The Last Girl (8 page)

Between two of the enclosures there is the flare of yellow.

Zoey drags Lily back the way they came, nearly tripping over a wrench at the end of the aisle. She half runs to the door, weaving past the ruined jumpsuits before skidding to a stop in front of the entrance. A heartbeat later, Simon rounds the corner and stops in front of her. His eyes narrow. Zoey gives him a quick smile.
We’ve been here the whole time, don’t worry about us!
The worker sidles past Simon’s shoulder and moves to the door, scanning his bracelet. They file out into the hallway, removing their earplugs. Zoey takes Lily’s earplugs out for her.

The air is blessedly cool compared to the mechanical room, and the slight scorched smell recedes as the door falls shut behind them.

“Thank you,” the worker says, moving toward the outside door. “I appreciate the help.”

“You’re welcome,” Simon replies. He holds out his hand to Zoey, and she drops the four earplugs into his palm. He studies her face, running his eyes over her as if he can see the image of Miss Gwen and the guard that’s playing on a loop within her mind. “Let’s get to work,” he says after a long pause.

After checking to be sure the laundry is empty, Simon leaves them to their shift. They load the washing machine and set it in motion. The rhythmic chugging only aids in bringing Zoey back to the mechanical room.

Procreation. That’s what they’d been doing. There were other words for it in the NOA textbook, but procreation is as close as the tome had ever gotten to describing it in terms of humans. Animals mated, or reproduced, and humans procreated. It had always seemed like such a cold and mechanized term for speaking of new life. And what Miss Gwen and the guard had been doing didn’t seem cold or robotic whatsoever. The instructor had not only allowed the act, but she had seemed to be enjoying it.

The problem was, it was forbidden.

No one had ever said so much aloud, but it was abundantly clear. Males and females were not to spend time together alone. That was why Lee’s appearance inside her room startled her so much. It was an offense punishable by death. But until that point, she had never considered Miss Gwen among the restricted. Besides being the only other woman outside of the younger group, she was a creature of authority, almost more so than some of the guards. Zoey had never wondered if the woman was also governed by the same set of rules they all were.

It was Miss Gwen who had explained roughly what was happening years ago when, inexplicably and in silent horror, Zoey had begun to bleed during a morning shower. She had been almost too embarrassed to tell Simon, but the fear had finally won out and she had whispered it to him after padding her underwear with folded toilet paper. He had nodded, quickly leading her to Miss Gwen’s quarters and then standing outside the door while the instructor spoke to Zoey. The entire conversation had been confusing and surreal. Inside her was life waiting to be born? Eggs? The possibility of rebuilding the human race if only she could give birth to a girl.

It was almost too much to comprehend.

And though Miss Gwen had been fairly patient with Zoey’s questions, while still cagey when Zoey asked about certain things, there had been an air of coldness and detachment, possibly even resentment, in the instructor’s eyes. Zoey had left the room with a handful of cylindrical objects, a vague understanding of what she was supposed to do with them, and a new monthly scheduled checkup at the infirmary. Afterward she had felt adrift and more alone than ever before. The sensation that she had done something wrong followed her like an awful miasma for weeks until Meeka revealed that the same thing had happened to her.

Now, after seeing Miss Gwen and the guard, a clearer picture is forming about her unanswered questions.

The buzzer goes off, signaling that the load is done, and Zoey and Lily rise from the floor to switch the laundry. As Zoey sets the time for the dryer, a realization hits her so hard she nearly staggers.

There are no cameras in that part of the mechanical room.

Miss Gwen and the guard wouldn’t have chosen an area that was easily observed, either by the naked eye or any of the artificial ones that hang from the ceiling.

Now Zoey knows of two blind spots in the ARC.

5

The day is chilly when they step outside for exercise, the air misted with fog.

Zoey and Lily begin their walk around the main building. Simon and Lily’s Cleric follow a short distance behind. Sherell paces ahead of them, head down, not looking back. Zoey hopes she feels alone and vulnerable, maybe even a little frightened without the bolstering of her two friends. She wants to tell the other woman that no matter what she’s feeling, it’s nothing compared to the fear that Sherell instilled in Lily the day before.

As they walk, her thoughts drift to Rita and Penny for the innumerable time that day.
What are they going through right now? What will they look like when they come out?
Halie and Grace had been unresponsive and cagey in the days following their release from the boxes. Halie had only been able to tell them it was dark and would say nothing further, the brightness of her eyes dimmed to almost nothing by whatever she had seen.

