Текст книги "The Wanted"

Автор книги: Lauren Nicolle Taylor

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LAUREN NICOLLE TAYLOR

Clean Teen Publishing

THIS book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the authors' imagination or are used factiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

NO part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.  Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.  Purchase only authorized editions.

The Wanted

Copyright ©2014 Lauren Nicolle Taylor

All rights reserved.

Cover Design by: Marya Heiman

Typography by: Courtney Nuckels

Editing by: Cynthia Shepp

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

 

 

For more information about our content disclosure,

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This is for you.

2023

NADIR

I was eleven years old when they decided to save the world.

I stood pressed close to my mother, my sticky-with-sweets hand in her dry, calm one. Before the bombings, this wasn’t how things were done, but now the safest place for the prime minister’s son was under the watchful eye of the prime minister herself.

Four leaders crowded around a mahogany table, sweaty hands making vapory prints on the rich brown surface, fading in and out. Bottles of valuable, pure water glistened, slick with tears of condensation. I licked my lips as I stood close enough to touch one. The other first families lined the wall, probably all thinking the same thing—what would our fate be, and should we place our faith in the strange man dancing around the table? Unfamiliar faces wore recognizable expressions. Masks of restrained fear.

They listened to a man making big arcs with his arms speak in a grating twang. He gripped each and every one of them with his penetrating gaze and, I have to admit, I became entranced by his intensity. His deep blue eyes shone like sapphires. I broke from my mother’s grasp and crept toward the table, the music of his speech drawing me closer like the pied piper.

“You see. It’s perfect! It’s the perfect opportunity. We have the chance to restructure society, all of it. Start fresh and stop all of this—” the man swung around quickly, “from happening again. Aren’t you tired of worrying someone will kill you in your sleep?” People nodded. “Aren’t you tired of worrying who you can trust?” They started to mutter.

I took a step closer to the blueprints they were taking turns examining. It looked like a maze. No, there was no way out. It was a prison.

“But why circles?” the black man asked, his deep voice rumbling like a marble in a barrel.

“Circles, squares, it doesn’t really matter. It’s the gates and the understructure that are important. Imagine if you knew there was a disturbance in one ring or section? You could shut it down, like that.” The man clicked his fingers. “The perpetrators would be dealt with easily. No muss, no fuss. We will keep life above simple and keep all the messy, complicated stuff below.” He wiggled his finger as he pointed to the levels underneath the ground. “Each ring can run independently, so even if there are issues in one, a lockdown will not affect the others’ ability to run smoothly.”

The complicated structure reminded me of plates spinning on narrow pieces of bamboo but on a much grander scale, rings balancing on long, metal supports, straddling the wide underground river that ran in loopy swirls underneath every town. “And see here, constant fresh water and easy waste disposal,” he finished with a wink.

“I can’t imagine the need for such a complicated facility. It will cost too much to build.” The black man stepped forward, pointing at the various levels below the towns.

The American almost galloped over to the African president. “Oh, you’ll want it. The population will grow, and waste disposal as well as the ability to isolate and control any disturbances will be an important aspect of this system. Besides, Sekimbo, money means nothing. Money is no object. This is about recreating civilization as we know it. Money is irrelevant.” He leaned in, and the black man backed away. “I can’t believe you even mentioned it.”

Sekimbo grunted, stepping back from the table, and grabbed a precious bottle, taking a large sip.

“Can you taste it?” the American asked. “That is the sweet taste of change.”

My mother cleared her throat, holding up one of the bottles and shaking it. Usually a flutter of silt would rise to the surface, but not this time. “So you’re going to pollute what looks like one of very few pristine water sources left in this world?” She pursed her lips, a sign that she was unsure.

He pressed his hands to his forehead like he was frustrated. “No, no, no. We will ensure that everything is biodegradable or recyclable. We will process the human waste here.” He pointed to a series of tanks hidden under the ground level. “These are details, details I’ve gone over, perfected and finalized. You don’t need to worry about them; you only need to worry about your own survival.”

My mother removed her glasses and cleaned them with her sleeve, giving herself a second to ponder what he’d just said.

The American paused for a few moments and then sprung into another speech, his eyes sparkling as if he were in love. “The rings, the circles, the Woodlands, it’s beautiful, it’s simple. It’s a symbol of growth and change. The towns of the Woodlands will be set out like the rings of a tree trunk. And like a great redwood, we will become strong and unyielding.” He made a fist with his pale hand.

I wanted to point out to him that there was no ‘American Redwoodtown’. There were very few of his kind left.

“And this manifesto, this All Kind philosophy, do you think it will work?” my mother asked.

“Of course it’s not the whole solution, but I think we can all agree it’s a start. It’s a new way of thinking that takes race out of the equation.” He swiped his palms across each other, as if he were slapping dirt from them.

