The Murder Complex Page 6

  I nod my head.

  “Let’s hope so. You got a weapon on you?”

  I nod again.

  “Anyone gets rough . . . use it. We lost a girl last week. Sick and twisted mess. You’d be surprised what people do for food.”

  “Probably not,” I say. My lips purse together like the sides of a clothespin. Orion has probably never gone a day without food. I wonder what her life is like, what her apartment is like, inside the Initiative Compound.

  Safe. Full of weapons and fruit and not a single threat when her head hits the pillow at night. A part of me hates her just for that.

  “Here we go,” Orion says. She pulls out her pistol and checks the clip. Five bullets, and one still stuck in the glass. I take a deep breath, turn to the doors, and watch as the Initiative soldiers let the citizens file in.

  It only takes me a few minutes to get into the swing of things. When a number is scanned, I pull out a ration bag from a crate marked with the right serving size. Mostly it is sackcloths of dried meat, some so small they fit in the palm of my hand. Some citizens get a bundle of bread, depending on the Creds. I shove the rations through the slot above the counter, quick and steady, and move on to the next one. The work itself is easy, even with the heat and the smell.

  But the citizens are rabid. They push and shove and claw at each other to get closer to the front of the line. I feel as if I am looking into the eyes of animals, like wolves that have not fed for weeks.

  I grab a sack of dried meat. This one is so small, and it cost 25 Creds to get it. That is almost a week’s worth of earnings for my father.

  “What do you think I am, a Ward?” a man with a scarred face yells. “I paid for this food, I should get more!”

  “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

  The man grunts, then reaches through the slot, clawing for the other bags beside me. In an instant, my dagger is out of my waistband and I slam it down, right in between his middle and ring fingers. The handle vibrates with a menacing twang.

  “Unless you want me to target an even bigger appendage, I suggest you take your food and move on,” I say. I shove his rations bag at him, and he leaves me, his eyes focused only on his food now.

  “Atta girl,” Orion shouts. She’s fast at what she does, so I speed up, too. I will not let a member of the Initiative outshine me. My father would be ashamed.

  As the line continues to grow on the other side of the glass wall, I watch the women. Some of them are pregnant. My heart sinks. How many more people can we add to our society before we are all destroyed?

  We have not a crumb of food to spare, or a square inch of space to make room.

  Even if the murders continue, the hundreds of dead each month hardly scratch the surface of the problem. There are too many of us. Way too many. I’ve had nightmares of trying to swim in the ocean, but there are so many people I can’t move, can’t even rock side to side in the waves, and then I imagine that there aren’t waves at all. It is a sea of people and I am stuck helpless in the middle of it.

  Later, when the line is finally gone, I slump against the glass, staring at the hundreds of now-empty crates of food. There was so much this morning. Now there is nothing left.

  Something lands in my lap. A slab of dried meat. I look up and Orion is sitting on one of the crates across from me, swinging her legs back and forth. “For your first day,” she says. “Eat it or hide it before someone sees.”

  I close my hand over the meat, and suddenly all I want to do is race back home, where I can show Peri what I’ve earned, and see her smile. Orion is watching me with her strange dark eyes, and she won’t look away. There is something off about her, something I cannot quite put my finger on.

  I don’t like it.

  I put the meat in my pocket and give a nod of thanks.

  I stand up, ready to leave, but Orion stops me. “Hold up, Blondie. Got your work badge?”

  I grab it and toss it to her. Her reflexes are fast, like a cat’s.

  “This is temporary.” She stands up. “Time for the real deal. You get a little adjustment to your Pin. Come with me.”

  We head to a small table in the back corner, with two rickety old wooden chairs. “Sit down,” she says. “Hold out your arm.”

  There is a black box on the table. Orion opens it, and inside, there is a tiny black ball no larger than my pinky nail that I recognize as a Cred Orb. Koi does not have one, and he never will. The Initiative does not give us second chances. In the box there is also a can with a nozzle on top, and a syringe with blue goo that I think is pain medicine. My father told me about this, and as Orion reaches for it, I stop her.

