Authors: Melissa McGovern Taylor
Enemy of Gideon
Copyright © 2014 by Melissa M. Taylor. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America
By: First Place Fiction Press, Raleigh, North Carolina
ISBN-
0692223916
EAN-
9780692223918
Manufactured in the United States of America
First edition published June 1, 2014.
Cover art and jacket design © 2014 by Jerry D. Taylor
Scripture quotations are taken from the
The Holy Bible
, New International Version©, NIV© Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. All rights reserved worldwide.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.
ENEMY OF GIDEON
Melissa McGovern Taylor
First Place Fiction P
ress
www.melissamcgoverntaylor.com
Contents
To the lonely, lost, and broken.
There is hope.
CHAPTER ONE
M
onsters live in the outskirts.
When I was a little girl, Petra told me stories about them. In the darkness, we huddled together in her bed as she whispered so Mom couldn’t hear us.
“They are ugly and mean creatures,” she hissed, “and they love to eat children who don’t obey the Code.”
I stared at the dark ceiling, wide-eyed and trembling, devouring every word as if it were the sweetest fruit.
“But what about the good children?” I asked her.
“The monsters can’t smell good children, only the bad ones.”
I smiled in the darkness but still hugged the blanket up to my chin.
Now I know such stories are nonsense, but the fear never fades. The Code forbids any citizen from entering the outskirts, so even a teenager or an adult will imagine the worst beyond the city-state boundaries. We know enough to stay away from the outskirts. The ones who live out there are filthy and half-starved. Some
are mentally insane. Others are bent on the destruction of our city, true enemies of Gideon. They don’t know how to read, and they don’t wear uniforms.
They don’t live by the Code, not like the sea of high schoolers that surround me. We all blend together in one giant black and gray mass. We are one. Only our faces distinguish us. We all wear gray toboggans on our heads, black coats over gray coveralls with polished boots—standard-issue citizen uniforms. Code 534.
The vast number of students flooding the school lobby amazes me as it does every day. Gideon has three high schools, each one educating thousands of students inside forty-story skyscrapers.
The chilly, January air hits my face as I step into the sunlight. Then someone calls my name. I know that voice.
My heart skips a beat as I follow the sound. Petra nudges her way through the crowd. The weight of the long day vaporizes as I hurry toward my sister. The crowd thins away from us, and I enter Petra’s embrace.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
She steps back. “Mom didn’t tell you I was coming?”
“You were supposed to come last weekend,” I say, crossing my arms.
Her face falls. “I’m sorry, Raissa. Things got hectic.”
We head toward Street W-54 in a mass exodus of students. I have no doubt the crowd around me knows we’re sisters. The identical brown hair trailing beyond the shoulders and emerald eyes give us away. I often have to tell people that younger images of Petra in the digital albums are not pictures of me.
“How’s college going?” I ask.
“It’s the same old, same old. Essays, exams, homework. I’m pretty sure you’d hate it.”
“You haven’t been home in three weeks,” I say.
Actually, twenty-five days.
“I’ve been pretty busy. I know I should’ve communicated.”
I smirk. “Got a boyfriend or something?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it,” she says. “I brought some beef. How about burgers tonight?”
I stop in my tracks. “Are you serious?”
Petra raises her hands in surrender. “I never kid about meat!”
“Where did you get it?”
She hesitates. “From a friend.”
I haven’t tasted beef in nearly three months, not since I devoured a palm-sized portion of steak at Ogden Penski’s birthday dinner. I always eat like a queen at Ogden’s apartment. Mom and I usually eat beans, rice, noodles, and mixed vegetables. At school, I eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. Mom can’t afford the cost of meat, and meat vouchers for city rations come infrequently.
As I walk alongside Petra, the cobblestone sidewalk overflows with workers and students, all dressed in uniform. The Code Enforcement officers stand out among the crowd, dressed in black coveralls and sleek, matching helmets.
The road itself is less busy, hosting a few bicyclists, horse carriages, and the occasional city transporter or CE officer on horseback. City transporters, meant to carry four people at most, are the only vehicles and are solar-powered. They’re reserved for city officials and those who can afford the steep rates charged to ride in them. Once upon a time, there were gas-powered vehicles. Nearly everyone drove them, but that was before the war. I’ve never seen one.
Voices swirl around us like the wind. Horse hooves clop on the pavement in a steady rhythm. A bitter, cold breeze swishes through the tunnel of skyscrapers, sending a visible chill through the busy pedestrians. I wrap my wool coat tighter around myself. The cloudless sky, blue and soft like a jay’s wing, gives the false appearance of spring, but winter is making itself more pronounced this year. The cold has stripped every oak of its leaves and covered each branch in a sparkling coat of ice.
Petra groans and rubs her wrist. “I’ve got to get this wristband adjusted. Look.”
We stop near an apartment building staircase as she reaches out her arm with the wristband on it. The skin under the metal and plastic band is red. The bottom of the device contains an identification chip for scanning. The top of the band holds a tiny computer with features such as a communicator, a watch, an information search, and the city-state newsfeed. I try to slip my gloved forefinger between the band and her wrist.
“Definitely too tight,” I say. “You need to take it to the ID department to get it refitted. Mom took me last year.”
Petra massages her wrist. “I want a new one. My roommate got a brand-new model.”
