Resistant a world divide.., p.2
Resistant: A World Divided, page 2
My mother sighs, and I imagine her letting go of the memory I most likely will never get the chance to know. But then she speaks again, “You can’t keep him out, Cat,” she wheezes frenziedly, and in a voice I hardly recognize, her eyes still closed. “No matter what. He’ll come for us all. One day, you’ll see. He will come for us all.” She grabs the sheets, her knuckles white, as she is taken forcefully by an uncontrollable fit of coughs. I hold onto her, feeling her body wretch, afraid if I hold too tightly, she’ll break.
“Who, Mom? Who is coming for us?” I ask, desperate for her answer, all the while knowing it will not come. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. So I cling to her softly until her coughs subside. I cling to her, knowing our time together is limited. That every minute that slowly passes could be her last.
Late into the night, when her breaths seem less labored, and my heart has calmed, I tiptoe quietly from the room.
The candles have long since burned out, so I don’t notice until the following morning, when I’m finally changing out of yesterday’s clothes, that my shoulder is stained dark red with her blood.
. . . . .
No one in The Community is supposed to speak of the past anymore, so there are no references to specific dates or times of the year. There is only before the Virus and after. Most people want to forget the times in between. The fear. The suffering. The decay of what was once a larger, happier, healthier society.
It’s easier for most not to remember all they left behind, what they had to endure, and the laws of ethics they had to break in order to be accepted into The Community. You needn’t harbor the guilt though; you aren’t alone. A quick glance out the window or down the street brings immediate validation.
We all wear the same required identification cuffs.
I use mine now to enter The Academy: an old college medical building chosen to remind us young, impressionable, educable youth why we are here. To discover yet another miracle drug.
When the true disease initially emerged over a decade ago—first in the developing countries but then quickly spreading—and doctors failed to treat it even with last-resort antibiotics, plenty of so-called medical experts were quick to claim a cure, but only one doctor had been successful with seemingly stopping the rapidly spreading illness in its tracks. Still, the swiftly mounting demand for this new drug had far surpassed the supply. Thus, The Community was built to separate the sick from the healthy. A type of quarantine. And the new generation of its members, Generation Resistance, was charged with figuring out a way to stop the Virus for good.
Once upon a time, I was a wholehearted believer in this mission that I conceitedly believed was mine and mine alone. My father made sure of it. But with my mother’s currently declining health and my father’s increasing neglect, I find my passion waning.
Today, I walk slowly and haphazardly down the hall of the school, bumping shoulders with a dozen or more of my classmates who ask the customary questions:
“What’s wrong, Cat?”
“Is it your mother?”
“Cat, are you feeling ok?”
I ignore them all. I know how I must look; I can feel the bags under my eyes, heavy and dark as storm clouds, but it’s nothing compared to the weight burrowing deep within my chest. And there are simply no words to describe it.
When I left my mother this morning, she was still sleeping, the latest morphine drip strong in her veins, and her breathing seemed steady. Rhema, arriving at sunrise, assured me she’d be fine. As fine as she could be. Still, I almost hadn’t left. I had almost broken one of The Community’s cardinal requirements: Without education, there will be no cure. Attend classes daily. But I needed to breathe air that wasn’t tinged with sickness. I needed to be reminded of why I fight so hard for answers. Not just to save my mother. But for the sake of all The Community—me included. I needed some shred of hope left in a world that continues to unravel.
I’m still thinking about my mother and our late-evening conversation when I almost miss my classroom. But just as I stumble past, a hand, steady, strong and familiar, pulls me through the doorway.
“Cat!” Abel’s voice is fierce but kind, bringing me back from the fog of my memories. He doesn’t bother to ask if I’m all right. It’s not a question we ask each other anymore. We’ve known each other far too long for small talk.
I force a half smile. “What? Do I look lost?” My voice is barely a whisper.
My friend tilts his head, offers me his arm, and I take it. His dark eyes are heavy with concern. “Your mom?” he asks though he doesn’t need to. Abel knows me better than anyone in The Community. He’s one of the few who does not hold a grudge because of my heredity.
I nod because I’m afraid if I speak my voice will shake and the tears will roll, an uncontrollable, raging river of grief. Already I feel the pools swelling in the corners of my eyes. The sides of my mouth are quivering. Abel, recognizing that the floodgates of my eyes threaten to burst open, gently but hurriedly guides me back out of the room and down the hallway I had only moments ago ventured.
Toward the front door.
“Abel?” I ask, trying half-heartedly to shake him off. But his hold tightens around my shoulders. This is against the rules. We aren’t allowed to skip class. This is wrong. We will be caught. Still, I let him half drag, half guide me down the now empty hallway. “Abel?” I say again, but he’s focused on the door leading out into The Community’s commons.
“Come on,” he says, conviction in his voice. “You and I need to take a walk.”
. . . . .
Hurrying through the streets of The Community, it’s hard to believe that the world around us is poisoned. People litter the market place, buzzing with the daily monotony of community life.
Forge ahead.