Meeka joins them after a time but says nothing. The roar of the wind above them is louder than the day before, thicker somehow. Meeka seems to sense it too as she continues to glance up at the walls every few minutes.

They make several loops around the long promenade before the chime tones. When they approach the security entrance and wait for the Clerics to let them in, Zoey notices Simon staring at her. She tilts her head.

“What?” she asks him.

“How did your clothes get so dirty?” he says, pointing at her. A strand of dread laces her insides as she looks down.

There are long swatches of dirt and dust coating the front of her pants and the bottom of her shirt from where she leaned up against the cabinets in the mechanical room.

“Uh, must’ve brushed up against something in the mechanical room,” she says. Simon frowns.

“You brushed up against something while standing still near the door?”

Her mind stutters. “Lily tried to get something on the closest bench and I had to stop her. I must’ve leaned against it.” Simon’s frown eases some and he nods slowly.

“Well, you better change before dinner.”

“Definitely,” she adds, her voice attempting to die in her throat.

“I not, Zee,” Lily says, shaking her head. “I not duree.”

“No, you’re not dirty, I am,” Zoey says, taking the girl by the hand. She bustles Lily away through the door when Simon holds it open for them, avoiding his gaze.

When the door to her room shuts behind her, she lets a sigh of relief escape. She looks down at the traitorous dirt gracing the front of her clothes and swats at it, knocking a plume of dust into the air. Her mouth is sour.

She moves to the bathroom, scooping water in her hand and drinking, but the alkaline taste won’t go away.
You’re tasting your lies
,
she thinks.
You blamed Lily for something she didn’t do. You’re getting closer.

How much is a life worth?

She shudders. The taste in her mouth is so sickening that she fears she will vomit. She breathes through her nose, holding herself steady on the edge of the sink. Slowly she straightens and moves to the window, carrying the chair with her.

She takes only a half-piece of gum from the wrapper, carefully placing the other half back. She chews, letting the mint flood away the taste in her mouth. When all hints of the sourness are gone, she swallows the gum and changes into fresh clothes before knocking on the door for Simon to let her out.

“Better?” he asks as they walk toward the cafeteria.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He says nothing for several paces, their footsteps echoing down the hall. Finally he glances sideways at her. “You’re different lately, Zoey.”

The same lace of dread weaves through her stomach. “Different?”

“You seem worried.”

“I’m fine.”

“Is it the induction?”

“No. I’m . . . I’m looking forward to it.” She sees him glance at her again but can’t meet his gaze.

They near the entrance to the cafeteria but he slows and stops outside the door. “Zoey, I—”

But his words are cut off as the doors open and Rita steps out.

There is a fog of predetermined violence in the air, surrounding them in its own atmosphere. The look in Rita’s eyes says it all:
You will pay. You will hurt like I have.
Because she is smaller. She’s lost weight in the day spent inside the box. Her face contains the same hollow, burned-out look that Halie’s had after her punishment.

Zoey readies herself for a fight even though Simon is only a step away and Rita’s Cleric is a shadow behind her. There will be no restraining Rita’s rage.

Rita steps forward, but instead of throwing a punch, she bows her head.

“Zoey, I’m glad I saw you. I want to apologize for my unforgivable behavior yesterday. I don’t know what came over me.”

Zoey squints, sure she’s heard the other woman wrong. “What?”

“I’m sorry for my actions and can only hope you’ll be able to forgive me.”

Rita takes another step and envelops Zoey in a gentle embrace.

It’s like being hugged by a predator. Any moment she expects her throat to be torn out or her eyes gouged. Instead, Rita holds her lightly, but close. Her lips brush Zoey’s ear.

“I’m going to kill you. I’ll find a way,” she whispers, almost too quietly for Zoey to hear.

Then Rita draws back, holds her at arm’s length. She gives her a smile that would be at home on a snake, and moves away. Zoey stares after her, but Rita doesn’t look back. She notices a slight limp in Rita’s gait before she turns a corner in the hall and is gone.

“Are you okay?” Simon asks.

“Yes.”

“She wouldn’t have been able—”

“I’m fine,” Zoey says. “Let’s go.”

As they enter the cafeteria a new sense of unease grips her. Rita’s whispered threat replays endlessly in her head. She glances around to see if Penny is there, but her seat is empty, and Sherell is nearly finished with her dinner. Where will it come from? How? When? Zoey gathers her meal and goes to sit with Lily and Meeka.

“Did you see her?” Meeka asks before she can settle onto her stool.

“Who?”

“For God’s sake, Zoey, the woman that tried to beat the hell out of you yesterday! The one that spent a day in the box.”

