Kill School: Slice (3 page)

I don’t know what to say. This is my first birth. I didn’t
see any of it, for which I am thankful. The screams. The screams are forever
present in my mind. Mom’s hair is a mess and her makeup is streaked. I’ve never
seen her in such disarray. When a tear rolls down her cheek, I can’t help it. I
let out my own sob, but catch another one building in my throat.

“Mom?” I ask.

“This is over,” she says. “I’ve had enough.”

Mom slams her fists into the dash of the PRT. I’ve never
seen my mother violent.

“Why a newborn?” I ask. I bite my lip to stop it from
quivering.

Her shoulders stiffen. “The algorithm was programmed a long
time ago to leave the choice to mathematical logic.
Logic
. That is why a
baby died today. Because someone
hundreds
of years ago devised an
algorithm that would determine who dies.”

  “Kalstein Barstow. The scientist who devised the
algorithm.” I learned about him in history class. The algorithm is secret,
programmed into the token machines a long time ago. No one has access to the
code anymore.

“Scientist. Bah,” Mom says. “No true scientist would create
an algorithm that forces people to kill. We are here to save lives, not destroy
them.”

Mom brings her knees to her chest and stays that way for
the duration of the ride down the mountain. I comb my fingers through her
tangled hair, tucking a lose strand behind her ear.

Once we reach the lit streets, she heaves a sigh and
relaxes into her seat. Turning to me, she touches my chin.

“You won’t have to do that,” she says. “I promise.”

“Do what?” I ask. “Kill a baby or have one?” Right now, I
don’t want to do either.

If I get the red token, I’ll have no choice. I think of
Baby at home. How on earth can a person decide to take an infant from another
family? I think of the bruise on the girl’s face, the gaunt faces of her
siblings, and the fury in her father’s voice. If I had to kill a baby, could I
make the same choice? Even if the girl took her own life, the token would be
there for someone else to use.

We accept this responsibility. It is what we must to in
order to live on this earth. A life for a life in order to survive. I would
kill Kalstein Barstow if he were still alive.

I wake
up with the knot of a lifetime in my stomach. Today is my birthday. The house
is quiet. Nobody slept last night because Sebastian didn’t come home. Why did
he have to desert me on such an important day? Maybe he spent the night at his
girlfriend’s, but my heart tells me last night may have been his day. Either he
is dead, or he has taken someone’s life.

I have to go to the post office to pick up my token.
Regulations require that I fill out a form, and show an ID to prove that I am
myself. I don’t want to be myself today. I’d rather be a bird soaring over the
lake, or a mouse hiding in the grass. I’d rather be with my brother, no matter
where he is.

Baby cries and I walk to her room when no one else appears
to console her. She greets me with a smile and a sniff. I take her in my arms
and cuddle her. Mom has been avoiding Baby ever since her last delivery ended
in death. It’s not unusual for a family member to take the life of another
member. After all, it’s how we got Baby.

Mom appears at the doorway. She is dressed in a sharp red
suit and matching pumps. Her eyes dart across mine and to the empty crib.

“Are you going to be alright today?” she asks without
taking her eyes from the crib.

“Are you?” I ask, jostling Baby in my arms.

She nods and stares at Baby. “I’m sorry I can’t come with
you.”

Mom has to debrief the Regulators today. Every time someone
uses his or her token to kill, everyone involved has to report to Clarkhaven
House. That means the girl will be there, along with her whole family. The boy
with blonde hair will be there as well.

“You look amazing,” Dad says from the hallway. He appears
at the door and places a hand on one of Mom’s shoulders. He turns to me and for
a brief moment, they are a frozen picture of love.

“Today’s the big day. Just you and me. Are you excited?” Dad
rubs his hands together.

“Dad, really?” My eye roll makes my dad frown.

“Yes, really.” Dad puts his hands on his hips. He is
serious. “You’re sixteen. Regardless of what else the day means, it’s your
birthday and we are going to celebrate. Cake, ice cream, and party hats.”

“Can you drop Baby off for me?” Mom asks. “I don’t want to
be late.”

“Sure.” Dad takes Baby from my arms. “You ready to go?”

Time to break the news.

“I want to go on my own,” I say.

“Not today,” Dad says. “You need us.” He glances at Mom.
“Well, me. You shouldn’t do this on your own. You will need someone with you
when you open…”

I cut him off with a hand wave. “Please, Dad.” I don’t want
him there. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

Baby grabs Dad’s nose and pinches it, as if she’s pleading
my case too. I love Baby. She always makes me smile.

