Recoil (6 page)

“Yeah, yeah. I got hit. By a dirty-faced little Blondie. Learn
from this, soldiers! There’s a weak spot, an exposed bit of flesh on every
target. You just have to find it and hit it.”

“Yes, sir,” Bruce and I said.

“We got ourselves a winner, here.” There was grudging respect in
Sarge’s
voice, but something else, too. “So what are we
going to do with you, Blue?”

“Give her 15K?” suggested
Leya
, her
brown eyes full of mischief.

“Give her a congratulatory hug,” said Bruce, grabbing me and
squeezing me tight. I swear his hands brushed against my ass.

“Or something,”
Sarge
muttered.

Part Two

Chapter 7

A Little Death

The picture on the T.V. in my bedroom flared and flashed as I
scrolled through hundreds of channels. A soap opera with a rat-fevered hero,
infomercials for ozone sterilizers and homeschooling supplies, reality shows
featuring Doomsday preppers with
we-told-you-so
smugness written
all over their faces, and endless reruns of unfunny sitcoms. I tossed the
remote aside — four hundred and forty-two channels, and nothing interested me.

I could always spend some time on guitar practice. I’d been
wrestling with a piece called
Andante
in my music classes —
online tutorials, of course, no way would Mom allow a tutor in, or me out, for
real lessons — but that day I wasn’t in the mood for the slow, melancholy
piece. Maybe I should go online and do some shopping, spend some of my sweet
prize money.

I’d been feeling like this — bored and unsettled and unsure what
to do with my time — ever since I’d won The Game. For so long, I’d been playing
toward that one goal, and suddenly I’d achieved it. Now what? There didn’t seem
much point in starting from scratch and playing essentially the same game again
merely to take out the new enemy leader. There ought to be another level or a
different challenge for once you’d won, though I suspected that nothing would
come close to being as exciting as shooting
Sarge
in
the neck.

I was still so proud of that shot. Robin had threatened to tell
Mom I had a headache and fever if I didn’t stop bragging. Since that would have
brought a busload of fussing, I quit bragging about it, but in bed at night, in
the minutes before I fell asleep, I relived those moments in all their
exhilarating detail.

Without gaming to distract me, I’d spent my time completing my
online school units, submitted all assignments due for the end of the semester,
and even completed seven of my eight online junior-year examinations. I wasn’t
much interested in school. When I tried to imagine what I’d do after my senior
year, I came up blank. The idea of spending several more years at home studying
online filled me with dread. I had never been interested in becoming a doctor
or a mechanical engineer, but I might be tempted to register for a degree in
one of them — at least then I’d get out from under Mom’s thumb for the annual
four-month on-site training at the college’s quarantined facility.

I’d always longed to travel, to see the places I’d learned about
in history and read about in English Lit. But with the borders sealed, I
wouldn’t be seeing the Eiffel Tower or the Great Wall of China any time soon.
The government encouraged us to travel locally — someone had to support the
tourist industry now that most foreigners weren’t allowed in — but Mom made us
stay home, “safe and sound”. I’d had a pre-plague BFF whose mother had
embroidered a pillow for her bearing the homily “There’s no place like home”.
If my mom were to embroider a pillow for me, it would read, “There’s no place
but
home”.

I was looking forward to the social later that day because it
would get me out the house for the first time since the simulated sniper
mission. Being cooped up at home had always bugged me, but at least with The
Game I’d been able to immerse myself in virtual spaces and vistas. Now the
house was too small to bear. I wished I could see
Leya
again, or get out and meet other people — real people, not my e-friends from
BackChat
. And really talk to them, not just message them in
texts and online chat rooms. I was bored stiff with my mom, and even Robin was
getting on my nerves.

Some teens occasionally snuck out at night to hook up or party,
but I was too nervous. The Plague was out there. Even if I wasn’t actually
attacked by some rabid nocturnal varmint or caught by the patrols enforcing
curfew, my mother might find me out. And if that happened, I’d be “virtually
grounded” for months. It was bad enough to be on what practically amounted to
house-arrest, but if I lost connectivity, I’d go insane within a week.

