|Chapter Two|
Not So Closer To Death
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I have a habit of kicking rocks when I'm pensive. I subconsciously do it in preparation for when I 'kick the bucket', but no one knows that.
"If you keep this up, your toe will eventually start poking out your shoe."
Joke's on you then, I think and glance down at the small hole at the front of my over-worn leather boots.
Jécob and I were idling by our lookout spot- The Rocks, a vast collection of white river stones. The small river had run dry years ago, leaving scattered shrubs and weeds to settle in the stream-line— wreaths for its death.
I settle on a large rock facing Jécob's wheeled throne. He looks comical today; quite unlike him. He's wearing his silly old red scarf (he calls her Iris), a washed-up cream-colored pair of jeans that may have been white once, and his shirt put on backward.
"Wasn't feeling very dressy today?"
He faces my direction, lifeless mossy eyes seemingly piercing into mine. I shuffle uncomfortably despite myself. Sometimes I forget that he cannot see.
"Maybe not, why?"
"No reason," I fib. He's much too defensive for me to judge his wardrobe choice. And even so, he still manages to maintain his handsomeness.
Jécob had one of those faces: the sharp jawline, the fair skin, the sandy-blond hair, and the glazed over sea-green eyes. In another life, he might've been a ladies' man.
"I have my shirt on backward, I know. It's a new life metaphor, you see."
Ah, the unending plethora of life metaphors. Signature Jécob.
Last week it had been him holding a cigar in his mouth but desisting from lighting it. [You put the killing thing right between your teeth, but you don't give it the power to do its killing]. He had read it in an old book somewhere.
"It means that my life is somehow on the doomed side of the spectrum. Whenever flipped over, the lighter side to my existence will be revealed."
I always liked his rare outbursts of hope, but I doubt the other side of his shirt–spectrum, sorry– would be revealed. What with cancer thwarting any prospect.
"Interesting."
Silence looms between us.
"Anyways, here," I fish for the jar in my jacket pocket. "Willow's homemade wine. I saved some for you, you're welcome."
I open the jar and bring it to him.
"Shit. . ."
"Burns right?" I laugh as he goes in for another swig.
"Burns like a bitch."
My mind wanders a bit as I look out into the woodlands beyond The Rocks. The Radioactive Wasteland lay somewhere in that direction. 'Inert' they had said, but I doubt it.
Life snatching fucker.
My head hurts again, and I almost topple over the edge of the rock as my vision swims.
Down the river's grave, you go.
Jécob senses my discomfort. "Are you okay?"
"Just the usual headache," I brush him off and regain my composure.
He frowns but drops the subject. Jécob and I have been friends for many years, and I've come to realize that he's just naturally reserved. It's understandable, with him being blind and all. I too have days where the Dark Place is my friend. My morbid analogies don't help much either.
I just wish he'd be a bit more hopeful, on most days, despite our tragic circumstances.
"You're becoming eighteen in a few months," I try to lighten the mood. "Are you going to work with your Dad?"
Unlike myself, Jécob actually has parents. They're just preoccupied with their jobs. That is what Jécob claims anyways. His Dad is from Tier Two and visits him occasionally. His mom never does. She works at The Inn (the biggest harlot center in Tier Two). Jécob denies it, but we know better.
He takes a long drink of the wine, then turns his wheelchair towards the woodlands. "I don't know. If they have jobs there for the blind."
An anticipated response.
"What about you?" He asks, actually sounding interested for once.
As was aforementioned, I don't have a family. My mother left me on the steps of the Children's Home, I was told. She died from hypothermia a few yards away. I never knew a Dad.
This is the only children's hospice in Tier Three and granted a blessing. They offer us health care and education. It's a stepping stone, especially for us who had been affected by the "Upsurge of Radiation in the Radioactive Wasteland" seventeen years ago. The harsh reality is it's unlikely that anyone would want to hire an almost-dying eighteen-year-old with a brain tumor, and it certainly isn't in my desire to work in the drains until my cells give out.
