The Last Girl (3 page)

Penny’s words drone on in a dreary tone that starts the inkling of a headache in the back of Zoey’s skull. She gazes down at the neat paragraphs within the textbook, the pages beginning to wear at their edges from being turned. This is how she learned to read, how they all learned to read. It is from the text in the front of the book that they learned English, math, and science, while the second, much larger portion holds the knowledge of what was and is outside the walls. How many times have they finished the entire book, only to start once again the next day? Because what else is there to learn here? What other purpose but to wait and believe in the day when they will be inducted and leave forever?

Zoey rubs the back of her neck, blocking out Penny’s voice in favor of reliving Edmond’s daring escape from his cell. Even after reading
Monte Cristo
more times than she can remember, it is still magical each time she opens to the first page. She closes her eyes and is there with him on the sea, moments away from finding the treasure, moments away from becoming something new, something powerful and full of vengeance.

“Zoey!”

Zoey comes awake, only then realizing she was dreaming. Miss Gwen is several steps away, glaring, mouth turned sour at the corners.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“You were sleeping,” Miss Gwen says, spitting out the words as if they were curses.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .”

“Didn’t what?”

“I . . .” Zoey’s throat is closing up under the instructor’s relentless gaze.
Rita snickers. Penny grins. “I didn’t sleep well last night because I was so excited for the ceremony today.” The lie rolls off her tongue like water.

Miss Gwen straightens, some anger draining from her eyes as her mouth evens. “Well, I suppose I can understand that, what with your induction coming very soon as well.” She gives what Zoey guesses is the closest thing to a sympathetic expression she’s capable of before nodding to the open textbook on Zoey’s desk. “Regardless, it’s your turn to read. At the bottom of page one hundred six, second-to-last paragraph.”

Zoey clears her throat and reads.

The rest of the morning passes with the monotony of lecture. They take turns reading, and Miss Gwen asks them her questions that have been answered again and again.

Why do we obey the rules?

Because they keep us safe.

Why must we remain here inside the walls?

Because beyond them is ruin.

How can we rebuild the world?

By being part of the greater good.

The chime sounds, and they rise from their desks. Zoey’s stomach gurgles as hunger pangs roll through her from her lack of breakfast. Meeka hangs back when Zoey waits for Lily to gain her feet.

“I shouldn’t have said those things,” Meeka says. She puts out a hand and Lily grasps it, making a delighted sound.

“It’s okay. I overreacted,” Zoey responds. They walk past Miss Gwen’s desk, the instructor’s eyes following them like two blades. They wait until they’re outside the cubicle before speaking again.

“It’s not okay,” Meeka says. “I say things before I think them through.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.” Zoey casts a sidelong glance at her friend, her mouth curling up a little. Meeka shoots her a poisonous look.

“Last time I’m nice to you.”

“Oh, was that you being nice?”

“You’re quite the bitch, you know?” Meeka says, but her eyes are smiling.

“Bish, bish, bish, bish,” Lily begins to chant.

“Lily, that’s not okay,” Zoey says, stopping their progress across the wide lecture hall. “You can’t say that, okay?”

Lily smiles, dropping her chin to her chest. “Kay.” They begin walking again. “Bish,” Lily whispers. Meeka’s laughter peals out and echoes off the concrete walls. Her Cleric squares himself toward them, tilting his head to one side. Meeka rolls her eyes and lets go of Lily’s hand.

The Clerics fall in beside them as they walk down the hallway, the sound of footfalls loud in the closed space. Zoey hangs at the very back of the group, Simon at his usual place on her left. As they move toward the cafeteria and the smell of lunch permeates the air, Simon surprises her by speaking.

“I heard you get reprimanded this morning,” he says.

She glances at him, but he doesn’t look at her. “Yes. I fell asleep.”

“You should take care not to do that.”

“I will. I was tired.”

“You’re not sleeping well?”

“No. I’m sleeping fine.”

He grunts. “You need to pay attention in lecture.”

