Impervious Page 2

  “Yep.”

  She sighed and dropped the canvas coverlet from her shoulders unsure of the moment she’d begun to lose track of time. Then again, she didn’t care much either.

  “Let’s go.”

  She crawled over the empty aluminum carton and began the trek toward the Agora. The Light Genie faded as Pete skittered behind her. Together they followed the twists and turns of the dark labyrinth like blind rodents with heightened tactile senses. Every now and then Pete would “whoop,” alerting Fran that they’d passed another Rebel’s hideout. Fran preferred to save her whoops for the few that mattered most in her world and focused, instead, on the venting schematics in her head.

  Because she’d never watched a Forfeiture Procession in person, nervous anticipation mounted in Fran’s gut. As a child, Mom had restricted Fran from such things, and by the time she’d achieved legal viewing age, she had already assumed Rebel status. Yet, for whatever reason, when together, she and Pete couldn’t help but snoop. Anyway, as much as she hated it, she needed to see for herself what the Council had fashioned …which spurred another idea.

  “Hey, Pete, let’s get a look at the Viewing Loft first.” Fran had no intention of watching the procession from up there, but figured Pete would get a kick out of seeing the big dogs in their natural habitat. Pete agreed, and they scurried off through the long shaft that ran across the sky-high ceiling of the Agora—their personal bridge from the East to the West Courts. The suspended tunnel swayed as they scampered, and Fran smiled into the darkness as Pete’s breathing picked up. When they exited the bridge, Fran took a hard left and moved to the shaft that sat over the Viewing Loft where the Superiors would be seated.

  Pete bellied up next to her, and their bodies mushed together in the close quarters. She started to nudge Pete in the ribs but decided she didn’t mind the warmth emanating from his skin. After all, the air felt a little frosty on this side of the Agora.

  “Look. The Seven are being seated.”

  Pete sounded like a kid who had just spotted his favorite gamer, and Fran craned her neck to get a better view through the mesh screen. The Elite Seven—the highest of all the Superiors—were ushered in first. Garbed in black from shoulders to shoes, the Seven were escorted to a row of ornate, wooden and velvet thrones. The remaining Superiors filed in behind wearing fancy red suit jackets and charcoal pleated slacks, and took their seats toward the rear of the loft.

  The throne of Marcus sat elevated just a hint above the others. From her perch, Fran had a perfect view of the sagging flaps of skin surrounding his neck and jowls. His nose stood out like a mottled trumpet from the center of a skeletal expression. This monstrosity of a face often resided upon the aged. Thankfully, she’d probably never experience that season of life. It looked hideous. Like death.

  Her gaze flicked over the rest of the dais. To Marcus’ left sat his four revered cronies and to his right, the Sons of the Generations—Marcus, his son, and grandson.

  Ethan, the prized grandbaby, sat to his own father’s right hand and wore a smug look of superiority on his pale-white face.

  “Is he an albino?” Pete whispered.

  Fran shook her head ‘no’ as she focused on Ethan’s demon-black eyes. A tingle of fear danced in her belly. She noticed Marcus lean over his indifferent-appearing offspring to chat with Ethan. They shared in a hearty guffaw and Ethan elbowed his father, whose skin sagged from too many years of wear. His chin wedged onto a concave chest, and thick lids drooped over unseeing eyes. After getting no response, Ethan rolled his eyes and nudged Marcus who responded with a shake of his balding head.

  She’d seen enough. Fran turned to Pete, and pointed behind them. Pete understood, and the two caterpillared backwards. She encouraged Pete to take the lead as they crawled along the switchbacks bringing them back down to floor level, but when they came upon a large vent opening, she yanked on his foot.

  “This spot looks good.”

  Besides the mesh of the screen and a few empty café tables, no obstructions stood between them and the stage. Pete mashed his face onto the solid weave, which—because she knew he would end up with the imprint on his face—gave Fran wicked pleasure. She wasn’t sure if he tried to look stupid or if it was innate. Either way, “mesh face” brought a small slice of delight into her life.

  They sat in silence as the moments ticked by, bringing the Procession closer. Fran’s stomach knotted. One of these days, I’m going to know someone in that lineup. Then what?