“I wish we didn’t have to wear the stupid things at all,” I mutter as we continue down the street.
“Chief Penski always says if it weren’t for these wristbands and the cameras, citizens would be stealing and breaking the Code on every corner.”
My gut tightens. “You sound like Ogden.”
Ogden Penski is my best friend, and he always harps on his father being the chief of Code Enforcement, the one responsible for the wristbands and cameras. If it weren’t for those watchful cameras, I’d steal everything I could get my sly hands on. But the cameras are everywhere: on the streetlamps, above the marketplace, in classrooms, in hallways, and even outside apartment windows. No one can escape them or their undeniable witness … except the outskirters.
The lens of a streetlamp camera meets my eyes. “I feel like I’m being watched all the time.”
Petra offered a surrendering shrug. “That’s because you are.”
►▼◄
When Mom arrives home from work, she greets Petra with a hug. She smiles easier whenever my sister is around.
But what’s not to love about Petra? After graduating from high school as valedictorian, she began studying at Gideon University to become a code developer, one who proposes and amends codes for the city-state. She always impresses anyone she encounters, always follows the Code closely, and shows Mom the highest respect. I wish I could be like her. The only problem is that I’m not anything like her at all.
“What friend of yours was willing to part with beef?” Mom asks, washing plates after dinner.
Petra hands her the greasy frying pan. “A friend who thought we could use it.”
“Tell your friend we’re grateful,” Mom says with a smirk, “whoever he is.”
Petra laughs. “He? Mom, seriously?” She shakes her head, turning to me. “How’s school, Rais?”
I exchange a glance with Mom.
“Come on,” Petra says, motioning toward the living room.
I drop on to the worn, blue sofa, out of earshot of Mom at the kitchen sink.
“What’s going on with your grades?” Petra asks, sitting beside me.
My jaw tightens. “Mom promised she wouldn’t tell you.”
“I know you. She doesn’t have to tell me.”
I avoid my sister’s piercing eyes. “I hate school … except for …”
“Except for what?”
I hesitate.
Should I tell her my secret?
“Promise you won’t tease me?”
She smirks. “It’s a boy, isn’t it?”
My breath catches in my chest. “Promise me!”
She places her hand on her heart. “I promise on my heart and my life.”
Butterflies swarm inside my gut. “There’s this new guy, Arkin Pettigrew. He sits in front of me in science class.”
She raises her eyebrows.
I lower my voice. “Don’t tell Mom.”
“Hey, secret crushes stay between you and me.”
I sigh. “Thanks.”
“So have you talked to him?” she asks.
“Are you crazy?” When the new boy entered science class, I’d never seen such a cute guy before: tall and broad-shouldered with wispy, blond hair. As his hazel eyes met my own, I nearly lost all use of my limbs.
Petra shakes her head. “If you like him, you should see if he wants to hang out.”
“He’ll say no.”
She shrugs. “You’ll never know if you don’t ask.”
Petra’s words stick with me most of the evening. We play chess and talk about our favorite memories. Yet Arkin still breaks my concentration.
What would be the harm in asking? At the very least, I could say hello before class starts or pretend I forgot what the homework was and ask him about it.
“Time for bed, girls,” Mom says at ten o’clock.
“But it’s not a school night,” I whine.
“You and your sister need to run some errands for me in the morning.”
A Saturday spent running errands with Petra doesn’t sound so bad. On most weekends, I hang around the city market with Ogden or doodle away the days in my sketchbook at the kitchen table. Mom works extra hours for more credits on most weekends, so I have the apartment to myself.
After changing into my T-shirt and knee-worn sweatpants, I head across the hall to the bathroom. Petra still sits in the living room with Mom. Their voices travel in murmurs under the door but in harsh tones. I leave the bathroom and creep to the end of the hall to peer around the corner. Petra sits on the sofa, looking up at Mom, who stands with crossed arms and wide, red-rimmed eyes.
“So what?” Petra asks.
“
‘So what?’
This is exactly why your father isn’t here!” Mom whispers.
“I’ll be careful,” Petra says.
Mom grits her teeth. “Get out!”
Petra rises to her feet as pain falls over her face. “What? Mom …”
“I mean it. I can’t deal with this again. You end this or you can’t come back.”
Petra’s jaw drops. “You can’t make me choose.”
“You could be arrested. You could lose everything,” Mom hisses. “
We
could lose everything.”
Petra reaches for her coat and backpack at the end of the sofa.
I step into view. “No! Don’t listen to her! Don’t leave.”
Petra and Mom stop dead in their tracks and turn to me.
“How long have you been listening?” Petra asks, gripping her coat in her fist.
“I don’t care what she did wrong,” I say to Mom. “She’s not leaving.”
“Keep your voice down,” Petra whispers, crossing to take me by the shoulders. “Don’t worry. I promise you’ll see me again.”
“What’s going on?”
“The less you know right now, the safer you are,” Petra says. “Go back to bed.”
I hesitate, wanting to scream at Mom and beg Petra to stay, but I’m not that little girl anymore. I’m fifteen, only three years away from adulthood. I swallow hard and jerk away from Petra’s grasp.
Adults can get angry.
I run to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.
On my bed, I listen, hoping Petra will come in to comfort me like she used to when I was younger. But her footsteps fade across the living room, and the front door closes, shutting out that hope.
