* * *
No matter how hard I tried to recall the seductive blend of emotions the tower aroused, it escaped me. The memories were pale imitations of that first surge of excitement, reminding me more of what I was missing rather than what I had experienced. That longing haunted me, and I had no one to talk to about it.
Christine had disappeared shortly after we made it back to camp. The last thing I remembered was terror clawing her eyes, and a silent scream that stilled her voice. As much as she wanted to tell, to share the fear tearing through her, she couldn’t. No one spoke about these things. Alarming the camp would only bring pressure down upon us. No one wanted extra notice from the guards.
It wasn’t as tough for me, staying silent that is. No one spoke to me anyways. Civility didn’t always reach the other side of camp. I bit my tongue, waiting through the torture of Christine’s absence.
It’d been three days, but it felt like infinity. Images of the tower haunted every moment. When I closed my eyes in bed, visions of a forgotten tower wandered in. Instead of seeing the rotten wooden planks around my room, I saw rows of dilapidated bricks. The creaky floorboards in the cabin sounded eerily similar to the swinging of the threshold marker. Even as I waited in line for my daily rations, the wind blew against the frayed remains of our camp’s striped flag, reminding me of the red maple leaves that pressed up against the base of the tower: a blend of red and white. The monotony of the camp, its desolation, reminded me of the bricks. I couldn’t escape it. Everything took my mind back, especially Christine—or more specifically, the lack of her.
My gaze drifted back to the empty hole in line. Her absence illuminated the last thing we shared, and her disappearance highlighted its dangerous appeal. Thoughts tingled through me. She should be here. Being afraid was one thing, but being so frightened that she couldn’t show up for rations or school was unheard of. I had to beg before she’d skip with me, and now she’d missed three days. Something was wrong, and I knew whatever kept Christine away had to do with more than just the tower. No one missed rations.
I shivered, feeling a knot form in my stomach. Panic pulled the edges of the knot tight, squeezing my heart into a cold lump in my chest. I clutched my arms, trying to warm the freeze spreading through me. The strange feelings surprised me. For years they had been regulated to the dark shadows of my room where nightmares and memoires of my mom surfaced. That’s where I needed them to stay.
I clenched my jaw and pressed my nails into the rough fabric along my arms, anything to distract me from those thoughts. Now was not the time to replay history, or reminisce on the long list of people who’d abandoned me. Christine wouldn’t leave me like they had.
Refocused on the empty spot in line, I counted the families around it. At the front of the line, Stuart Lindle and other camp elites stretched out on the wooden deck in front of the general store. Mr. Lindle leaned against the first wooden post, arms folded against his chest, face hidden beneath the wide rim of his straw hat. Every once in a while, his chin jutted forward and he brushed the tips of his handlebar mustache down. The bright, white cuff at the bottom of his denim sleeve announced his position with a single digit.
Behind him, the men called ‘checkers’, due to their black and white patterned shirts, kept to themselves. In charge of market inventory and storage, they rarely spoke except to each other or the guards. Anytime I had gotten close, their conversations of broken sentences sounded more like a secret code, almost as if they were systematically checking off a list in their minds. Behind them, other camp officials sat on top wooden boxes and overturned pallets, crowding under the store’s overhang.
Behind the elite, the rest of camp sprawled out along the warped deck in front of the meeting hall, down the dusty path, around the overgrown garden, and to the other edge of center camp, where broken stones and rotten planks bordered the main street. The further down the line I scanned, the starker the contrast. Clean clothes darkened to stained ones, patches overtook shirts, and the tips of straw hats frayed. Dirt and dust permanently marked the thighs and knees of work pants. Layers of dirt and grime stained the farmers’ clothes, hiding the sewn-in numbers. Dust scattered around people as they painstakingly brushed off the dirt. A hidden number was as good as a missing number.
By the time I reached the embroidered number seventy, my scan slowed and heart raced. The pain of betrayal tightened in my stomach again. Hawthorne Wentmire, the youngest of the Wentmire farmers, laughed with his brothers. Even standing at the end of the line, I could hear the rich chuckle, and see the way his face scrunched up in amusement. Each ripple of laughter punched me in the gut. He used to react to my jokes that way.
Not anymore. Not in a long time. I wondered when it would stop hurting, but I suppose betrayal never did.
“Get it together,” I mumbled, running my fingers through my hair, catching a glimpse of my own embroidered number—677. I sighed and clasped my hands behind my back.
Every other group in camp stood out, easily identified by the style or condition of clothes—elite, farmers, factory, services—but orphans, we survived on scraps. The scraps of camp, rations, the scraps of care and kindness. We were forgotten or ignored until desperation hit, or we were needed for something.