“Let her go on her own,” Mom says. She smells of vanilla
bean coffee.

“You sure?” Dad asks.

“Of course, I’m sure,” says Mom. “I have to run. I am proud
of you.” She brings me into her arms. “Don’t fear anything or anyone. Don’t
think about your brother or me or your father. Today is your birthday. You have
two years to get through the rest of it.”

“Group hug,” Dad says.

Dad steps forward and embraces me with his free hand. As
corny as it feels, it also feels good to be in the arms of my parents. Baby
seems to enjoy it too because she breaks out into a giggle and pulls my hair.

Mom and I walk out of the house together. We wave to Dad
and Baby. She enters her PRT and I walk to the MagLev. It is three stops to the
post office. My journey will be swift. The end of it will change my life
forever.

The
post office is an imposing stone building with a row of white marble columns
and a red roof. It sits at the far end of an oval green where shops,
restaurants, and offices line the walkway. On weekends, the green is filled
with families picnicking, musicians strumming and kids playing. Today red-cloaked
officers mix with blue suited professionals in an ordinary workday.

One day I may be sitting on the green with them, enjoying
my lunch, excited to go back to work. Today I must walk through their quiet and
disrupt it by my mere presence. I step into the green and watch the faces turn
toward me. Some people actually pick up their lunches and leave. Others stay,
but watch my hands as I walk past them.

I want to wear a big sign on my chest that says I don’t yet
have my token. They
know
where I’m going. Kids my age aren’t let out of
school unless we have to pick up our tokens. Their fear is a rehearsal, for I
will not be able to kill any of them until I complete my training. I’ve been
here several times when I was younger, but not recently. They don’t like kids
anywhere near my age coming into the center of town. It spooks people too much.
Rules and regulations prevent our movements.

Every year, the government decides to restrict more and
more areas to teens with tokens. I am not allowed in the office buildings, but
I am still allowed in the green. One day, we won’t be able to walk anywhere
except to and from school.  

I take a deep breath and run the rest of the way to the
post office.

I bound up the post office steps two at a time and enter
the silent hall. At once, cold air blasts my skin, and my arms prickle with
small bumps. An orderly line of men and women wait for forms of various nature.
Permits for PRTs, housing additions, work transfers, and other requests for and
from the government.

The strangers closest to me watch as I approach the
information desk. Are they also waiting for me to strike? My sixteen birthday,
the day I turn lethal. The woman behind the information desk has a wrinkly face
and gray hair. If I were to guess, I’d say she was over two hundred. Some women
have rejuvenated two or three times by her age.

 “Can I help you?” she asks.

Layers of sagging skin hide most of her eyes. To me, she
looks beautiful. If I get to be her age, I’ll keep the gray.

“I’m here to pick up my token.” I choke on the last word.

She nods. “I thought as much. No parents today?”

I shake my head.

“Never mind. They’re not required. This day is all about
you. Personally, I prefer it when children come alone. Parents are a nuisance,
pacing the waiting room, asking all sorts of questions.” She hands me a number
printed on a piece of paper and stares at me.

I am number six. “Is this it?”

The old woman throws up her hands as if I should know what
to do. “Of course not. You didn’t let me finish. Go through the door on your
left, into the waiting room so you don’t disturb the other customers.”

I glance over to the old wooden door. It looks worn out,
much like the woman scowling in front of me.

“Thanks for your help,” I say.

She tilts her head. “What did you say?”

“Thanks,” I say louder.

“I’m not deaf, girl.” She makes a ticking sound with her
tongue and opens a drawer. “Just surprised. Not many young people say thank you
anymore. It’s a lost art.” She hands me a small green candy in the shape of a
token. “They’ll call you when they’re ready. Good luck.” She smiles, revealing
a full set of white teeth. “Think of me if you get green.”

Green. Over two hundred. She wants me to terminate her. I
walk over to the old wooden door clutching the candy as if it’s my lifeline. I
want a green. I have a target.

The
waiting room is small, with no more than six or seven chairs. Two chairs are
occupied, one by a girl with straight black hair and another by a woman who
must be her mother. Another elderly woman sits behind a window. I hold up my
number. She ushers me forward with a wave of her hand and slides the glass of
the window open.

“We don’t need numbers today.” She hands me a stack of
paperwork attached to a clipboard along with a pen. “Fill out and return.”  