  “I don’t want it,” I say. She raises that same pierced eyebrow again. I don’t need to explain myself. Pain is good. Every time I feel it, I get stronger. I learn how to push it down.

  “I didn’t want it either,” Orion says. She watches me for too long, but I will not look away and show weakness. “You and me, we’re not so different,” she says. “Right arm on the table.”

  I could find a thousand and one reasons to argue with her, but instead I just sit in silence and hold out my arm.

  The cut is not deep, but the pain is. I grit my teeth and take it in, and I do not close my eyes when she slides the strange black orb beneath my skin.

  “This is where your Creds are tracked. You work, you get Creds. You scan your arm, you get rations. You step out of line . . . your Orb goes back to zero. Got it?”

  I watch as Orion holds the can to my arm. Blood drips down my wrist. “These are liquid skin cells,” Orion says. “Nasty smelling stuff. Like ham. You ever had ham?” I shake my head. I don’t even know what that is. Orion sprays the stuff over the cut, and I watch as the tan liquid bubbles up on my arm. “Nanites can fix you up good. But this stuff will toughen the skin. You aren’t getting this Orb out unless you slice yourself up real nice with a knife.”

  Seconds later, the bubbles fade, and I can see a fresh layer of skin under my own dried blood. The new skin is lighter than my own, and when I press a finger to the fresh patch, I don’t feel any pain. “It’s amazing,” I say.

  “And so are the Pins, you know.” Orion stares at my wound for a second. When she notices me looking, she stands up and puts everything back in the box. “Your Orb’s programmed and ready to go. It’s tough, won’t break even if your arm snaps in half. Won’t break even if you want it to. Now the Pin, that’s a different story. Take that sucker out and you can say good-bye to your health. I knew the person who made them, you know. . . . ” She trails off, and for a second, I think she’s lost in her memories. They seem like sad ones, by the look on her face.

  Someone pounds on the glass. We both jump, and an Initiative soldier motions for her to join him.

  “Your next shift is tomorrow at dawn. I think I like you, so don’t be late, Blondie.” She stands up and leaves without another word.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  CHAPTER 14

  ZEPHYR

  “The pre-Initiative Shallows were once known as the Everglades,” Talan reads from a propaganda pamphlet we found after cleaning out the overflowing gutters in the streets a few days ago.

  She could’ve been shot for stealing the trash. It’s breaking Commandment Four.

  We’re supposed to send any propaganda to the Graveyard, so they can dig through the skitz and find whatever they want that’s useful. I think it’s just because they’re scared we’ll riot. But Talan has never been one to turn from the threat of danger, and she’s obsessed with pre-Fall stuff.

  While she reads, I’m so bored I feel like spearing out my eyeballs and roasting them for lunch. I’m hungry enough that I could. I swirl my fingers in the small pool of water beside me. Tiny minnows scatter.

  I remember the first day I came here. The Ward Mark on my neck was still bleeding. I had a tent in my arms and a torn
shirt on my back. I lost both before the moon took the sun’s place in the sky.

  That’s when I met Talan. She was alone, too, but she was stronger, in her stubborn way. I watched her drop a boy twice her size for calling me a name, and from then on we were friends. We spent the night side by side staring up at the stars, telling each other stories about our parents. Telling each other we’d do whatever it took to stay on the same side and keep each other safe.

  We kept our promise, but a lot has changed. I was softer then. I was scared of everything. Now the only thing I fear in this world is myself.

  “You aren’t paying attention to me, Zephyr,” Talan huffs. “You want to figure yourself out? Then we have to do this. Either you read it, or you put on your big girl panties and listen up.”