When I went downstairs to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee,
Mom was sliding a baking pan into the oven. The kitchen T.V. was tuned in to
the live transmission of the Oscars, which for the last two years had been held
in April. Some stick insect of an actress was accepting her award for Best
Actress in a digital composite feature film. She wore a spectacular gown of
yellow and sat in what looked like her living room, delivering her acceptance
speech over
VideoCall
, clutching the statuette which
had been delivered to her door mere moments before. Canned applause followed.

“It looks so ridiculous,” I said, stirring sugar into my coffee.
“Why don’t they just announce who won and show clips from the films or
something? Why bother trying to have an awards ceremony?”

“Do you remember when they still held the ceremony in that
magnificent old theatre in Hollywood?”

“Vaguely. I remember that they used to start playing the music
when the acceptance speeches went on too long.”

“They all swanned down the red carpet, and everyone who was
anyone was in the audience. It was so glamorous, and the fashions were so
beautiful,” Mom sighed.

I’d never been much interested in fashion. As a kid, I’d found
jeans and sneakers comfortable enough. I knew teen girls were supposed to be
obsessed with clothes, but really, what was the point when nobody outside of
family ever saw you in anything but a PPE suit?

Mom cast the odd glance at the screen as she packed away the
weekly groceries — ordered online and delivered by sterile drones — then
spritzed and wiped the kitchen counters with anti-microbial spray. I stepped
aside as she made her way to where I leaned against the refrigerator; she was
quite capable of spraying me, too.

“Well, now it totally looks pathetic.” I peered into the oven.
“What are you baking?”

“It’s a picnic, so I thought I’d make brownies. Remember?”

I did. When Robin and I were kids, before my father died, before
the world went mad, we used to go on family picnics in the city’s parks. Before
we ate, we’d always have a jousting contest. Robin would climb onto Mom’s back
and I’d piggy-back on Dad’s, and then we’d run at each other like knights of
old, trying to score hits with lances made of long loaves of French bread until
we collapsed — Robin and me in giggles, and Mom and Dad in breathless
exhaustion. Then we’d break out the hot dogs and coleslaw. And always, for
dessert, we devoured Mom’s homemade brownies.

But the socials didn’t allow members to bring their own food,
even for picnics. The risk of someone secretly being a
terr
cell-member and spiking the food or drink was too great. All food, checked and
sterilized and sealed, would be provided by the Social Program and doled out by
the SP hosts.

“You know you can’t take it along, right?” I asked Mom.

“I know, I know. I’m being a bit silly, I guess.” Not silly, no.
Mom was getting anxious as she always did when we went out, and baking soothed
her nerves. “We can have it when we get home. I’ve got some good news for you.
Well, you’ll think it’s good news,
I’m
not so sure. So I thought we
could make a little celebration of it.”

“What good news?”

Three sharp pips sounded from the T.V. Mom and I turned
automatically to check the screen. There was always the chance it could be an
announcement of an attack, or of a sighting of an infected person in our area
with a caution to stay indoors. But this time it was merely a Public Service
Announcement by Alex Hawke, President of the Southern Sector. I liked Hawke. He
seemed like a strong, honorable guy, and I figured we were lucky to have him as
the leader of our sector. When Mom hadn’t been sure who to vote for in the last
election, I’d persuaded her to vote for him.

“Why him?” she’d asked. “I know he’s popular with you youngsters,
but what precisely do you like about him?”

“I don’t know exactly, I just think he’s someone we can rely on,
like we can trust him to do what’s best.”

Her look had been something close to pity when she replied, “I
think he’s something of a father figure to you,
Jinxy
.”

Maybe she was right. But as father figures went, I thought —
staring at his thick, wavy brown hair, beginning to grey at the temples, and
strong, square face — you could do a lot worse.

 
“I think he’s too smooth,
a bit too slick.” Mom never lingered on any conversation that might deal with
Dad. “Then again, he is a politician.”

A very successful politician. He’d swept into office with the
largest victory margin in history.

Hawke was talking now. “In the Southern Sector alone, we have an
estimated 1.3 million illegals living in the shadows, which leaves this nation
vulnerable to a myriad of dangers. Do you suspect someone you know of being
here illegally? He might be the person who delivers your groceries, or the
woman you see on the street that somehow doesn’t belong, or that anonymous
commenter on your workplace’s online forum who questions the need for
immigration reform. For the safety of this nation, it is each citizen’s
responsibility, each citizen’s national duty, to report suspicious activity or
persons to the proper authorities. Be observant and stay vigilant.”