“Christine!” I yelled, waving my hands over my head as she turned into view. I ran toward her and stopped when I saw her face.
Walking closely behind her parents, her downcast head explained why she had been missing. Hidden beneath a blank expression, dark shadows outlined her eyes, and the discolored remnants of a bruise spotted her left cheek. Christine stood stoically in line, ignoring my outburst.
“Christine,” I yelled again, scowling at her avoidance. This wasn’t like her. Something was wrong. Proving my point, the painted glares of scorn and disappointment from Christine’s parents told me exactly what they thought of me. I sighed, feeling a pang of responsibility for my friend’s pain.
Was it really my fault, though? I hadn’t found the tower; that was Christine. I hadn’t said anything to anyone, but she obviously had. I didn’t do anything wrong, and yet no matter how I tried to justify it, I couldn’t escape the guilt. Deserved or not, it was there.
Retracing my steps, I took my normal place at the end of the line, ignoring Mrs. Booker’s narrowed eyelids and the tight line of her lips. She was trying to determine just how much trouble I had caused this time. If Mrs. Booker knew even half of my escapades, her expression would have been much worse. Memories of transgressions flickered through my mind, and a smile grew on my lips. It had a price, but being an orphan gave me a certain amount of freedom, too.
The line quieted as the first set of bells rang.
In the silence of the line, the wind howled sending a shiver down my spine. Crossing my arms to block the chill, goosebumps grew through the scratchy fabric of my shirt. The worn burlap did little to block the force of the wind, and morning mist slid through the wide threads of my shirt. Behind me, teeth chattered.
“Eli, why didn’t you grab your jacket?” I asked, pulling the young boy to my side, ruffling his mop of dark curls.
He shrugged and looked up at me with a goofy grin, sticking his tongue out between his missing two front teeth.
“You think so?” I asked, narrowing my eyes playfully at him.
He wiggled out of my grasp and ran to join the other kids from the cabin. Rosey, the only red-headed girl in camp, giggled when he rushed past her and ducked down out of sight. Freckles danced on her cheeks with each laugh as her glances darted between me and the little boy.
“Watch it,” an annoyed voice called out from behind them. “You almost ruined it!”
Eli had scooted too far behind Rosey, tripping over Sarah, one of the oldest orphans besides myself. She blew her bangs out of her face and pointed a broken plank she had been drawing with at the two six-year olds. With each wag of her hand as she spoke, dust fluttered off the end.
Mrs. Booker glared at me, certain I had something to do
with the outburst in line. I shrugged and raised my hands in innocence.
Deep down I smiled. Sarah, despite her protests got exactly what she wanted—two new workers she could boss around. Being two years older than them gave her an unearned feeling of superiority. I had rescued those kids and a handful of the other young ones from her unreasonable demands many times before.
“You’re doing it wrong—not like that—Eli, no!” Her voice escalated to a shrill squeak.
I cleared my throat and raised my eyebrow at her, pointing to the ground. She glanced over at me, her eyes quickly darting away guiltily.
“Fine,” she mumbled, shoulders sagging in defeat as she sat down next to Rosey. Dust plumed over them with the rough shuffling of her stick across the ground, creating a clean drawing surface. She looked back at me and waved her hand like she had done me a favor. I sighed and turned away, hiding my smile at the first strokes of her stick: long lines intersecting across a circle. A delicate web.
All of us orphans obsessed over webs, trying to find connections where there were none. But no matter how elaborately drawn, they never caught anything. Our webs always remained empty.
My head popped up at the sound of the guards marching, approaching from the other side of camp near the factory. The slow tapping grew into a rhythmic boom. The guards walked in unison, their impeccably pressed uniforms as harsh as their smiles. Colorful patches and insignias lined the shoulders of the uniforms, and black leather straps secured their guns and ammunition. The air tightened as the line of men passed.
Above their measured pace, a choked sob escalated to muffled screams. I looked away from the marching men to Rosey, squirming in Mrs. Booker’s arms. She threw her head from side to side in a fit.
“No,” she cried, her squeals amplified in the silence.
I ran to her side and grabbed the screaming child, pressing her head to my chest. “What’s wrong?” I asked in a whisper, wiping tears off the child’s cheeks.
She smeared her snotty nose over a torn sleeve and pointed to the dusty imprints where she had been drawing.
“Oh my sweet Rose, don’t worry. It’s all Mrs. Booker’s fault,” I said, smirking at the old woman. “She should have shown you where to draw. Here, draw with me.” As soon as the guards passed, we dropped to our knees and traced our fingers through the gritty dirt. I was rewarded with a ragged smile from the girl and a shake of disapproval from Mrs. Booker.