  Why bother trying anymore? There is no conspiracy behind the murders. The pamphlet is just someone’s pathetic attempt to deal with the loss of a loved one. What Talan and I should be learning about is how to survive. This crap is useless. “I’m so bored,” I groan, and she slams the pamphlet down and stomps away from me, the ground making slushy suction noises with each step she takes.

  “You’re hopeless. Absolutely hopeless!” she yells.

  Skitz, now she’s pissed. If I could go back to that night we first met, I’d make her swear not to become such a girl about things. “Come back, Talan, I’ll listen, I’m just messing with you. . . . ”

  But my words are cut short when the wind flips the pamphlet over. It takes me a while to sound out some of the words, but I manage.

  “An anonymous tip from a long-time member of Propaganda Research states that the Dark Time is protected by the governing Initiative. The act of murdering may not simply be caused by Madness, but could be fueled by a common long-term goal to use the bodies as rations . . . ”

  “Oh, come on! That’s sick.” I throw the pamphlet aside. “Talan!” I’ve heard every crazy conspiracy theory before, but none of them hold any answers for me.

  Like clockwork, I murder.

  I can’t stop. And I never will. Not unless someone finds a way to stop me.

  Talan was right. I’m hopeless. There’s nothing good about me, not really. No matter how hard I try to make myself better, I can never take back the things I’ve done.

  My knife is homemade, sharp enough to cut through the bark of a tree. I clasp the handle. It feels warm and right. It would be easy to do it. To sink the blade into my chest, the way I’ve done to so many others.

  I feel a jolt of pain.

  Horrible, horrible pain, and in my head, there’s a voice.

  Stop.

  The knife falls from my fingertips. I must be going insane.

  I try it again, put the blade to my skin, and there’s the same pain, the same voice commanding me to stop.

  For a second, I think I recognize her.

  But no. That’s not possible. Either I’m as crazy as the conspiracy theorists, or it’s just my conscience. I should have Talan tie me to a tree each night, or give up all of my rations so I slowly starve.

  But I’d still be here. I’d still be a threat to everyone, every waking moment of my life. I turn my knife toward my wrist. Slow and painful. That is the way I deserve to die.

  The voice yells at me, and the jolt of pain comes, but I push it all away, tell myself I have to be strong.

  I cut myself like butter. Twelve times. Twelve even lines, one for each life I’ve stolen. I even try to dig for my Pin, take it out so the nanites can’t heal me. But the dizziness comes, and I feel the world floating away.

  “Freedom.” I smile as I lie back under the warm sun.

  Sometimes in the winter months, a thick fog rolls through the Shallows in the early morning.

  It sticks to the sides of the buildings and blankets everything with a strange sort of coolness.

  Right now I’m just like that fog, clinging to something that I know won’t keep me for good. But it’s worth a try. Somewhere through the darkness, I think I hear Talan’s voice. “Stay with me!” she’s screaming, but it isn’t really a scream, I don’t think. It’s like she’s calling to me from across the sea. “Don’t you leave me Zephyr James!”

  Sometimes I think I can feel hands touching my skin, and I wonder if those are my victims, pulling me under. It’s sort of like an ocean, but this ocean is cold, and the farther I sink beneath its waters, the harder it is to breathe.

  “Why is he bleeding? What happened?” I don’t know whose voice that is. Thomas, maybe?

  There’s a pounding on my chest, and for a second, it’s easier to breathe again. There is a scream, or maybe it’s the high-pitched squeal of the gates opening, but I’m too tired to listen. I hear footsteps, running.

  I think, for a second, that I might be floating.

  I open my eyes and see the sky.

  It is raining.

  Fitting, I realize, for the day that I will die.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  CHAPTER 15

  MEADOW

  I decide to take the shortcut home, past the Hospital. It is not as safe this way, but I cannot bring myself to go past the Catalogue Dome.

  If they had found my mother in time, they would have been able to take her to the Hospital. They could have fixed her. I am sure of it. But of course it was too late. I never saw her body.

