m unreasonably calm. “What kind of monster would bash my brains in for being out at night? I know what kind. One who thinks he protects us by stripping away our rights. One who shipped me away like an animal to die, somewhere out of sight. To endure the worst things ‘for our own good.’ All for those leaders carved neatly into the walls.”

My new friend is asleep when I pilfer his knife to cut my ties. Then, with a prayer that no one sees me robbing the guard, I grab his flashlight, too. I’m soon on my way, box in hand again, sticking to the darkest shadows and hoping against hope that I’ll not be caught.

I use the flashlight only once to read the directions before throwing the thing into the trash. It bears the Authority insignia of the eagle head with three stripes behind it that read: Life, Liberty, Authority.

Only two of them make sense.

At the door,
there’s an obvious hesitation to open after I knock. A man, maybe in his early twenties, cracks it, checking the streets first, before pulling it open farther. He’s identical to Desi but for the short hair. He blinks behind thick, round glasses before rushing me inside, locking the door back again.

“I’m … Liza,” I say, breaths still coming fast.

“Journee,” he replies, without a hint of his cousin’s accent. “Welcome to the mainland.”

He gestures for me to sit, and I do, placing my box on my knees. I’d run the entire way and so, with heavy breathing, I take in the surroundings of the small room. “Anthem’s not what I expected.”

Journee gives a dry smile. “Around here, we call it ‘Ash City.’”

My smile is similar. “That makes sense.”

Journee leaves and comes back holding two cups of something steamy. He hands me one while two heads peek around his broad shoulders. Twins, and probably his same age, which still seems so much older than I’m used to.

One of them gasps and puts a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God!” She smacks her gum between words. “What happened to your hair?”

My hoodie’s fallen back to reveal my still-shaved head almost to the scalp.

The other twin brushes past Journee with a roll of her eyes and sits in his desk chair, making it spin. “Jeez, Manda. You can’t just ask people what happened to their hair.” She turns toward the computer screen and starts typing on the program that comes up.

Journee gestures to the twin in the chair. “This is Serena,” he says, “and you’ve already met Manda, who’s known for being … a delicate flower.” He chuckles.

“Hello,” I reply. I feel like a stranger, because I am one.

The computer sounds off an annoying alarm that repeats until Journee sets his cup down and types something in.

“Why can’t you just give me the password, Journ?” whines the twin Journee had called Serena.

“’Cause then I’d have to kill you.” He winks at her from behind his thick glasses, and she rolls her eyes at him.

Manda walks forward, but keeps a safe distance, one hand over her nose.

Journee takes a sip from his cup. “Blue here isn’t sick. My cousin Desi said she got a clean bill of health and everything.” Then, he turns to me. “You ready to see your room?”

At my nod, he smiles charmingly, adjusting his glasses.

I’
m
still clutching the box when he stops in front of a door several down from his own, in what looks like some sort of warehouse where they all live. “I only have two rules,” he says seriously. “First, don’t get us into trouble with the guards, which means no coming in late again. And the other—” He pauses, coughing. “No sleeping with anyone in our commune.”

My cheeks heat.

“Unless”—Journee turns to me with a wink—“you really want to.”

I gape until it’s obvious that he’s joking.

I clear my throat. “How will … I pay for this?”

Journee laughs. “Well, I’m glad you think it’s worth money. But you’ll pay for it through rations, mostly. They give us food and other stuff that we share, ‘cause that somehow balances out for excess. I sell what’s left, if it’s still good enough. I don’t think you know, probably … I’ll just tell ya. You live in the projects now, so to speak. We simply call it Section, and the Authority gives me money to give people like you a place to live … but … if you want a real job, see me later and I’ll try to hook you up.

“And I’ll have Manda drop off some blankets and a pillow,” he continues. “Oh, and if she asks … say no.”

“Asks me what?”

Journee gives me a look. “You’ll know when she asks.”

On
Wednesdays, we
get rations. On Fridays, we return anything broken, unused, or simply bad. Fridays, I return a lot of stuff.

First week, it was moldy bread. Second, soap that burned my skin. Today, it’s broken bulbs.

The food is bland and terrible, and the toothpaste isn’t even real. Manda gave me a tube of the good stuff, but that costs her, so it’s used sparingly.

The “sick” thing seems to make her think I’m feeble and that she has to give to charity or something; she’s always ready to help. Her New York accent is wonderful to listen to, though. It reminds me of when places once differed from one another; cities that were like their own countries, with customs, people, culture.

Now, she flaps her hands at me and says, “Life left us awel behind.” Her dark hair’s tied back in a bandanna today, and her cinnamon skin is dusted with sparkles. Seems like something that wouldn’t be allowed in Ash City.