It sounded earnest, but it was too simple to even an eleven-year-old. Could we really leave all the prejudice behind?

“See, if we embed people with ID, we can always keep track of them. We can control where they go and when. No one would get through a gate to the next ring without us knowing, without us specifically okaying it. And if we shuffle the races between each town, we can start healing the human genome. Slowly start to rid this world of the racial markers that only cause fighting.”

I started to wonder if he was a scientist. He certainly tried to talk like one, albeit a lazy one who used buzzwords to get people interested but didn’t know much about the specifics.

“I already have the go ahead from Este and Poltinov; I just need your signatures…” He looked to my mother and the black man. “And then we can get out of this hell hole.”

I remember thinking I didn’t like the way he spoke to my mother, like they were friends, when really, they had been fighting each other for years. Killing each other’s citizens. But I also knew everyone was tired of the death.

The American was energized, his hope and enthusiasm intoxicating.

The black man spoke again. “So, who has control?”

“That’s the beauty of it, we all do. We remove the notion of countries and races… and we rule it together.”

The word ‘rule’ stuck in my mind long after the American had stopped talking. I knew that word. That word did away with democracy.

The ground trembled, and people steadied themselves on furniture or each other. They didn’t pause their meeting. Even though a ceasefire had been negotiated specifically for this gathering, some renegade groups had ignored it and were carrying on. The window was a view to sunlight trying to penetrate clouds of dust. The pictures of a green, fresh world were tantalizing, almost impossible to resist.

“How will you get people to come?” my mother asked distractedly as she held up a glossy photo of a stream running over rocks covered in moss, and giant trees shooting to the sky. I wanted to step into the picture and never look back.

The American nodded solemnly but it was overly dramatic. You could tell his excitement outweighed any seriousness.

“Well, you’ve all read the reports. Our planet can no longer support the current population. I’m sorry. I wish we hadn’t made such a mess of things, but now we have to think about the survival of the species. It’s too late to save everyone. We must look to the future.” He didn’t seem sorry, but he was right—the damage was done.

My mother flicked through the report, running her finger along the black text until she found the part she was looking for and stopped.

“But this number, President Grant, eighty thousand, can’t be right. Is that really all we can take? And how can we possibly select those people?”

To think the world’s population had been in the billions. Now we were down to a few million, and he was asking us to reduce it further.

“We don’t make the decision; they will be randomly selected. And as for your first question, if you were given a choice between life and death, what would you choose?” His mocking laugh made me angry, and I squeezed my toy until one of the side mirrors broke off.

With that statement, everyone started arguing. The noise in the room was deafening as desperate voices collided with one another. I crouched down on the floor and played with my toy Transformer, running Optimus Prime into my mother’s advisor’s foot repeatedly. He didn’t seem to notice. I was used to the arguing. For months, they had been debating what to do. Then the American showed up in Brazil a couple of months back after escaping the Chinese bombing of the US. Now, they were just arguing about something different.

They went on and on and round and round in circles, trying to push their own agenda, trying to say their people had more of a right to exist, to go on, than the others did. Finally, the American stood on a chair and told them to be quiet. And for some reason, they did. He seemed to have magnetism that made everyone listen to him.

“People. People. I don’t mean to push you, but the decision’s already been made. We are going. Construction has begun. You can stay here, but I guarantee you won’t last a year. The world as we know it is over. The Woodlands embodies hope, a way forward. Join me, join us.”

He spun a stack of papers towards my mother and President Sekimbo. And I watched as, with a deep sigh, my mother signed the death sentences of hundreds of thousands of people. All to save me. To save her family.

We didn’t realize at the time that it was too late for us, and for most of our population. Radiation killed. Insipid, it ate at you from the inside out. My mother and father went first, my sister died shortly after, and now I was all that was left. The sickly and the dying were not permitted to migrate to the Woodlands. As I had been at a remote boarding school for most of the war, I escaped their fate.

President Grant flapped the papers in front of my face, urging me to hand over control to him. Although he wasn’t really president anymore, his country was gone and he wanted to adopt mine. He promised me he would take care of my people, but I didn’t believe him. There was no ‘my people’ or ‘his people’, that was the point of the Woodlands. But I was only seventeen. I would do as I was told because, although it broke my heart to do it, I couldn’t lead. I couldn’t do anything.

 

How did I get here?

It wasn’t a miraculous stroke of luck. Some pointed finger that knocked us into our places and forced us to walk forward.

Every minute I gained, I fought for.

I slogged out this life through a lash of ice and drag of pine. I swam to the other side of the river of blood and kept myself.

Everything that’s happened to me, good or bad, I earned.

I am not wanting.

I am wanted.

Which scares me most of all.

ROSA

The lost ones are holed up inside me. They might want to be free of my pocked and scarred chest. But right now… I need them more than their right for peace. They give me the strength to carry out my very simple plan.