With the kids back to drawing, I squinted toward the guards, following the trail of dust to the main gates. Even the line of dust seemed to be displaced with precision. The guards marched to the gates and stood on either side of the main doorway, creating a tunnel of armed men. A round red light crowned the doorway, dormant until the doors opened. Faded letters blended into the thick steel studded doors, its earlier designation forgotten. With only a few surviving camps around the country, it didn’t matter who took care of us, just that we were taken care of. We were protected.
The thought soured in my mind. Protected—restricted—it was all the same.
The red light flashed with the opening of the door. The hinges creaked, threatening to buckle under the repetitive strain.
Dust surrounded the incoming trucks. Covered in studded armor, camouflaged paint, and metal spikes, they were faint shadows of their original design. The trucks maneuvered slowly, filling the silence with a thunder of exhaust. An armored guard peeked through a small opening in the top, automatic gun slung over his shoulder. Large tan goggles and a domed hat monopolized his face. The caravan rounded its way through the gates and into the circular path of the marketplace, covering the line of people with a layer of grime that clung under the mist.
The Colonel stepped out, as foreboding as ever. The first steps of his boots hitting the ground synchronized with the ringing of the second bell. Years of the same routine made the process seamless. Seamless, but not painless. The older I got, the more I noticed the palpable disgust on the Colonel and transit guard’s faces. The smirks of our guards seemed genial compared to the sneers and nose twitches as we passed the others.
The line crawled forward, and we approached the line of armored vehicles in another programmed routine. Transit guards bordered both sides of the path, forcing us to pass through an armored tunnel to reach the Colonel. The guard’s blank eyes stared through me on either side until I reached the end, where another uninterested guard held out a small cloth bag. Past the guards, the rigid-backed Colonel stood, dark eyes hidden behind the shadows of his hat’s brim. Black-gloved fingers strangled a pen as he marked off our numbers, mutely searching our clothing for confirmation. Even after years, he showed no signs of recognition.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, clutching it to my chest as I walked away.
A sweet fragrance wafted up from the bag, hitting my nose like a suckerpunch. The emptiness of my stomach, aggravated from the sleepless nights, rumbled in protest. That gnawing ache grew with every step I took away from the guards making my way back across the main street. I knew better, but the anticipation stirred within, and my mouth watered before I made it to my normal spot across from the general market. I climbed on top of a row of rotten posts leaning against each other haphazardly, hooking my legs around the lower part for balance.
I shook out my fists, white knuckled from clenching the bag, and said a quick wish before peeking inside. The sweet scent hit me first.
Lucky this time; I grinned, welcoming the sight of the jerky strip, roll, and a sprinkling of dried berries squished along the side of the bag. Rations changed daily, and I never knew what would be inside my bag. Some days there was enough to save some for another day; others meant a simple roll; and sometimes, they ran out before me.
The berries melted on my tongue, a surprising blend of sweet and tanginess, unlike the tart salmonberries or sweet blackberries I picked in the forest. Popping a few more in my mouth, I watched the caravan retreat under the flashing red light, disappearing as quickly as they appeared.
Balancing a berry on the top of my thumb nail, I flicked it up into the air, catching it on one clean swoop. I demolished half of them and almost choked on another when I saw Christine.
She hesitated mid-street, glancing between me and then behind herself, toward her parents, who were deep in conversation with Mr. Lindle.
“Hey you,” I called out, catching Christine off guard. Her face paled and she forced a small smile before glancing behind her. She took a step backwards toward her parents. “Where are you going? The third bell hasn’t rung yet,” I asked, jumping off the post, making her stop mid-step.
Christine slowed, but wouldn’t meet my eyes. Hidden inside her stretched out sweater, she looked so frail today, so small. It was the same cranberry sweater she had worn in the woods, but the fabric had stretched beyond repair with multiple washes. Even after its tortured cleaning, small specks of yellow stained the thick yarn.
“Let me share my rations with you,” I offered, holding out a handful of berries.
Christine looked at the offering warily. “That’s a first,” she said, jumping onto the post next to me.
I smirked and closed my hand at her insult.
“No take backs,” she said, prying my hand open.
I feigned a pout and pulled out the strip of jerky, tearing off a chunk of the overly-salted meat. “Your sweater looks nice,” I said.
Christine raised her eyebrows. “It should look good. I’ve spent the last three days scrubbing it, trying to get the paint out.”