Mrs. Sheridan is busily working her produce stand, lining up melons and tomatoes and cucumbers, a colorful array of shapes and smells. Mr. Allen sweeps the sidewalks in front of his bakery. A small group of middle school children—our youngest and last remaining group of school-agers—runs boisterously across the street toward the canal, a young Ms. Flowers breathlessly trying to catch up. It looks picturesque. Almost postcard perfect. Almost. Except I know that on the third floor of Mrs. Sheridan’s building, her son, only twenty-five is sick with late-stage symptoms of the Virus. And the shop next to Mr. Allen’s? Closed. The owner having died just last week.
Abel tugs at my hand, and we hurry more swiftly through the busy street, my heart pounding. No one seems to notice us.
“Where are we going?” I whisper. But Abel ignores me and continues to half lead, half drag me through the city.
Above, the sky beyond the translucent ceiling of The Community is a beautiful robin’s-egg blue. There are no clouds as far as the eye can see—as far as the walls of The Community allow you to see. And even though the temperature is set at a comfortable 75 degrees, I find myself sweating heavily.
I allow Abel to take me past the outskirts of the city. Past the old college grounds. Past fallen statues of once-great men who have long been forgotten. To a remote area of The Community where I am sure no one visits too often anymore. If at all. The roads are worn cobblestones. Weeds tower from the cracks, and I have to watch every step for fear of falling or twisting my ankle. Here in this area of The Community, homes have been abandoned or used for forgotten storage. Rooftops sag and windows gape like dark, sad eyes searching, longing for something. A better time?
Finally, after stumbling for what seems like miles down the hazardous cobblestone road, I pull at Abel’s hand. I need to catch my breath, and there’s a sharp ache growing near the lower right side of my abdomen. Clearly, I am out of shape. I had no idea The Community even stretched so far in this direction.
“It’s ok,” he tells me. “We’re here.” And his voice holds a subtle tone of wonder and awe.
With my hands on my knees, still panting, I look up and immediately understand Abel’s reverence. Directly in front of us is a towering wall of emerald holly trees. And because they have been neglected for many years, it’s almost impossible to see what lies beyond. Almost but not impossible. A paved path—maybe an old driveway—leads through the trees, winding its way to what appears to be a small, stone cottage shrouded in ivy like a forgotten secret. Hansel and Gretel I think instantly, recalling the Old-World story from my childhood, and walk as though in a trance to get closer.
To get a better look, I reach into the trees and move the branches aside, careful of the pointed leaves. It looks like something straight out of a fairytale. A long ago forgotten time. Before the Virus. Distinguishable among the sea of overgrown green is a red door with peeling paint that seems to beckon me. Something small, a hummingbird perhaps, hovers just beyond the leaves to my right. It seems remarkably still, suspended in air. Watching us. I wonder fleetingly how the tiny bird managed to get inside.
Without looking back at Abel, I whisper, “What is this place?”
Abel moves along the wall of trees and pulls back a few holly limbs to reveal a faded octagonal sign. Most of the words are illegible, weather-worn and tarnished. But one word has withstood the test of time.
Cemetery.
A shiver, starting with a tingle at the base of my neck, travels rapidly down my spine, and a heaviness, hot and suffocating fills my chest.
Why would he bring me here?
Abel, recognizing the horror in my face, says quickly, pointing through the rod-iron fence beyond the trees, “What I want to show you—what I need to show you—it’s through there.” He walks back toward me and attempts to take my hand. I refuse the gesture. My mother’s blood on my shirt, her obvious pain, it’s all too fresh in my mind. It’s too close to this place. Again I wonder about Abel’s intentions. What could be so important that in the wake of my mother’s impending death, he’d bring me to the one place where death is inescapable? I feel myself harden, my trademark defense mechanism, and back away from the fence and Abel.
“This place hasn’t been used in years, Cat.” Abel’s voice is a plea. Forgive me, it says. “It’s just a forgotten piece of land.” I didn’t mean to remind you of your mother. I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I turn away from Abel, as though to shield him from my utter disgust, and a silent moment passes between us. I’m trying to decide how to respond. On one hand, I know Abel is the one true friend I’ve got. He would never do anything to intentionally hurt me. On the other, I cannot ignore the fact that beyond the fence and eight feet under, lie the remains of our ancestors, and my mother is soon to join them.
I turn again and take a few steps closer to the whimsical, stone building that lies beyond the wall of ivy and am once again filled with an odd sense of longing. It is inexplicably beautiful. There’s something about the path beyond that seems to call to me.
Walk this way, I imagine it saying. Let me lead you away from the cruel reality of your life.
Abel is suddenly beside me, but he doesn’t dare touch me. He knows me better than that.
Without taking my eyes from the path beyond the fence, trying in vain not to see the endless sea of gravestones, I ask him quietly, “Why?” But there’s much more to this one-worded question, and Abel knows it.
He sighs and thinks a moment before answering. “Have you ever felt like there’s more to life than just this place?” I know instantly Abel is speaking of our lives within the walls of our small, often-suffocating community. I also know you aren’t supposed to question these things. So I keep quiet, and he continues, “I saw something the other day, Cat. Something that makes me believe not everything we’ve been told is as we’ve been told.”
