A gunshot ricochets through the deserted alleyway and death crawls over my skin, never too distant. Quickening my pace and weaving through the dusty streets, I squeeze into the crowd at the square, dabbing the blood oozing from my eardrum with my fingertip.
I crane my neck to see a girl with brown hair, who looks around my age, 17, fastened to a wooden beam in the centre of the makeshift stand. A Tranquillity patrolman aims a pistol at the girl's head. Someone smeared an X with black ink on her forehead. Her hardened gaze burns down the barrel of the gun and my stomach curdles. The first gunshot was into the air, to snatch the crowd's attention. The next bullet is for her.
The moment the echo of the gunshot diminishes, and her body slumps forward, the crowd disperses at once. Mothers in stained aprons grip the hands of their uncomprehending children, desperately tugging them away. Elderly men and women, thin and frazzled, shuffle back to their homes in knowing silence. But unlike the rest, I remain rooted to the spot, eyes trained on the girl's body.
Who did she try to save?
Executions happen around here if you hide your sick loved ones from the Tranqs.
"Leave, girl" the Tranq barks from the stand, directing his gun at me. But I am not alarmed.
"Yes," I say, turning on my heel and marching away. The Tranq calls after me, voice laced with fury, but I simply ignore him as I disappear around the corner.
My arms ache with the strain of the groceries by the time I reach my old, shabby apartment building. The familiar unpleasant smell of dust and grime hits me as I enter the small, dull foyer and begin climbing the 60 steps to my apartment. As I reach the flight, my groceries almost spill out of my hands as I dig for my keys. I mutter a curse.
"There you are. I was worrying, Elle" my older sister, Isabelle, fusses as I enter the cramped, dimly lit apartment. She hurries over before pulling up short. She hugs our mother's book to her chest and her eyes flick to the floor. Then back to me.
"You saw another execution, didn't you?" Isabelle places the book down gently and her remorseful blue eyes meet my grey ones.
"I probably went to school with her," I say, flicking the coat's hood off my head.
"I'm sorry you had to see it," she says, and her voice breaks. She coughs into her elbow. "I wish father was here to tell us stories of the creatures that live beyond the walls so we could forget about executions."
"Six years," I mumble. Grief knocks on my heart and my lip trembles.
Six years since the Tranqs arrested my parents while we were at school and banished them from the Floodgates.
"Reading mother's books helps her feel close." She swipes at a tear spilling down her cheek.
A childlike cry festers in my throat, but I swallow it away. "I bought strawberries today," I say.
Convex citizens are often too poor to buy strawberries. They are a luxury. Only the Concave people across the River can afford luxuries. We, too often, barely have enough crops to grow potatoes in our fields. If it were not for the yearly outbreak of blight, our sector might survive. But the skeletal phantoms groan in the streets, stinking of alleyway ale.
"Did Aston give them to you?" Isabelle asks. She smiles the same smile that once belonged to our mother.
"He found them in the forest like father used to," I say, pulling one out and biting into it. The sweetness bursts over my tongue. "Aston knows what he is doing... sometimes. Anyway, we should go. The announcements will be starting soon. We wouldn't want Lord Sneya to miss us."
Isabelle swats me. "Watch that tongue of yours." Then she breaks into another cough. This time, the cough lingers, taut with a rasp.
"Why are you coughing, Isabelle?" I ask, stepping backwards in instinct.
"No reason," she says, shaking her head, but another cough betrays her.
I narrow my eyes. "Should you go to the announcements?"
"I have to, Elle. Can't look like we're hiding something." She smooths down her braid and adjusts her skirt.
"Do we have something to hide?" I press.
"No, Elle," she snaps, and I shut up.
Sighing, I spin around and march out of the door. Isabelle scurries after me. We lock our apartment and descend the 60 steps, emerging in the alleyway. We weave our way through the streets, back in the square's direction. Along the way, we pass countless propaganda posters from the government.
Each poster depicts the image of the tyrannical leader of the Floodgates, Lord Sneya. He is a middle-aged man with greying dark hair. He has prominent cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and groomed facial hair. Sneya glares into the camera with a pair of arresting green eyes. Sometimes, I wonder if he can read my thoughts from the pictures.
"The River hides the monster. Touch even a drop and his Lordship will know." It reads in big, bold red letters above his image.
"If they're sick, alert a Tranquillity patrolman with immediate effect," Another reads.
When Isabelle and I arrive, the Convex people cram tightly in the square. My body shudders against the biting cold. Mothers wrap blankets around their children before themselves. People knit closer to loved ones. Faces are grim. This is no uncommon occurrence after such a merciless execution.
I push my way through the throng, only stopping to regard the stand. The girl's body is long gone. The scene before me carries no signs that her murder ever happened, but for the metallic smell of lingering blood.
The speakers on the stand crackle and a voice bursts through them. "Good evening, citizens of The Floodgates, both Concave and Convex I order you to pay attention." Lord Sneya's voice comes from the recording. "Before the rising seas could cease their destruction, a virulent disease broke out, killing off the adult population of our former world. The young immune banded together to survive and soon built these Walls, The Floodgates, to protect themselves from the incoming, wild oceans. We have our ancestors to remember and thank for their hard work in building these Walls. They became the foundations for our impenetrable kingdom, and I, your Lord, the descendent of the lead survivor, will guide you all to be the most long-lived of the generations. Here is to the now. Here is to you."
That is our cue to clap. We have heard the same recording forever.
The Prime Tranquillity Patrolman of the Convex sector, Sir Warner Fulton, steps up to the stand and eyes the crowd. He tucks his whip into his belt and casts his gaze at his script. The paper crackles into the microphone as he adjusts his grip.