  Impervious residents had tagged the event, The Procession of the Esteemed Ones. Yet as far as Fran was concerned, this pageant celebrated nothing. Esteemed Forfeiture? Hardly. More like murder. Plain and simple.

  The entire West Court had been cleared, forcing a few thousand folks to either head back to their resident pods or remain corralled in the smaller East Court to await the pageant. The billboards displayed simple white screens, and not one Graphie lurked in the crowd. After all, Impervious etiquette deemed advertising and gaming uncouth—irreverent even—during such a hallowed event. Fran snorted at the irony.

  As the spectacle began, loud music filled the Agora and bounced off the surrounding structures. Although Fran assumed the song to be celebratory, from where she sat, the cacophony of music felt like an insult to her senses.

  “There they are!” Pete’s whisper came out on a hiss, and he pointed to the edge of the court.

  A line of a dozen forfeitures, each garbed in a velvety robe, moved forward onto the main stage. Fran felt a small choke in her throat. They looked so regal, so noble, with heads lifted high and each set of eyes staring straight ahead. These twelve, each a celebrity in their own right, had been the talk of the city for the past six months.

  Crafted by the Council to personal perfection, they’d lived as superstars, achieving the type of fame everyone secretly desired, loved, and envied with equal fervor. Six months of celeb-status only told of half of the story, though. Forfeitures also garnered the Superior’s antidote during that time to assure they stayed at their peak. An untimely decline could render the whole charade a failure.

  Today, they took their final walk as heroes. Ones who, with the help of the Council, had beat the Beast at his own game.

  “Hey, look… third in line, Wolf. It’s Gillius!” Pete shouldered Fran with the excitement of a child and burst into a fit of laughter. Fran responded with a sharp elbow into his ribs, and he swore under his breath before softening his voice.

  “Remember when the Council unveiled him as Corpus Perfectos?” Pete snickered. “Hardly perfect, I’d say. He couldn’t even straighten his ripped guns with all that meat in the way. And did you know that his massive legs developed callouses from the rubbing? I personally renamed him Gillius Thunder thighs.”

  Pete continued with muffled laughter, and although Gillius did look bizarre, Fran didn’t share his amusement. Instead, she felt a pang in her stomach as she remembered his unveiling half a year ago when she and Chan had watched the spectacle on his pirated reader. In her mind’s eye, she saw Chan’s dark ponytail whipping from side-to-side as he tossed his head back with laughter. His eyes had all but disappeared into his face, only to be marked by tears as they streamed over the hollows of his cheek and dammed up at his strappy beard.

  Unlike Chan and her, however, Impervious residents reveled in the Council’s theatrics. So much so, most Gen-Threes, and even a handful of Gen-Fours, clamored for a shot at the gold. The girls at school had gushed about how cool it would be to become a forfeiture one day and bemoaned the new waiting list.

  Each forfeiture received a stage name: Gillius the Great (aka Thunder thighs), Roberto the Rock, Cheyenne the Shy One, and so on. Today, however, they would each be revered by their birth name.

  Fran spied Gillius, third in line, in front of a girl with a sleek chestnut mane. Like the others, Gillius’ left fist rested on his chest, pinky pointed upward as he gave honor to the great city of Impervious. His glassy stare screamed of the venom already snaking through his
veins, soon to bring an end to his life.

  A shudder shook Fran as she wondered about corporeal termination. Rumors spoke of an excruciating end where the forfeitures dropped into agonizing spasms of death during the final pageant. Fran shivered again and reminded herself that sensationalism stemmed from useless gossip which, in turn, always led to melodrama. Then again, the entire event was absurd, so why not?

  She questioned whether she and Pete should even be there, gawking like a typical resident as the parade worked their way down the stairs from center stage to the outside rim of the circle. They began an official promenade moving as one unit, soundlessly, like a snake slithers through tall grasses. Right behind Gillius, the girl—what’s her name?—moved with the grace of a dancer, while glowing hair cascaded about her shoulders like the velvety train of her robe.

  Chestnut Peak―that was it.