…to live.

The too-bright light rustled me, my consciousness struggling to keep up with my surroundings. The unfamiliar feel of cold metal pressing into my back, a coffin full of my own breath, and the drag of blood on the glass shoved me to alertness.

One word floated around inside my new brain—pills. My thoughts flew aimlessly like someone had opened a case of live butterflies into my skull… if… you don’t do… something… in the next… fifteen minutes… you’re going to… die… again.

I pulled the words together and my hand tightened around the powder-crusted pills that burrowed into my palm like they knew, just as well as I did, what my fate would be if I didn’t find a way to swallow them in the next few minutes. I clenched both my fists tightly, trying not to look suspicious. But how do you do that when a Superior is peering at you with sharpened eyes? When you appeared from death?

My eyes flitted from his face to his wheelchair and back again quickly, but he saw me taking in the surprising detail. Superior Grant was in a wheelchair. The small muscles around his mouth and jaw tightened slightly. He looked off sitting there lower than I was. Uncomfortable. I squirmed under his gaze like a rock was on my chest, pinning me under his stare and his authority.

I struggled because my energy was still wrapped around the being dead part. It wasn’t quite awake or responding. I moved my hand to the glass surrounding me as if it were tied to my side with elastic, tracing the bloodied handprint above me and avoiding Grant’s black expression. I needed to ignore the enormity of my predicament for one more second. Drawing my finger over each part of the large, reddish brown-painted hand, I wondered if it were my blood or someone else’s. Was it yours, Joseph?

My eyes darted towards the wheels of his chair as they squeaked with movement, and Grant bent his head down to catch my gaze. “They’re dead,” he said flatly as he pressed back into his chair and awaited my reaction. Something squelched inside me, a splitting, but not all the way. I watched his countenance, the way he stared at me, his lips twisting like they weren’t sure what face to make. The splitting stopped like a half-undone zipper. My heart didn’t explode inside me because I could see the twitch in there, the irritation. His fist tight as an un-budded pinecone. I bit down on my lip to stop myself from smiling. He was a liar. They got away.

I let out all the air I didn’t realize I’d been holding onto, so overjoyed that I almost forgot I was minutes from dying. My body jerked, my toes pointing straight down and my head hit the table. I closed my eyes slowly and tried to hang on. Be far away from here, I prayed and added, just be.

Grant wheeled back a little, almost as if he were afraid of me, then shook his head and grasped his jaw in his hand. Our eyes slid to the vacant, open window letting the wind blow the fluorescent light around like a solitary swing in a playground. I pictured Deshi and Joseph climbing out that window, Joseph’s expression as he looked back at me lying there, dead, and I gulped air that stung like a mouthful of thumbtacks.

Grant ran a hand through his neatly cropped, greying hair.

“Let’s get you out of there,” he said in that awful twang like rubber bands over violin strings. The sound was muted through the glass, but it still smarted. I nodded in reply.

The pills stabbed into my skin. Grant seemed unaware of the urgency of my situation. He moved in a considered, slow manner. Unless he was just playing with me and waiting for me to die.

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, thinking in seconds, because that was all I had left. If Grant didn’t know about the pills, there may have been a reason. And if that was the case, I couldn’t let him see me take them.

I rolled to my back and stared at the ceiling; shiny, tinfoil pipes wound their way out of the room like worms. Escape was next on my list, but living was first priority. Grant wheeled backwards to the control panel, eyeing me like a bug pinned to a corkboard, my wings spread painfully wide, never to flap again. Not a butterfly—more like a dull, tatty moth with uneven coloring.

His finger rose and punched a button with a sharp tap. The glass coffin lifted, and the seal between the world and me broke with a clean suck. The cool air wisped at my bare arms and something feathered over my body, raising goose bumps on already shivering skin. I drew my knees up and covered my chest when I realized it was my clothing that had just slipped from my body. My hands brushed over a thick, plaited scar crossing my stomach. I shuddered as I remembered the knife going in and my life bleeding out so fast, the feel of being sliced open.

My clothes were torn from someone making way for all the needles. They were also somewhat singed, and when I drew my arms up, the fabric slid off me like pieces of burned cardboard. I was shedding my skin like a cricket. The image made me cringe.

When the glass lifted, I glanced around. A blood-soaked curtain splayed dramatically on the floor like a fan dipped in paint. I made a move towards it, but the tubes and needles twisted and splintered in my skin, halting me. With my spare hand, I started pulling the needles out with little ceremony, small, red dots forming all over my skin. I pulled a long one from my scalp and Grant winced slightly, but he made no move towards me. If anything, he was avoiding looking at my thin, naked body, my dark, legs swinging over the edge of the metal table like an underfed bird ready to take flight. When the needles were out, lying in a circle around me, I reached out to grab the curtain as I teetered on the bench. A spasm flowed through my arms again. You’re going to die.