“I know. I do.” The anger rises again within her, and she grits her teeth.
Why?
She thinks.
Why should I pay attention? So I can read all of the edicts and rules that have been stamped in my brain over and over again? So I don’t incur the wrath of that woman in there who hides her true feelings behind a fake smile?
Because Miss Gwen hates them, Zoey knows. She can see it every time the older woman gazes at them, the way her hands flit at her sides sometimes like she yearns to do something terrible with them.

Zoey is snapped from her thoughts as she sees Lee round the corner ahead.

Lee. His sandy hair, always messy as if he’s recently woken up. The carefree smile on his face that never seems to leave. His freckles, that she’s studied up close more times than she can count . . . He sees her and his simmering grin widens, flashing bright teeth. But his gaze only hovers on her for a second before he turns it to his father beside her.

“Hi, Dad. I was looking for you,” Lee says, striding up to them.

“You know you’re not supposed to stop us in the halls,” Simon says, glancing past his son to the receding line of women and their Clerics.

“I wouldn’t have, but Assistant Carter found me this morning on my way to breakfast. He wanted me to tell you to report to him after your shift tonight.” Simon squints and glances at the floor before shooting a look at the nearest camera in the ceiling.

“Okay. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Lee turns and moves past them, brushing against Zoey so lightly she barely feels it, and knows that even on the camera the movement would look innocent.

She doesn’t turn her head or acknowledge anything. Instead she fixes a blank expression on her face as they continue down the hall to the cafeteria, slowly letting her hand travel into her pocket to feel the folded scrap of paper there.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” she says, gesturing to one of the door
less rooms on the right as they near it. Simon glances at his watch and nods.

“Hurry.”

Zoey steps into the bathroom, a wave of elation sliding over her as she
sees it’s empty. There is a camera mounted in the far corner of the room, but it cannot see into the many stalls that line the wall. Slight means of privacy seem to be the only power the women have over the rest of the ARC’s inhabitants.

She steps into the stall, lowering her pants to complete the charade, but not before she draws out the note. As she sits on the cold plastic seat she unfolds the piece of paper that is not over a half-inch in diameter. There is only one word written in its center.

Tonight
.

She allows herself a smile before putting the paper in her mouth. She chews it into a ragged, pulpy lump before swallowing it.

3

“I wonder what the princess is eating right now,” Meeka says, picking at the boiled vegetables and canned meat that were already cold by the time they sat down at their places.

Zoey eats hungrily, downing the pasty meat without wondering what animal she might be ingesting. She shrugs. “Something special, I suppose.”

“I’ve heard you get whatever you want,” Meeka says, sipping her water.

“You can’t have whatever you want if they don’t have it.”

“That’s the thing. I think they do. I mean, a lot of these veggies are fresh, right? So they’re growing them somewhere, and I don’t know about you, but I haven’t seen any dirt or plots of land within the ARC.” It is an old discussion between them, but Zoey indulges her to help patch over their earlier spat.

Zoey chews, thinking. “Might be on the roof.”

“Maybe. But I doubt it.”

“You think they grow them outside the walls?”

“Have to.”

“The only ones who go outside the walls are Reaper and the Redeyes.” Zoey forces down the shiver that tries to rise in her from speaking the name of the reclamation unit.

“They’re the only ones we
see
go outside. We can’t see in the dark,” Meeka says, widening her eyes comically.

“No, but . . .” Zoey frowns.

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. We’re going to get in trouble talking like this.”

Meeka shrugs. “We get in trouble for everything. Don’t speak to the Clerics’ sons, don’t have impure thoughts. We’re not even supposed to touch ourselves—like I’m gonna follow that rule . . .”

“Meeka!”

“Well, it’s true. It’s really all we’ve got. Remember when they caught Kelli in the bathroom with that one Cleric’s son? What was his name?”

“Andrew,” Zoey says in a quiet voice.

“She went in the box for a day and we never saw him or his father again.”

“I remember. That’s why you should keep your voice down.”

