Before mountain lions went extinct, they were the second heaviest cats in the American continents after the jaguar. A dangerous animal, they were very adept at keeping completely still and stalking their prey until it was just the right moment to attack.
Though the beasts may have died off hundreds of years ago, the Kings of the ancient world share many disturbing similarities with the watchful and heartless Officers of Indigne.
Every day, the Officers stalk the hallways of this underground country, keeping a watchful eye on everyone walking past. Their goal: to expose as many people as possible breaking the arbitrary rules of Indigne and further their social status.
The civilians of Indigne are the prey. The Officers are the mountain lions. And right now, I am the prey, being stalked by the mountain lion.
Like many others, the Officer following me has the frightening concentration and patience of a cat. His eyes have been trained on me, never—for the past ten minutes—wavering from the back of my head.
I watch his reflection in the side mirror when his eyes suddenly flick to the right—to the mirror— and we make eye contact for the first time. I feel my heart suddenly jump to my throat. His icy and unfeeling blue eyes stare into mine for only a second before I swiftly look away, focusing instead on the head in front of me and hoping, somehow, the Officer didn't see me staring at him.
I try to calm my ragged breaths. I'm lucky, I remind myself. There are lots of people in here—not that anyone will dare stop the Officer from hurting me—but hopefully the crowd will, at the very least, discourage him from it. But that won't matter if he chooses to follow me down to my floor--I'll be alone then.
Beads of sweat form on my forehead and I let my hair fall loosely around my face, creating a shield between me and his reflection.
I don't know why he's following me. My shift at the nursery is over. I've kept my head down all day, never having looked at any officers in an offensive manner—though sometimes that's been hard. I've been good. There should be no reason for him to follow me. Except, I realize, what if he knows of my special arrangement with Luca?
Chills travel down my spine and I involuntarily tighten my hands around the paper bag of food. The heat of the pasta adds moisture to my already clammy hands. It's suspicious enough that Luca, one of the head chefs, repeatedly makes special food for a commoner like me, but if the Officer also knows there is enough food in the bag for two people...he would know I'm hiding someone. And if he knows that, there is nothing to stop him from executing me and my sister. All he would have to do is banish us to the surface. We'd be dead within ten minutes of exposure.
I clasp and unclasp my sweaty hands. The elevators are only a few hallways away. Once I'm there, I can escape him—maybe. My heart beats sporadically against my chest, feeling as though waves are crashing over my body, threatening to sweep me away with them. I take a deep breath. Annabel's waiting for me to bring her dinner. I have to lose him. I advance, head-down, toward the elevators. If I hurry fast enough, I can hopefully beat him there.
I turn the corner into another less crowded hallway. After I've gone a while, I peek over my shoulder once. Several faces give me curious glances, but the Officer isn't one of them. A small bud of hope takes root in my chest, but it is squandered right away when my body collides with a stranger's back. I stumble and drop my package of food. A gasp escapes me and I stoop down to snatch the package of food back up, mumbling an apology to the stranger. Right before I reach it, another hand sneaks under mine. Freezing, my arm still outstretched, I stare at the newcomer's hand now gripping my package of food. My gaze travels up his arm and freezes at his shoulder when I recognize—out of the corner of my eye—who he is. As soon as I do, my heart stops. The newcomer, crouching only two feet away from me, is the Officer. He must have cut me off when I wasn't looking.
Slowly, I move my eyes to his. My heartbeat returns with a frantic and racing pulse that momentarily overwhelms my senses. His two brilliant blue eyes meet my gaze head on. They remind me of Luca's—only darker.
"I believe this is yours," he says, offering me back my package of food. The man, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, crouches level with me. He seems to be a little young to be an Officer.
I check to see if he's looking for how much food is in my bag—maybe to confirm his suspicions of me hiding someone—but his eyes stay trained on mine. We hold eye contact for a little more than is comfortable before I quickly look down again.