"I'm not sure. I'll figure something out."
He shrugs and recoils to the haven of his mind again.
The sky overhead dons a vibrant orange and a soft shell-pink, the day is coming to a close.
"We should head back before nightfall Jéc."
"Okay." He tucks the almost empty jar into the side of his chair, and we wheel on.
*
"Skye. Skye! Wake up!"
I awake groggily, wondering why fat-faced Ellen is lingering above my bed. Her features warp and merge above me— eerily resembling a distorted apparition. I sluggishly wipe the sleep from my eyes.
After hanging with Jécob by The Rocks, I hadn't felt well (I've been feeling weaker lately) so I decided that I needed a few hours rest. Fat chance.
"What is it, Ellen?" I snap, then pause when I see the panicked look on her face. I grab my t-shirt and shuffle to the edge of the bed while pulling it on.
"What?" My voice wavers. "Is something wrong with Jécob?"
"No. You have to come to the cafeteria right now."
I cross my arms.
"Why?"
Her words are rushed and choppy. "Th... The Special Ops Unit team from Tier One is on their way here."
"Okay, I'm going back to bed. Thanks for wasting my time."
She tugs at my arm, and I almost slap her.
"I'm serious Skye. I overheard Head Nurse Bailey say that they were on their way."
"Overheard huh?"
She shakes her head, her limp brown hair dangling around her face. "I'm not kidding, I swear. She said it had something to do with-"
The assembly bell shrills overhead, clear and nonstop. I glance outside at the rapidly darkening sky, then at my clock. Dinner time isn't close, so why is the bell ringing?
"Had something to do with what Ellen?"
She's already by the door jam, and I wonder how much oxygen her can is pumping.
"Come on already."
I dash behind her, asking along the way if anyone knew what was going on. No one did.
At the entrance of the cafeteria stands Head Nurse Bailey. The first thing I notice is her unusually pale face and her tense stance. The next thing I become cognizant of is the two camo-clad men flanking her.
Recognition suddenly bemuses me. Fat-faced Ellen was right. What is the Army doing here?
The army base resides in Tier One, the mother ship of all the Tiers in this continental union. They rarely come here; usually caring only to send a handful of delegates in the case of a public emergency.
This, whatever this it seems to be entirely different. In a matter of seconds, the cafeteria fills with a legion of soldiers. Okay, maybe not a legion, but enough to cause the cafeteria to burst into an anxious and confused buzz.
"Sit quickly, " Head Nurse Bailey ushers. I spy Jécob's wheelchair in a corner and briskly walk over to him.
"Jéc."
"Skye?" Jécob whispers, "What the fuck is happening?"
"Chil'ren," the Head Nurse claps her trembling hands once, discontinuing any further exchange between Jécob and I. The noise in the cafeteria dies down to a lull.
"Do not be alarmed. The Special Operations Unit is here on official business sanctioned by our Director General."
Official business?
A tall, Arabic-looking soldier steps forth. He's incredibly intimidating- statuesque and well-built with smokey gray eyes that apprehend the locale. I immediately recognize him as the Director General's son.
"Greetings." His voice is deep and sedated. "I am Lieutenant Lucas Mahmud. As the Head Nurse has informed, there's absolutely no need to be anxious. We're just here on business and to speak with a few of your mates."
Head Nurse smiles warily as she looks down at a clipboard she's holding.
"Indicate in whatever way you can whenever you hear your name."
She proceeds to call several names. All about me, tentative hands begin to ascend. I spot Ellen, and my lab partner David, among the sea of familiar faces. My heart is hammering against my chest cavity, and I think it stops for a couple seconds when I hear Jécob's name- and his subsequent intake of breath.
I glance around frantically. The trend is undeniable. They're calling our names. They're calling the names of-
"Skye Palmner."
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