  As the procession moved closer, Fran could make out their facial features with better clarity. Chestnut’s obvious youth surprised her. As far as she knew, no one under twenty-five had ever forfeited, yet this girl still had the look of a mid-lifer, like Fran.

  The line swayed with rhythmic motion, and soon snaked only fifteen feet or so away from the venting where Fran and Pete hid. The eerie silence enshrouding the promenade morphed into the sound of rushing air. A dozen pairs of slippers moved in a whisper just a few inches from Fran’s eyes. When the fourth set of feet swished into her line of vision, Fran noticed a hesitation.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, would you please bow your heads as Sasha Lee Dees surrenders, and we give honor to her name.”

  Sasha? Fran sucked in her breath.

  The entire march halted. A deafening silence reverberated through the courts followed by horrific gurgling sounds. Then, Sasha dropped to the floor. Not more than a few feet from where Fran sat tucked into the venting, her chestnut head rolled from side to side and her eyes shone like polished black orbs.

  Back when Fran still lived in the Old East Wing, Sasha had visited their pod once or twice to work with Ted on his macros. Fran remembered spying on them from her doorway, hoping to catch her brother making a move or something. She could almost hear Sasha’s easy laughter and witty remarks.

  Now, however, her eyes locked onto Fran’s as if screaming for help. Her face contorted, and her body trembled. Fran felt a vibration move through her own body as her nerves quivered in sympathetic pain. Sasha’s arms and legs splayed and spasmed as her back arched and head thrashed about. A sickening, acrid odor, like a mix of poison and death, wafted from the velvety robe, and bile rose in Fran’s throat. Finally, Sasha’s eyes rolled back into her head, and her movement terminated.

  A cheer erupted from the crowd who loitered on overhead balconies and platforms, and Fran clasped her hands over her mouth stifle the scream that roared through her body. All Accountable residents of legal viewing age watched the event. It was a big deal. Although some probably scrutinized from a small screen in the comfort of their living pods, too many just couldn’t resist the sick urge to watch it live.

  The cheers finally died down, and when reverence returned, the swishing slippers resumed. The seven forfeitures in line behind Sasha tiptoed over the fallen body and continued the march, leaving Sasha where she dropped.

  Fran could see this pilgrimage would continue until all twelve fell. She also knew she couldn’t stomach another fall.

  After throwing a quick elbow into Pete’s side, she inched backwards until the opening became wide enough to turn around completely. She moved through the darkness with a million questions haunting her mind.

  Why choose to end your life before even turning twenty, Sasha?

  Fran already knew the answer… and hated it.

  Anyone not born to be a Superior had two choices. One: lose your mind and evaporate into oblivion, or two: trade your life for a half-year of fame and fortune as well as a smidgeon of the highly-coveted antidote.

  Anger burned Fran’s cheeks. The Epoch—the notion that one day they all might be freed from this city and its accompanying illness—remained the single hope that kept her alive, no matter how far-fetched it sounded. And for all it was worth, Sasha could have missed it by one day.

  Chapter Three

  Fran sprawled in her metal alcove and chewed the ragged skin around her nails. Since the procession yesterday, she’d spent ample time ruminating on the condition of her old mentor while spitting dead skin onto the low ceiling overhead. She hadn’t checked on him in a few days, so she ought to pay him a visit.

  Fran shivered, but not from the prospect of seeing Chan. Rather, at the thought of revisiting the Beast―the invisible face of death which pervaded every hallway of the Ranch. Its malevolence pricked at her skin and left a stench in her nose.

  She spit one more hangnail onto the ceiling before rolling onto her side and, on a groan, moved away from her comfy niche.

  Visiting Chan felt serious. Solemn. Reverential with no leeway for malarkey. Therefore, she opted not to invite Pete to this one. Not to mention the fact she knew she was stronger and more agile than Pete and didn’t want him to slow her down.

  She wriggled through the tight confines of the obscure passageway, maneuvered over a support housing, and then shimmied through a sluice bridging the Old East side of Impervious to the upper class West Wing.

  Because of her social standing, OE had been her official stomping grounds. She preferred hanging out with Eastsiders to the high-ranking gamers, political superiors, and First-Gen money holders that lived in the west wing anyway. As a matter of fact, even when moving through the guts of the city, Fran typically made it a point not to wander outside of her old east neighborhood.