My mouth opens and, after a few seconds, I finally manage to spit out an inarticulate 'thank you' before taking the package back. Goosebumps form along my arms as his fingers brush against my shaky ones.
"Of course," he says, before standing up. I look up again to see him walk in the opposite direction from where he had come. I shiver. He must have only come in this direction to follow me.
I stand up on shaky legs and take a few deep breaths. After what seems like ages, I finally make it to the elevator. Once I'm inside, I hit the button for the -76th floor. I chew on the inside of my cheek. I'm relieved that the Officer is gone, but, still, lingering dread remains. If he connects the dots, he'll search my room, find Annabel, and then there will be nothing I can do to save us. All I can do is hope that he doesn't suspect her.
There's a ding and the elevator doors open. Silence greets me as I step out into the dimly lit hallway. Most people would be creeped out by the sight of this floor—the white walls are chipped and crumbling and the mirrors lining the walls are all misty and scratched—but I don't mind it. To me, this is home. It's the only place where I feel like I am actually away from the Officers and all the other blank faces living in Indigne.
My sister and I are the only ones who live here. After the accident, no one trusted living on the deeper floors—they feared they would be trapped like the other fateful souls that used to live here. The few survivors—my former neighbors—moved closer to the surface where it is safer. I don't mind living here though; it means almost no check-ups by the Officers.
I walk down the hallway, my shoes echoing with every step until I reach the door with a faint 672b on it. Balancing the package of food in my left arm, I fumble with my key until I manage to fit it into the lock. The door takes a few nudges but it eventually creaks open.
My sister and I have been living in this room for our entire lives. It's the same room where my parents lived with us three years ago, but after the accident, I didn't have the heart to move. It's all I have left of them.
The bed where my parents slept is pushed to the left side of the room, against the crumbling concrete wall. The wood frame still has mom's engravings of fir trees which she had taken such care to perfect. There's an empty space to the left of the door where the bed Annabel and I slept in used to be. The Officers confiscated it after my parents, and supposedly Annabel died. The table and small stools where my family used to eat dinner sit on the opposite side of the room, fifteen feet away from the bed. The final piece of furniture is a small metal cupboard sitting next to the table. Our belongings—two forks, two plates, one glass, three changes of clothes that I have to share with Annabel, mom's jewelry, and Annabel's pills—are the only personal items we have. The Officers seized all my parents' clothes to reuse them, but they accidentally left my mom's jewelry that had been hidden in a secret drawer. I wear her necklace on days like today when I miss them so much it hurts.
We're lucky to have a mirror in our room. It was the one thing, besides food, that my father got from his job working the security cameras. Annabel likes to entertain herself by talking to her reflection or making faces in front of it. She sits now with her legs folded underneath her on our bed, drawing on a pad of paper. Her little seven-year-old head gently bobs to the tune of her humming.
Annabel hears the door squeak and looks up, giving me a cheeky smile.
"Reagan!" she exclaims.
I smile and hold up the little brown bag for her to see. "Luca made us dinner."
Annabel squeals and hops off the bed. She stumbles slightly as her limp arm fails to push her off. After a few seconds, she regains her balance and bounds over to me.
"He did?"
Her wide eyes look up at me full of delight. Annabel reaches up with her strong arm, attempting to grab the bag. I lower it and she excitedly searches through its contents.
After a thorough inspection, she declares: "Pasta and bread! My favorite."
Annabel takes the package from my hands and skips over to the table, her right arm flopping uncontrollably by her side. She takes out two napkins, opens them carefully on the table, and dumps pasta onto each one. Then, skipping to the cupboard, she looks for the forks and glasses. After a minute of searching, Annabel turns back for help. Her mouth is curved into a small frown.
Every day I hope she might remember, that her memory might be getting better—but it's not. For the past month, we've had pasta with bread, and every day she is as delighted and surprised as the day before.
I walk over to her and point out where the forks and glasses are kept. With a big smile she says, "Oh yeah!" and places them on the table.
She then sits at the table excitedly, with one arm extended, and announces, "Dinner is served!"