I take the paperwork and she slides the glass window
closed. I feel a pang of embarrassment as I sit—parentless—across from the
girl. I count the forms under my breath and mumble when I reach the end.
Sixteen different forms. I’ll be here all day.

“What’s your name?” the mother of the girl asks.

“Aria,” the girl answers for me. “We have fifth period
together. You sit next to Vanessa.”

“Sorry, I don’t…” I don’t remember her. At all.

“Jane,” the girl says. “I sit in the back behind Ezra and
Max. You don’t know them either.”

“Jane, let’s finish these,” the mother says. She puckers
her mouth as if she wants to scold me, but changes her mind and lowers her head
to the forms.

I work on my own forms. They want to know everything about
me, including my shoe size and favorite lunch. When I get to the section on
skills, I pause. I’m really good at math and have a photographic memory. I’m a
strong swimmer, thanks to the endless pool on our roof. The next section is
kill skills. I have no idea what they consider a kill skill, so I say I am good
at running and hiding. Stealth, I underline.

It takes me half an hour to fill out the paperwork. I don’t
notice when the girl in my fifth period class receives her token. After I
finish the paperwork and look up, I see her holding a small black box.

“Open it now, Jane.” Her mother taps the box.

Why don’t they leave? I’m going to open my box in secrecy.

Jane opens the box and takes out an emerald green token.

“It’s green,” she says.

That is supposed to be mine. I grit my teeth and hope for the
same as the old woman calls my name.
Aria Nova.
The old woman instructs
me to go through another two doors and down the hall to room six. Maybe my
number meant something after all. When I enter room six, another old woman sits
behind a desk.

“Forms,” she says.

I hand her my packet and sit in the chair across from her
and the desk. She flips through the paperwork, stamping each form, and then
places the packet in a folder with my name on it.

“Don’t you need to look at them to decide which color I
get?”

The woman’s eyes open wide. “Decide? Me? The algorithm
decides. You are the only one who will know what token you receive, until you
show your friends, or until training camp. There, you will be sorted into the
right cabin. Why on earth would the Regulators leave it up to a human to
decide?” She shoves the small black box toward me.

I touch the lid, but don’t open it. She files my folder in
a drawer.

 “Can I go?” I ask.

“That’s all,” the woman says.

I can’t go. I can’t move. I am stuck in the chair. I fear
it will be bad. Red. My hands shake.

The woman stares at me and taps her pencil.

“My advice to you is to tell no one until you are ready.
People do strange things when they think they are your target.”

I leave
the post office with sweaty palms and a pang of guilt. I’m excited. How awful.
It’s weird. The token is my permission to kill. The sickening feeling in my
stomach is gone, replaced with exhilaration. A charge of energy rushes through
my body. I am sixteen. I have been scared to death of this day forever. It is
over.

The little box doesn’t look like much. I could probably
throw it away in one of the trash chutes. I stuff the box deep in my pocket,
not wanting to open it in front of anyone, not even my parents.

I feel lucky today. I’ve always been lucky. The right
parents, the right school, the right side of town. I will not get a token that
forces me to kill someone young. I will get one that lets me release someone
old. Green, like the grass and the leaves on the trees.

I hum and smile as a person passes me on the street. I run
through the grassy green and pass the MagLev station. Today, I want to run all
the way home.  

My journey takes me along the boardwalk that follows the
river. Iron park benches line the sidewalk, people paddle in canoes and kayaks.
Young children flow from the nearby school and onto the lawn. Dad will be home
soon. High School lets out an hour after Elementary.

I pick up my pace and trip over something on the ground,
landing hard on my knees. My box falls from my pocket and in front of the lump
of clothes and dirty flesh lying on a pile of cardboard.

“Sorry,” I say as the lump sits up. “I tripped.”

The lump is a man around the same age as my parents. A scar
runs across his brow to the side of his head where his ear should be. He picks
up my box with a hand that is missing three fingers.

“This food?” he asks. He touches the ribbon and pulls at
the bow with a sly grin.

I shake my head and wipe the blood from my scraped knee.
“Don’t open it. It’s not food.”

“Oh.” He holds it out in the palm of his hand, and scoots
backwards so that I cannot reach it. “Satan’s choice. Is it not?”

The pieces of cardboard that he was using as a bed are
actually hand painted signs attached to wooden sticks. The two I can read say,
The
End is Near
and
Repent or Parish
.