“I really don’t care anymore. I’ve got another six months, and then I’ll see whatever they’ve got planned for us. In the face of that, nothing really seems very frightening.” They both fall quiet for a time, concentrating on their meals. “I bet Terra got chicken and mashed potatoes,” Meeka says quietly. “With butter.”

The mention of butter floods Zoey’s mouth with saliva, and suddenly her meal tastes more bland than ever. They only have butter once a year, on New Year’s Eve.

Zoey sighs and sets her fork down. “Why can’t you ever be quiet?”

“Not in my nature.”

Lily rocks beside Zoey, humming something out of tune under her breath. She watches her movements, dread rippling through her like water disturbed by a storm. Who will watch after Lily when she’s gone? The chime sounds and makes Zoey jump, her hand slashing out, knocking a spoon flying to the other side of the table. Meeka grabs it up, her reflexes so fast Zoey doesn’t even see her hand move.

“You okay?” Meeka asks, handing the spoon back as the table begins to empty.

“I’m fine,” Zoey says.

They file back down the different hallways to their rooms. Zoey watches Lily and her Cleric disappear into the closest chamber to her own before scanning the strap on her wrist.

She enters her room, leaving Simon to stand beside the entry in the hall, his hands folded neatly behind his back. His stance is a holdover from being in the military, she knows. She suspects that all the Clerics are former military, chosen for their assignments to the women for sometimes obvious, sometimes cryptic reasons.

She recalls the night she knew for sure that Simon had been a soldier . . .

She’d been no more than seven years old. The auto-guns woke her. Their chatter was muted somewhat by the walls and the building around her, but it was still loud enough to drag her up from sleep and send her halfway across the room, wide-eyed and staring before she’d even known she’d left the bed. A red glow had filled her room. It had been so beautiful, the color deeper than any she’d ever seen before, deeper than the most brilliant sunrise. She’d gone to the window and peered out, no longer flinching at the thunder of heavy gunfire.

The night had been alive with color.

Streaks of white phosphorus cut the air above the ARC, while a red falling star trailed down toward the compound, its light bathing everything below. The snipers on the wall began shooting then, their gun barrels spraying fire over and over at something below. She could hear screams too, long and loud. Bellows and curses that curdled her insides. But she couldn’t look away. She pressed her eyes to the glass and stared, finding the zips of light she knew must be bullets flying, but even then the fear was overshadowed by the awe of something beautiful in the chaos.

An explosion shook the entire ARC, sending her vibrating away from the window. A ball of fire as wide as her room rose above the wall, flames licking over its side like water. The fire reached out and touched one of the snipers in his nest, setting him alight. He burned and spun, a sound coming from him that nearly made her clamp her hands over her ears. He had leapt from the wall then. Not inside, toward the track of concrete that surrounded the building, but out into the open air. He had jumped outside. And this fact alone somehow terrified her more than anything else she’d seen. Because at that moment in her early years, nothing was more frightening than being outside the walls.

Simon had burst into her room, eliciting a short cry from her before she realized who it was. She ran to him, clutched at his waist, and he embraced her, one of the last times he had ever done so. His voice was low and calm, but there was something in it that made her look up into his face. He was scared, too.

In the excitement she didn’t notice that Lee was with him until the boy touched her hand. Simon told them to go sit in the bathroom and not to talk, to be quiet. Lee led her there but she glanced back at Simon as he closed the door, one hand pressed to it as if to keep it firmly shut, the other holding a pistol like the ones that hung on the guards’ belts.

They sat together in the darkness of the bathroom, Lee holding her hand, saying things that didn’t make sense at the time. Later she realized he was telling her a story to keep her calm, all the while his arm trembled beside her own. Only several months older than she was, and already he was trying to take care of her.

They stayed that way as the night wore on, the red light coming and going as if the world were spinning so fast that the sun rose and set over and over. Slowly the gunshots lessened, the silences between them growing after each concussion. Soon there was only the quiet crackle of flames, barely audible over their breathing in the enclosed space . .
 
.

Zoey catches herself staring out the window at the curving, impassive wall and casts off the memory. It had been a battle, she knows that now, but what for and with whom, she can only guess.