"Thirty percent of corn crops are for the Concave Sector this week. Convex teachers, surnames S through Z, will travel to allocated Concave schools starting tomorrow. Convex children must adjust their days in class accordingly. We need our Concave children prioritised, as they are our next generation of leaders, doctors, and scientists. Any Convex children out of schools must join their parents in the farms or in other laborious sanctums."
"Do not forget, if you find someone with the first cough, you must report them to a Tranquillity patrolman immediately. I hope today's cleansing ceremony showed what can happen if you deceive us."
A fresh spike of anger courses through my veins and my hands clench at my side. The Convex are already dust and bones. We cannot handle this.
"The curfew tonight for all the Convex sector is 2200 hours. The Tranquillity patrolmen will kill anyone caught outside."
Burning anger sears through me as I break into a brisk walk, pushing past the cluster of dispersing people.
"Elle!" Isabelle calls after me, and I can hear her footsteps scurrying after me. But I do not stop. "Elizabeth!"
My breath catches and I whirl around. "Do not call me that, Isabelle. You know I hate that."
Her hard expression softens as she tucks a red curl behind her ear. "What's wrong, Elle?"
"Them," I stress, throwing my hands up in exasperation. "I don't understand how we matter so little to them."
"Elle!" she snaps, giving me that harsh glare that reminds me of our mother. "Do not speak in such a manner."
"I'm just over it, Isabelle. I am sick to death of fearing them. Why do they treat us like this?"
She sighs and steps up to me. "We are nothing but pawns in their little game, Elle."
"I wish they would stop playing with us and discarding our bodies."
Scowling indignantly, I turn around and stalk down the street. I keep my gaze fixed forward to ignore the beggars at my feet. Although I am pulled to a stop by a middle-aged woman crouched outside our apartment building. The woman is so thin her ribs stick out from beneath her dirt-stained shirt. She's accompanied by two hollow children. The woman's stomach swells, evidence of a third child on the way.
"Please." Her voice is rasping and hoarse. I am afraid that she will have a coughing fit, which would alert any nearby Tranqs, who would quarantine her. "I must feed Rosie and James."
Wordlessly, I nod and hasten the stairs to my apartment, where I skid to a stop in the small kitchen and fish around the paper bags of goods. I empty a bag of firewood and refill it with three potatoes and several bread rolls. Scooping up the package, I stumble back down the 60 steps to where the small family remains seated on the dusty concrete. I thrust the package at the woman and the children scramble to peek inside. As I watch the grins on their too-youthful faces, my anger subsides. The woman lifts her gaze up to mine and with an obvious effort, nods a thank you.
I cannot stand the sight of the starving family any longer. I tear my eyes away, rounding the side of the building. I reach up to the first window and hoist myself up onto the ledge. Picking my way up the side of the building, my muscles strain with exertion as I reach the top. My fingers grip the gutter and I lift myself up onto the flat rooftop. I shuffle away from the edge and brush the dust from my hands as I scramble to my feet.
I reach behind me and grip the handle of my sword, withdrawing it from its scabbard. I hold my father's sword against my chest, the tip of the blade pointed towards the sky. Snorting, I examine my fragmented reflection in the blade. My steely grey eyes stare sharply back at me, narrowing, and my freckles scatter my nose and cheeks. The hood of the coat covers my wild red curls from prying eyes. I run my forefinger down the side of the blade, allowing it to sever my skin. I smile in satisfaction. With one swift movement, I swipe at the air, slashing and ducking as if the wind is my assailant, and I am determined to get the upper hand.
These Walls meant to protect us from the relentless surges of the ocean beyond. But now they are our cage, our prison. Although the city is vast, the Walls restrain us.
I stumble over to the edge of the building where I sink down, allowing my legs to dangle off. The sun sets over by the Western Walls. The sky is an array of yellow, pink, and indigo. Her evening rays cast shimmering reflections of light on the palace in the far distance. The sailboat shaped Palace sits before the Northern Walls in the Concave Sector, its mast rising high into the air, meeting the sky. The ruddy, brown, run-down buildings are pitiful in comparison. Its malnourished children are a testament to this. The water falling from the Western Walls cuts across the city, dividing the land in two. It is the physical split between oppression and freedom.
The sky melts into a deep navy blue, and the stars make their appearance. My father used to take Isabelle and I to the edge of the River. He would tell us of the stars. "Elle, Isabelle, every time a star dies, a story dies with it. If we can remember these stars, they may never die. We ought to keep telling them to our children."
I have heard stories of our ancestors in lands before our Walls when there was such a high concentration of air pollution that the sky was often murky. The smoke hid the stars. I cannot fathom being unable to see the night sky. It's like having a window into another world, constantly beckoning me to explore. I have also heard stories of our ancestors reaching the moon. That may not be a possibility for me, but I have a longing, a desire to explore what lies beyond our Walls.
What would I find if I broke my own boundaries and the ones that trap me within this city?
I believe it is. Nothing can be worse than spending an entire existence trapped by the same cage.
Stealing myself, I pick my way back down the building and drop to the stone-paved alleyway. My muscles ache and I slump forward, dragging my feet into the apartment and up the stairs. As I approach my door, wracking coughs echo from within.
My blood churns through my veins, and my heart whacks against my bones.
The First Cough is all too familiar. A scratching, unstoppable rasp. I close my eyes and brace myself. Pushing the door, I wrench my eyelids open. Isabelle has crumpled to the floor. Her eyes snap up to me, rimmed with red.
She coughs and her blood splatters across the floorboards.
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Hello! I really hope you have enjoyed Within the Walls so far. I have really enjoyed planning and writing it. Please let me know what you think of my new novel, I would truly appreciate your feedback. Please vote too!
~ Emma
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