“I thought it looked pretty clean,” I said. Christine’s eyes strayed back to the ground. My smile disappeared at the stalled conversation. “What happened?” I finally asked.
“I got in trouble,” she mumbled softly.
“I can see that.” I brushed a strand of Christine’s auburn hair away from her eyes. A purple and green welt streaked across her cheekbone. “I didn’t think they’d ever hit you. What happened?”
Christine twisted her fingers, refusing to meet my
eyes. “They haven’t before. It was scary. When I told them about the tower, you should’ve seen my mom’s eyes. I’ve never seen them that mad.”
“And they did this to you, all because of the tower?” I asked incredulously.
“They said it was a warning.” She brushed her hair forward, covering the bruise. “That I got off easy. That if I ever went back, it’d be worse. Like I’d ever go back there.”
“I don’t understand. They hit you over a stupid tower?” I asked, appalled. “Geez, I thought they’d be madder that you were skipping class or something. Why’d you tell them, anyways?”
“Don’t give me that look. I didn’t tell them much, just the obvious. I had to explain the paint, and why we were in the woods instead of class,” she defended. “I’m not like you. I can’t do things and not have to answer questions about it. They hold me accountable for everything, and now…” her voice trailed off.
“And now what?” I prompted, trying to keep my anger from rising. Sometimes she saw my circumstances as easier than hers.
She met my eyes and scoffed. “And now, with the factory coming up, they expect more of me. They said I needed to start following the rules, for my own good…and they warned me to stay away from…certain things,” she added reluctantly.
“The tower?” I asked.
“You.”
I nodded and looked back at my rations. I picked through the few remaining berries in silence. “I could say the same thing about them. I’d never hurt you.”
“This,” she said pointing to her cheek, “was a mistake. The true wounds don’t show.”
I scrunched my forehead and reached for her hand. I knew more about that than she thought.
“You should have seen them, Simone. They were livid. More than I’ve ever seen them before. When I mentioned the tower, they lost it. I mean, really lost it,” she said.
I relaxed feeling the distance between us shrink. “I can imagine.”
“What do you think they told me first?” she asked with a wink.
“Oh boy, probably something blaming it on me,” I answered with a slight laugh, digging my nails into the post at my side.
“You’re right. At first, it was all about you. What a bad influence you are, how you’re always thinking of yourself, how I shouldn’t see you anymore,” she chuckled, oblivious to my discomfort. “That sort of thing.”
“Ah, there’s nothing new there. They’ve told you that from the beginning. It wouldn’t do for a 28 to be seen with a 677.” I hid the sting with a joking tone.
“It’s not about our numbers,” Christine said, hiding the cuff of her sleeve under her palm. “It has nothing to do with that. It’s about the rules. I’ve broken too many recently…they’re afraid.”
“We’ve been breaking them our whole lives. I don’t know what’s different now.”
“We’re getting older, Simone. It’s no longer just skipping out of class or taking someone else’s rations. We’re almost old enough for the factory, and that means things are about to get serious. We need to follow the rules. They’re here for a reason.”
“What sort of reason?” I rolled my eyes. “To glorify submission? To numb our lives into routine?”
“Shhh, lower your voice,” Christine said, nudging me with her elbow. “This is what my parents were talking about. You can’t say stuff like that. The rules are here to protect us. It might be a life of routine and rules, but it’s still a life. We’re the lucky ones; you should remember that. You know our history just as well as I do, or did you sleep through those classes?”
“I’m about to fall asleep now.”
“Stop it. You know the truth. You can’t deny the stories of failing crops, violence, and anarchy. They’ve given me nightmares.”
“Mr. Lindle gives you nightmares.” We both looked over at the mayor, stroking his moustache flat against his jaw, and giggled.
“You can’t blame me; look at him. He’s scary. Just look at that golden tooth and his wide grin. I can’t tell if he likes me or wants to eat me.”
“Probably both,” I said with a wink, popping the last berry into my mouth.
“Stop it—be serious.”
“Never.”
“So you’re just going to ignore all this? My parents’ warnings—”
“Come on. What do you want me to do? No one disputes our past, but yeah, I’m not going to dwell on it. Bad stuff happened…move on. That’s what this camp is for, right? To protect us… no need to worry.”
“But, my parents—”
“Worry too much. They’d keep you on a leash if these walls weren’t here.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Nothing’s fair here. Get used to it. I have.”
She looked at me intently, slightly wrinkling her nose and upper lip, like she wanted to say something Instead, she stuck out her tongue.
I choked back my laughter and repositioned myself on the post, brushing chunks of dried moss off of the bottom. “Just leave the past behind. It’s better that way,” I said.