She moves to the narrow closet set beside the bathroom and draws the doors open. In it hangs a dress made from the same rough material as her current clothes, the color an identical gray. She takes it down, hating the feel of the fabric more than the uniform she wears. She takes the dress into the bathroom and changes into it, only looking at herself to make sure the neckline is straight and the shoulders are even.

It’s an ugly thing, lumpy and rough. It isn’t made to be beautiful. It’s made to remind the wearer of her place and of what will come.

She turns off the light, liking the darkness better, and stands there in the silence, bathing in it like a healing balm.

Zoey and Simon travel up the stairway to the fourth level, stopping to wait for the rest of the women outside the assembly. The hallway is quiet except for the footsteps that gradually come nearer from several directions. There are workers in their bright yellow coveralls, cooks wearing green aprons, several guards who are either off duty or unneeded for the moment, adorned in the customary black vests and cargo pants. Their prods hang from their belts, the long burnished composite tubes reflecting the light with a promise of violence, two electrodes protruding from their ends like silver fangs.

Zoey eyes the weapons and wonders what it would be like to be beaten with one of them, to be shocked. She’s seen it only a handful of times. Once, when a worker seemingly lost his mind and had stripped a guard of his prod, screaming incoherent threats and obscenities. Four other guards had surrounded him, diving in at once, their prods blazing white electricity. The worker hadn’t even been able to scream, he simply stiffened, his mouth opening, and she had seen pale fire jumping from tooth to tooth within.

They wait outside the assembly, the women all in their identical gray dresses, their Clerics beside them, the Clerics’ sons standing in another group. The boys are all close in age, some tall, some short, some with cocky grins and looks to boot, all wearing pale blue shirts over dark pants. Zoey finds Lee in their midst and he winks, barely keeping his smile in check. She frowns and looks away.

The sound of booted feet come from the far end of the corridor, and her heart nearly stops.

Reaper and six Redeyes march toward them. Their uniforms are black with matching boots polished to dark mirrors. In their hands they carry short, powerful-looking machine guns. They walk in time to a pace set by their leader. Reaper is a head taller than almost all the other soldiers. He is broad across the shoulders with a growth of dark hair cut close to his skull. A long scar slices through his hairline, streaking down in an ugly, rippling mass to the mask he wears on his lower face. The black fabric covers his nose, mouth, and jaw. Two straps run from it around the back of his skull to hold it in place.

The gathering of people in the hall splits like water as the men near. The Clerics stand at attention while the women press themselves to the wall. Zoey is no exception. She tells herself she won’t look as they move by, knowing what she will see, but in the end she can’t help herself. She glances up as Reaper passes.

He is looking directly at her.

His eyes are nearly colorless in the artificial light. The slightest shade of gray tinges them with a frigid clarity of complete inhumanity. There is no emotion in them. They have been burned cold.

Zoey shudders and looks away until they pass, the sound of their boots fading to nothing. It is only minutes before the sound of helicopter rotors rise somewhere above them. Even through the thick layers of concrete the motor’s voices are clear.

“Must’ve got a tip on a baby girl,” Meeka whispers.

“They’ve never brought one back since Lily,” Zoey says.

“Doesn’t mean they’re going to quit looking.”

A bleep comes from the intercom, and Assistant Carter’s weak voice slithers after it.

“You may enter.”

There is a click, and the double doors before them unlock.

The assembly is a circular room with tiered seating. It is meant, like so many other places in the ARC, to hold vast crowds. But there is only the short filing of people that fill the bottommost rows, their numbers barely rising past sixty. The women move to the very first row that sits below a platform where a podium has been placed. A banner emblazoned with the NOA seal, a wreath of red flames surrounding the dark acronym, hangs from the podium’s front. A larger banner extends from the ceiling. To the far right is a set of doors that Zoey knows lead to the infirmary. She’s looked at them from the opposite side before when having her monthly checkup. She imagines the other set of doors on the far side of the infirmary, the ones that are solid steel, always locked, a guard permanently stationed beside them.