  From the east side, however, the only venting to the surface floor involved a perilous journey straight up a long shaft. Chan had been the only one she’d known to make that climb. The west wing ventilation system, however, had recently undergone renovations and now boasted a step-like configuration —apparently to allow for a fresher air-flow or something.

  She took a deep breath and noted the luxurious aroma, like fresh flowers and cinnamon, maybe. Shaking her head, she continued moving upward. As long as it made her climb easier, she could care less what kind of air the snobs choked down. Of course, had she been Accountable, she could have taken an easy ride in the elevator from the sixth floor to surface level.

  Whatever.

  Notches lined the metallic walls every few feet, allowing for a handy foothold. Fran pressed her hands hard against the bulwark as she climbed three vertical steps before the shoot zigged to a horizontal tunnel. She scurried through, happy for the short reprieve, before the shaft zagged, again, straight up again for another five or six feet.

  As light penetrated through occasional mesh covers, Fran caught glimpses of the trendy pods. She paused at each opening to take in the sleek designs. Most sat empty, as occupants carried on their distracted life of opulence. How ironic. The nicer the digs, the less they hung out at home. Fran snorted and began a clumsy scramble forward. The metal walls vibrated with her blunder, and a flash of red shot through the living area of the pod.

  An automated voice rang out. “Motion detected. Intruder suspected.”

  A moment later, a wide-eyed femme entered the living space.

  “Hello?” Her voice shook. “Is anyone in here?” With arms extended, the woman turned in a slow circle and tiptoed to the corner of the room to peek behind a low-backed settee. She opened a closet door and lifted mammoth pillows from a sitting-nest. Fran held her breath, afraid the West-Winger might get a little too close to the vent opening. Once satisfied no intruders lurked in the corners, however, the femme stomped over to the sensor panel, swiped in a series of numbers, and exited the room.

  Hot breath seeped from the corners of Fran’s mouth. Now, mindful of the super-sensitive motion detectors, she slithered past the opening, making a note to use caution at all vent junctions.

  The already difficult climb slowed to a snail’s pace as she now scaled the venti
ng with softer, unobtrusive maneuvers. By the time she pulled herself onto the landing that marked the surface floor, Fran welcomed the opportunity to give her shaky legs a rest.

  Legend said the Ranch lay so close to the surface, Geiger Zombies wandered the hallways at night. The idea seemed laughable, yet pixilated depictions of castoff radioactive humans made more than one kid lose a night’s sleep. Bald heads with patchy hair remnants, gaping gum holes, and half-melted faces haunted most nightmares. During her own juvie years, Fran and her friends shared stories of raspy moans, charred lips, and gooey hands, be-speckled with oozing sores. In those days, zombies determined to grab a healthy child in an effort to transfer their radioactivity had been quite believable.

  “Melodrama,” Fran huffed.

  However, a more believable rumor―that poison from the open air permeated the area—could be legit. If so, no one seemed to care since Post Primers were already sounding their death knell.

  Visitors and workers were few and far between in these parts, leaving most of the care to automated devices. Graphies greeted the few guests that showed, and outside of the residents, the only real people Fran had seen at the Ranch consisted of hard-luck workers assigned to the hands-on jobs. Like changing undergarments.

  The one upside to this cold environment? Fran was able move around unhampered and unnoticed. Even the palm-sized, airborne, RIT’s (roaming image transmitters) which buzzed hallways below, didn’t fly through these parts. Fran figured the Council didn’t have a strong enough stomach to peek in on these declining residents. Her constitution, on the other hand, had adjusted to the sights and sounds.

  She peered through the mesh covering marking her exit. In the hallway, a mechanized arm spoon-fed a line of lifeless residents wedged into high-backed chairs. Fran found the thick air, riddled with the scent of the Beast, as hard to swallow as the gloppy porridge that dribbled from the Post-Primers’ mouths. Although affronted by the stench, Fran let out a sigh of relief that she had at least completed the climb undetected. She watched the feeding trolley for a few minutes before waving a hand past the beam of light and swiping in the code.