Grant cleared his throat and I snapped my hand back to my body, unsure of what to do.

“By all means, please, cover yourself up. No one wants to see that,” he said, waving his hand at me as if I were a dead animal you stepped over and tried not to look at. He held up one knobbly finger, and I expected him to pinch his nose.

“I warn you not to run, child. The guards are outside the door. And I may seem incapacitated, but I am not. Dear.”

The ‘dear’ part was spat out, flung at me with as much condescension as he could manage.

“Oh… kay,” I mumbled, my fingers gripping the edge of the table as my body rolled and rippled.

I moved mechanically, grasping at what little control I had. My arms and legs were spastic with energy, shivering and wobbling like a newborn fawn. My eyes darted to the open window. A chill waved in with a misty rain. My feet hit the cool floor and I wanted to flee—kick his chair over and catapult through that window—but my body couldn’t do it. Not now. I was too weak. And definitely too naked. I wouldn’t survive the cold. I shuddered and bent down to scoop up the curtain. Before I could grasp my fingers around the corner, Grant was in front of me, handing the heavy fabric over with his eyes averted. I cautiously took it, so heavy in my hands.

This was my chance to take the pills. I turned away and brought the curtain, all crusted and wet in places, around my shoulders. The cold blood kissed my bare skin and my stomach rolled. With my back turned, I tried to lift my hand to my mouth to swallow the pills, but he clamped his hand over my arm and swung me around to face him. I snapped the curtain closed around me, and my body convulsed. I tried to contain it, but my limbs flung out, my hands opened, and the pills fell. His eyes were on my face, eyebrows arched. The pills landed in a fold of the curtain, out of sight. My mouth went dry as I started to panic. I had a minute or two at best.

Grant gripped the arms of his chair in alarm at the way my body was behaving, almost like he wanted to get up and help me. “Are you all… right?” he asked carefully.

Think. I bowed my head, feeling the poison churning through my veins, turning me blue from the inside out and eating at the lining of my body. I hunched down, pulling the curtain closer, the pills rolling under the cloth and to my feet. “I… I just need to use the bathroom,” I stammered, my voice crackled and burnt.

He sighed with confusing relief, and his wheels creaked away from me. “Guards!” he barked.

As Grant turned his head and yelled, I picked up the pills, slammed them in my mouth and swallowed, my eyes watering as I forced them down my throat.

The door crashed open like they had been waiting for him to shout out. Grant groaned in irritation. They moved swiftly towards me, grabbed me under the arms, and pulled me to my feet. I coughed from the sudden movement, the bitter taste of the pills grating the inside of my mouth.

Grant growled at the guards, who both stood to attention as he spoke. “Be careful with her. She is not yours to harm.” My stomach flipped, and my heart joined it.

“Wait!” I said around the bile pushing its way through my teeth. The men paused as I hung between their arms like a coat on a hangar. Grant stared at me incredulously but if I was going to die, I needed to know one thing, “The babies… are they okay?” Grant smiled, sharp like it was drawn on, turned away from me, and said nothing. My body jolted from sadness and nausea. “Bathroom,” I pleaded desperately to the guards as I tried to suppress the heaving inside. The blue liquid was trying to leave my body the only way it could and if they saw me vomit blue, they would know something was wrong.

The guards dragged me down the hall, my feet galloping to keep up with their haste. It was darker than a secret in this part of Este’s compound. The lights lit up as we walked and turned off after we passed under them. Strips of deep red and gold shone from the carpet as my body crimped and straightened like a cooked and then uncooked noodle. Hold it in, I warned my stomach. It shook its head in reply and folded in half inside me. I let out an anguished moan as the cramping worsened.

At this, the guard jerked me up close to his face and I thought he was going to hurt me, but he whispered in my ear, his breath hot and smelling of stale coffee. “He saved them all.”

Then he suddenly let me drop, my knees burning as they dragged me across the carpet.

The last light clicked on over a gray metal door. One of the guards slammed into it with his shoulder so he didn’t have to let me go, and then they hurled me into a bathroom stall, the curtain flying off as I tumbled towards the porcelain toilet bowl. I put my hands out on the seat before I hit my head, grasped at the curtain, and pulled it under the door. I kicked the door closed with my bare foot as I pulled the velvet around my shaking body and vomited blue.

Grabbing some toilet paper, I wiped the blue stains from the corners of my mouth. I searched out every blue splatter and quickly mopped that up too, flushing the toilet as the guard opened the door, his cheeks red with embarrassment at my pathetic state.

I stole a deep breath and tried not panic. My chest tightened. My heart was elastic, stretching thinner and thinner with every step Joseph took away from me. I knew I’d done the right thing, the only thing, but it didn’t stop the aching, the fear of being left alone in this place, with these people.