“Yeah, I saw her.”

“And?”

“And she hugged me.”

Meeka couldn’t look more surprised. Her mouth works for a moment before she shakes her head. “Yuck!” She sticks her tongue out and makes a gagging noise. “I’d rather she try to beat me.”

“Yeah. She had ulterior motives.”

“Like what?”

“She said she’s going to kill me.”

“Well, that’s more like her, I guess.”

Zoey sighs and picks at some gravy studded with vegetables and a few unidentifiable hunks of stringy meat. “I knew it would only make things worse.”

Meeka takes a large bite and chews loudly. “I wouldn’t be so sure. She looked like shit when she was in here. She couldn’t eat anything. She just stared at her plate.”

“Have you seen Penny?”

“No. She never showed up. Crazy bitch probably liked her time in the box. I bet it was like a treat for her.”

“Maybe.”

“So where did you get dirty like that?” Meeka asks. The sly tone of her voice speaks volumes.

“Like I said, must’ve brushed up against something.”

“Umm-hmm. Well, if you want to be a real friend and actually tell me, I’ll be waiting.”

“Meeka . . .”

The other woman shrugs, concentrating on a gelatinous pudding. Zoey ponders telling Meeka what she saw in the mechanical room, but Meeka is like one of those small, oblong rocks they sometimes take turns kicking on the promenade; there is no way of telling which way she will bounce.

“I’m just glad Rita didn’t change. I’d really miss her beautiful smile,” Meeka says without looking up.

Zoey chuffs laughter through a bite of stew and nearly chokes. A moment later Meeka joins in, and soon Lily is giggling as well, shifting her gaze from one woman to the other.

“Quiet down,” Thomas says from the other end of the table. So they laugh to themselves in silent gales.

She is at the doors in the infirmary. The steel doors that she’s never seen open before. They are miles tall, their tops lost in mist like mountains she’s seen pictures of in the NOA texts. Her feet are wet and there is blood on her hands. She looks down, peering curiously, without the feeling of pain. She is wearing a dress of white, the ceremonial gown, yet it is crimson just below her waist, a blooming flower of blood. Her hands are sticky with it, and she hears crying. It is the cry of a baby. Her heart aches with it, and she tries to turn to see where the sound is coming from, but her feet are frozen in place, immovable as if she’s slipped into the concrete and is moored there.

A low rumbling overtakes the crying child’s voice. It is something inhuman, so deep and alien it must be a machine. But it isn’t. There is a feral quality to it that tells her it is alive, and hungry. Another flood of wetness coats her feet, and she stares down.

A clear, viscous fluid is leaking from between the doors. It pools upon her bare feet and begins to burn. Zoey tilts her head back to release the scream in her chest, but all sensation is washed away by what she sees.

The doors are opening, and there is something between them. Jagged things and a lolling red shape beyond them.

Teeth.

There are teeth between the doors, and the saliva, the saliva on her feet is burning, burningburningburningburning . .
 
.

She comes awake in a flurry of movement, within and without. Her heart thunders, lungs heave, eyelids flicker, arms strain to push her upright. Her teeth are clenched, holding back a scream, and she gazes down at her feet, sure that they’ll be nothing but burnt and bloody stubs of bone, eaten away by the acidic drool of the doors. No, it was a mouth—the doors to the elevator were a mouth. It was going to swallow her whole.

She knows she’s going to be sick only moments before it happens. She tries to run to the bathroom, but her feet are tingly and asleep. She trips, crawls forward to vomit over the lip of the shower. Her tasteless dinner spews out of her in a choking stream that runs toward the drain. Zoey coughs, tasting bile—and blood. She’s bitten the same place on her tongue as the day before.

After many prolonged minutes, the clenching in her gut subsides. She turns on the hot water, letting it wash away her partially digested dinner. When it’s swirled away she splashes cold water on her face until the skin there grows numb. She wishes she could wash her mind, scour away the images and the sound, the sound of the baby crying.

As she hobbles back toward the bed, a noise begins to grow in the hall. She freezes, arm outstretched toward the waiting blankets. Booted feet are coming closer and closer outside. Shadows darken the small gap below the door, and there is the clack of her lock releasing.

Dellert’s face is the first thing she sees in the gap, followed by two other guards along with the crimson flash of a Redeye’s goggles. Behind them is Simon, his face gray and stony.

Dellert steps fully into her room, a perversion of a smile on his lips as he looks around before focusing on her.

“Hello, Zoey. Mind if we come in?”