Still, I say nothing. I am silenced by shock. Shock that my friend would bring me to a cemetery in the first place and shocked that it seems as though he’s been spying on the very people who are here to protect us.
“Can I—,” Abel starts, and then he turns to face me, his dark eyes pleading. “Cat, can I show you something? Will you come with me?”
Ever since we were young kids, I have trusted Abel. When my father left, when my mother got sick, his friendship never faltered. Even with all the recent rumors circulating through The Community, Abel has remained my rock. But what he’s asking now is for me to betray everything I’ve ever been taught. We aren’t supposed to question The Community and its requirements. Requirements put in place to protect us. Yet here Abel was, threatening everything I was raised to believe.
“Please, Cat. I think it’s important.” Abel’s heightened voice lets me know he’s beginning to panic. He looks at his wrist where his identification bracelet illuminates the time.
I nod because I can’t bring myself to answer out loud and because I’m suddenly apprehensive of my childhood friend who in this moment feels more like a stranger. Abel returns my nod, as though reading my thoughts, and turns and inches along the fence until he comes to a break in the holly. Here, he pulls back the chain link to reveal a small opening just large enough for us to squeeze through, and without another word, he ducks through and disappears.
For a moment it seems as if I’m left standing in the road all alone, and in this moment’s hesitation, I consider leaving my friend and running for home. What could they possibly be thinking back at The Academy? Four classmates gone in two days? There would be immense hopelessness. Panic even. The same emotions I felt just yesterday. Except Abel and I aren’t sick. Neither of us are suffering from symptoms of the Virus.
“Cat, we need to hurry.” From beyond the thick holly, Abel’s usually smooth-as-velvet voice has grown slightly desperate. He’s my only true friend, I remind myself. The damage back at The Academy is done. We can smooth it over later. The thought of abandoning the one true ally I’ve got who’s not sick is one I cannot bear. So, with a trembling hand, I pull back the fence and step through to the other side.
I don’t have time to get my bearings. Abel immediately takes my hand and leads me to the left, down a paved path lined with overgrown plants and grave markers, some tombs so large, they’re actually built into the sides of the rolling hills of the cemetery. We climb steadily, and as we reach what appears to be the highest point of the cemetery, I hear what sounds like rushing water.
The river?
Graves are all around us now. One a tall metal cage, rusted and crumbling, stands prominently in the center of a circular path. I wonder who is buried here. Important people. Once important, I think. Not anymore. The names on the stones are all but impossible to read, but some of the dates are still legible. And astounding.
1825. 1845. 1892.
“Amazing, right?” Abel says but tugs on my hand to get me moving again. “We’re almost there,” he says. We continue on a few more yards, toward the towering wall that marks the end of The Community, the end of our manufactured protection, when Abel drops my hand and heads toward a part of the wall completely shrouded with ivy. He lifts the vines away, and I shudder, trying not to imagine what creatures are lurking within the leaves. Spiders, snakes, rodents of any kind? True, there aren’t supposed to be any dangerous creatures in The Community, but then again I’ve seen strange droppings from time to time in our pantry back home, so I’m not entirely sure.
Abel works for another minute, grunting and swearing, and by the time he’s done fiddling around in the thick brush, the back of his T-shirt is drenched in sweat.
I inch closer to my friend who is now intently looking at something, and once I’m standing directly over his shoulders, I freeze.
“Abel!” I can’t contain my immediate fear. He’s managed to dislodge a piece of the wall. The very wall put in place to protect us. I can’t even begin to imagine the consequences we will endure if found out. But as I gaze out through the small opening, I am also filled with something other than fear: immense awe. The sounds of the rushing water. The faint scent of fish. We are staring into the face of a great tumultuous river.
Peering over Able’s left shoulder, I can just make out large rocks scattered almost like a hopscotch game across the water to the far shoreline. A flock of long-billed birds glides downstream and disappear beneath a bridge. A bridge! It’s all so shocking and...beautiful...and so very unbelievable.
“Here,” Able backs up to let me take his spot in front of the gaping hole in the wall. From behind me, he says, “In a minute the boat will come back.”
My eyes grow wide. “The boat?” All our lives, we have been told there is no leaving The Community. It’s simply not safe. The Virus. The terribly evil men and women who have survived only to turn to crime and unspeakable violence. The very people we locked out.
“Listen to me, Cat,” Abel says, his voice gravely serious. “I’ve been doing some thinking lately. When your mom got sick, when I saw how it affected you, I just couldn’t stand by and do nothing. I couldn’t just sit back and watch you suffer. So a few weeks ago, early one morning, I went for a walk. A long walk. I stumbled upon this place, and it got me wondering. What if? What if, you know, we don’t have to stay here?” I’m still staring out onto the river, too shocked to reply, so Abel continues, “It leaves early. The boat. Around five-thirty. And returns each day right about now. A little over two hours. I don’t know where they go or what they do.”
“Who?” I manage to ask.
“I don’t know exactly. It’s too far to be sure. But—”
“But what, Abel?” I ask when he doesn’t finish.