  My father hugged me when he brought home her leather boots, tears in his eyes. There was still a bloodstain on one of the boots, and no matter how hard I tried to scrub it out, it never would fade away.

  The sun is beginning to slip from the sky. There is a rumble, and suddenly it starts to rain. It rains nearly every day in the Shallows. I can see the Hospital now, a small cement square tucked in between two towers.

  I could make changes that matter, find a way to save lives, stop the deaths. My useless daydreams are interrupted by a group of kids, not much older than I am. They huddle in a circle, staring down at the blood-soaked ground. Most of them are Wards, with black X’s on the backs of their necks. Their clothes are torn worse than mine, and they smell strange, even in the rain.

  I should keep walking until my toes hit the sand and the water calls me home. But curiosity always wins with me. I stop.

  I gasp.

  Because it is him.

  The same boy, lying in a bloody heap on the street. He is pale, his arm wrapped in a blanket that is pooling crimson all over the concrete. I shove my way to the front of the group. I kneel at his side. “What happened to him?” I say, as if the question doesn’t belong to me.

  “Who the hell are you?” someone asks.

  “Get a doctor!” I scream, and then I pull off my belt and start to wrap it tight around the boy’s arm, just above the wounds to staunch the flow of blood, the way my father taught me. “What happened to him?” I ask again.

  “He tried to off himself, the ChumHead,” a dark-haired girl says. “Selfish little skitz, leaving me to be the one to find him.” Her eyes are bloodshot from crying, but she does not seem surprised.

  Suicide is weakness. My father taught me this. Suicide is giving in to a world that we should be fighting against with all of our might.

  I sit here, applying pressure, watching the boy, hating him for doing this to himself. His eyes are closed, like he could be sleeping, and his face is so pale. I should leave now, but I can’t stop looking at him. He is beautiful. Shaggy brown hair sweeps across his face, and I am shocked at how bad I want to touch it.

  Someone who looks like this shouldn’t be so weak.

  Someone who looks like this shouldn’t die this way.

  An Initiative doctor steps from the building, his white coat flying behind him. “What is this?” he yells at us. “Get off of my sidewalk, you filthy pigs!”

  The crowd parts and the doctor gets a look at the boy.

  I have seen bloody. I have seen gruesome. I’ve even seen a man�
�s insides hanging from his open gut. But the twelve gashes carved into the boy’s wrist are the worst thing I have ever seen. The boy did this to himself.

  “Can you save him?” I look up at the doctor, my fingers skimming the boy’s pale forehead. He is clammy, like wax.

  “This is a waste of my time!” The doctor pulls a scanner from his coat and reads the boy’s Catalogue Number.

  “Zephyr James. Essential Citizen. Seventeen. Blood type AB negative.” The doctor’s face falls. There is no longer boredom in his eyes—there is pure terror.

  “Essential?” asks the dark-haired girl. She is leaning over me, staring at the boy like she is furious she is about to lose him, like this boy is everything to her. “He’s not Essential,” she says. “He’s just a Ward.”

  Essential. Essential means important. No Ward has ever been important.

  No Ward could make an Initiative doctor so afraid.

  I don’t know why I even care.

  But I do.

  The doctor stares past us, as if he is trying to piece together the puzzle. But the boy suddenly moans, and the doctor rushes back into the hospital.

  He appears again, two nurses flanking his sides. “He still has his Pin, at least. Get him inside!” he shouts. “And the rest of you, get off my sidewalk!”

  I feel the boy’s body growing cold. He seems so helpless, so horribly alone. I cannot bring myself to leave him. What makes him Essential? What makes him different from the rest of us standing around him? I know my blood is type O. My mother had all of us tested. “Scan me!” I shout.

  The doctor stops, turns slowly. “What?”

  I stand up and cross the sidewalk in two strides. My hands are coated with the boy’s blood. “I said scan me. My number.” He doesn’t move, so I reach out and yank the scanner from his hand, hold it to my forehead, and press the button.