Christine smoothed out her hair and grabbed a sweet cake loaded with icing from her rations bag. “I guess you’re right. None of that really matters anyway. In a couple weeks, we’ll be too busy with the factory to worry about anything else.”
I bit my lower lip and looked over my shoulder to the oppressive building at the edge of my vision. “Has your mom told you anything about it yet?”
Christine shook her head, and frowned. “Not really. It’s like she pretends that part of the day doesn’t exist. She never mentions it, and I don’t bring it up. It can’t be too bad, though. A stitch here, a stitch there. It’ll be fine—something new for you to complain about.”
“Complain?” I feigned shock. “Never. I always make the best of a situation. Speaking of…what do you say we skip out and take advantage of the sunshine? I bet we could find it again,” I said, with the side of my mouth turning up mischievously.
“Drop it, Simone.” Christine’s voice hardened. “We can’t go back there. I’m not going back there,” she said more definitely.
“Why not?” I begged. “I have to see it again. It’s killing me.”
“I can’t…it’s too…it’s bad. Let’s leave it at that.”
“What aren’t you saying?” My stomach knotted. “Tell me.”
“I can’t. I promised.”
“Promised who?”
She gave me that look, and I knew. “Come on. Camp honor, I won’t tell.”
She rolled her eyes but leaned forward, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Okay, but this is serious. It’s bad stuff, Simone. They say the tower brings death and disaster to anyone who goes there. Everyone that’s gone near it in the past has come back contaminated, scarred, or dead.”
We locked eyes, and a new shiver ran through me. “Oooooh, scary,” I said, trying to diffuse the prickles on my neck.
“Stop it. I’m serious. Even your mom.” Christine’s voice quivered.
“My mom?” I choked out, sobering instantly. “No, Mrs. Booker told me…she was sick.”
“She was, but it was from contaminants, not just a cold or something. About ten years ago, there was a rations shortage. People were starving to death in the streets. At some point, people got fed up and a group went out; searching for extra food, animals, anything really, but instead, they found the tower. The guards saved some, but even they didn’t come back unscathed. The others, like you mom…they weren’t so lucky. That tower. It’s not good.”
“Whoa, a tower can’t do that,” I protested.
Christine shrugged. “My parents wouldn’t lie.”
I looked past her to where Maxwell and Justine Decker stood. Uptight, overbearing wimps—I could call them a lot of things. But not liars. Just like Christine, they prided themselves on their integrity.
“Why I haven’t I heard about this?”
Christine looked at me. “You were only six. It’s not the sort of thing someone would tell you.”
/> “No, I don’t believe it. I would’ve known. Mrs. Booker would’ve told me.” But even I knew it wasn’t true. She’d never told me anything, let alone something that would require her actual attention.
Christine raised her eyebrows and gave me a knowing look. “You don’t have to take my word for it. Tomorrow morning. Look closer at Mr. Lindle, or Hawthorne’s dad. They were in that group and made it back safely. Look at their hands next time we line up. They’re marked. It doesn’t matter what you believe or what you’ve been told. I’m not going back. I don’t want to risk it. The world out there’s still bad.”
“You really believe that?”
“How could you not? People are still dying from contaminants, others go missing, and the guards are still here. If everything was fixed, none of that would be happening, right?”
I regarded her carefully. Naivety covered her, head to toes. There would be no changing her mind, and maybe I didn’t want to. Maybe her conviction was enough to give me the unreasonable hope that I was wrong. I packed the rest of my rations into the steel container at my hip. “You’re right. You always are. It’s just that when I saw the tower, something inside me changed. When I saw it, I don’t know,” I sighed. “It just made me feel.”
“Made you feel what?”
I gave her a sad smile and shrugged. “It just made me feel.”
We both jerked at the sound of the third bell.
“What do you want to do today, then? Steal more supplies, climb the old buildings?” I asked while she folded her rations into her side pouch, handing me an extra two slices of jerky that wouldn’t fit.
“I’m going to class today,” Christine said, jumping off the post. “Maybe tomorrow.”
I watched her run down the path to catch up with Mrs. Hutchings and the other kids. When they turned the corner after the meeting hall, I jumped off the post and followed, leaving a trail of dust behind me.
* * *
The rest of the day settled into a blur. While I drifted in and out of sleep, Christine’s hand jumped with every answer, as if excelling today would forgive yesterday’s transgressions. People compensated in different ways. I tried not to judge, but mine seemed easier. I folded my arms on my desk and leaned over, closing my eyes, listening to Mrs. Hutching’s voice as she listed off the tragedies of the outside world.