It ended with the familiar jingle: “If you see something, say
something. Call our tip-off hotline on 1-800-U-SEE-SAY.”

My mother always watched these PSA’s like they conveyed
life-and-death information, which I guess they did, but she’d seen this one
scads of times before and could probably recite it word for word. Even I
already had the hotline number memorized. I tried not to let myself tune out
the PSA’s. As Mom often pointed out: complacency leads to danger. The
terrorists counted on us letting our guards down, getting bored, and becoming
unobservant and sloppy, and the virus thrived when we neglected our safety
measures.

“What good news?” I asked impatiently.

“I’ll tell you later — it’s a surprise.” She glanced at her watch
and exclaimed, “Will you look at the time! The Fun Bus is due here in half an
hour, and I haven’t done my hair. Please,
Jinxy
, go
and chase Robin for me. Check he hasn’t fallen back asleep or gotten lost in a
story or a program in that blessed game, will you? And make sure he puts on his
PPE gear.”

“What surprise?”

“Later! Here.” She shoved a box of heavy-duty, double-thick latex
gloves into my hands.

I trudged upstairs to Robin’s room, while Mom hurried off to her
own bedroom, presumably to do something intricate to her hair. So little of
ourselves showed above the masks and jump-suits that people tended to go crazy
with hair and eye decoration. I couldn’t be bothered with braiding and twisting
and spiking my hair into the outlandish styles so fashionable when people did
get together. My blue streaks were distinctive enough, though for today I had
also stuck long, indigo-colored false lashes over my own.

The image of the tattoo next to
Leya’s
eye flashed in my mind. What was she doing today? Did she feel the same sense
of anticlimax I did now that we’d played a real game? Then I remembered that
Bruce had asked about today’s social and groaned to myself. He’d said he lived
a few blocks away, so it was quite likely he’d be in my group and on my bus, as
they tended to organize these things in neighborhoods.

Robin was in his bedroom, folded into his favorite spot — the
cushioned window seat beside the sealed window which overlooked the neighbor’s
yard. The Johnsons had a pool which they kept filled and sparkling blue, though
I never saw anyone swimming in it. They also had a pretty daughter of about our
age. Perhaps Robin sat there so often in the hopes of catching her in a bikini.

“Mom says I have to check you’re ready for the” — I made jazzy
star-fingers — “
social
!”

“I’m dressed, brushed, and as enthusiastic as a turkey at
Thanksgiving,” said Robin, not looking up from the spiral notebook in which he
was writing.

His PPE suit and gloves were lying on the bed. I exchanged the
lightweight gloves he had laid out for a pair of double-
thicks
from the box Mom had given me, and checked his mask for any tears.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Writing a poem.”

Robin was always writing poems — when he wasn’t writing stories.
Or reading. Inexplicably, he preferred poetry and reading about giant trees
ambling around Middle Earth to gaming. I poked around his room, which was
messier than my own, checked his digital reader for his latest downloads,
studied his corkboard — a new haiku about the view of sky seen from a window,
an old photo of Dad — and pulled a face at his old skateboard, which still hung
on the wall directly above his bed. It had been Mom and Dad’s gift to him on
his eleventh birthday.

“Why do you still keep that thing?” I said, irked. The skateboard
always reminded me of the time before. “What’s the point? The skate-parks are
closed, and no way would Mom allow you on the streets. You’ll never get to use
it again.”

“I can hope, can’t I? Things might change one day.” Robin glanced
out the window then wrote another line.

“
Phff
. It’s like a leftover from the
time before,” I grumbled.

“A relic from ancient times … Maybe that’s why I keep it.”

Robin often said deep stuff like that.

As I plonked myself down next to him, my stomach growled a
welcome to the smell of baking chocolate drifting up from the kitchen.

“Mom’s making brownies.” I peered over his shoulder, read the
title of his poem. “An Unmarked Grave. What’s it about?”

“A little death.”

“Nice,” I said. “Very cheerful.”

Not particularly wanting to read further, I looked out the
window. Beyond the fence, Mr. Johnson, our neighbor, was lowering a bulky
bundle wrapped in what looked like white canvas into a large hole dug beside a
huge rhododendron bush heavy with yellow flowers.