“We will proceed to the dining hall. The Caretakers have graciously supplied us with emergency rations. I trust you all know how to use the liquid ports on your masks.”

Speer’s words force me to put aside the questions still gnawing in the pit of my stomach. I sit upright in my chair and focus on him.

“Rise and proceed single file.”

The room fills with the squeaks of chairs being pushed against the concrete floors. In silent choreography, the class lines up with mechanical precision. I do my part and fit effortlessly into the flow.

The march down the hall is devoid of incident. Lockstep and staring at the person’s feet in front of us, the only conversations that take place are safely contained within our individual minds.

The dining hall is large enough to feed all twelve years at once. Carved stone arches draw my eyes to the vaulted ceiling. It is the only beautiful part of the school. The basalt walls are carved with long, flowing lines and inlaid with white marble. This room’s beauty stands in stark contrast to the rest of the school’s rectilinear concrete monotony. Speer tells us that the whole school used to look like this but most of it was destroyed in a fire and when they rebuilt they did so in a more modern style. He says that the uniform concrete architecture is supposed to make us feel safe in its regularity and simplicity, but it feels just as isolated and suffocating as our masks.

I stand at the counter holding my hand out ready for the emergency ration, having inched along in line mindlessly—mechanically. I’m constantly surprised at my ability to go through the motions without any effort of my own.

“Take your ration. You’re holding up the line, student.”

The server points at me from behind the box of rations. He looks so out of place in his mask. He shakes the box and gestures sharply for me to grab one. The line behind me breaks rank to lean out and see what the commotion is all about. Snickers and muffled laughter ripple down the line.

“I’m sorry.” Tendrils of white-hot embarrassment dart across my face.

I grab the small silver pouch and dash for a table, but the way is blocked by a gaggle of students. Wishing I could melt into the floor, I stand awkwardly looking for a way through.

“If she were any more air-brained she’d blow away,” says a muffled voice from behind me. The swarm of ninth years laughs as loud as they dare with the monitors watching from the corners.

The embarrassment I’m already feeling intensifies and shoots down my neck. I don’t mean to zone out, but there is such little life outside my mind it’s hard not to retreat there. I push through a roadblock of ninth years and make for the nearest table, keeping my head low and my eyes fixed forward.

I find a seat at an empty table and place the silver pouch down in front of me. I try not to look at the students passing me so as not to draw attention with whoever made fun of me, but it’s too late. She steps right up next to me, bends over and forces our eyes to meet. Slim, tall, and flanked by other girls, Victoriana Zarrov is hard not to recognize with her buttermilk-blonde hair flowing out from under her mask down to the middle of her back. She stares intently at me—moments grind into seconds. It’s impossible to tell if she’s going to say something.

“Oh, sorry,” she says rolling her eyes theatrically. “Just zoned out there for a second. Silly me,”

Her voice, normally too sweet to be genuine, sounds glassy and dark as it resonates through her mask. Her gaggle of friends erupts into a chorus of scratching, smoky laughter. The troop follows on Victoriana’s heels as she walks away, her shoulders back and proud. I close my eyes and let the stillness of my mind calm me down. She’s a terrible person, and I just need to let her words go. At least she couldn’t see me blush today.

I look down at the pouch. Its liquid contents jiggle when I pick it up. It’s thick, and after my encounter with Victoriana, I have little desire to eat. Placing the ration back on the table, my thoughts return to the documentary and the images of violence, war, and death. So much pain and suffering went into the construction of this world that I feel it seeps through the very walls.

Lunch hour passes quickly. We return to our classroom with the same automated enthusiasm and retake our seats. Speer sits waiting, reading a new copy of Drumbeat magazine. The projector is already warmed up, casting him in the dark blue shade of the flag. It suits him. When the last student enters, Speer sits up and folds his magazine. He waits until Hector takes his seat across from mine before he gets up and presses play on the command terminal.

“Two more documentaries today. The first will explore the boundless wonders of coal. And the second will explore the history of our gas masks and the airlock systems. Remember to pay close attention. I highly advise you take notes.”

The documentary starts with typical bombast. Speer retakes his seat at the head of the class, contorting himself around to watch the video projected behind him.

Neither of these documentaries are as captivating as the first, and I struggle to recall a single scene from either. The information was so perfunctory and obvious that it’s hardly worth taking up space in my brain.

The end of day bell rings. Speer excuses us. Orderly, we rise and march toward the exit and the silver transports that await us. The line at the airlock moves quickly, and I soon find myself outside. The contrast is stark. The wind is strong today, and ash and soot swirl wildly, obscuring my vision. I double check the buttons on my overcoat, pull my backpack straps tighter, and press through the wind toward the transports. But as I draw near a nervous tension builds within me. The thought of continuing to follow the same mindless routine fills me with dread. I reach the doorway, but my feet refuse to take the step. For the briefest of moments, I hesitate. Looking up the stairwell, I see the new driver and her golden pigtails. Her head starts to turn toward me. Before our eyes can meet I step off to the side and push my way into the wind and away from the transport.

Tucking my chin to my chest to guard my neck against the rough and stinging soot, I make my way across the street and into the unknown. In all twelve years of going to school here, I’ve never ventured along these streets. Near my apartment tower, sure—I’ve walked those streets a thousand times—but I rarely, if ever, venture this far from home and familiarity. It’s exactly the kind of thing I need to do: get away from what I know and venture into the mysterious world that surrounds me.

The wind eases up as I walk, and the ash leisurely settles back onto the ground. Sweepers emerge almost as soon as it does and begin removing heaping mounds, but no matter how frantically they sweep, the streets seem to forever remain black and slick with slag. The buildings here are just as choked and cramped as every other part of the city. Making matters worse is the black-gray grime obscuring every sign and banner that could clue me into my location. I’m lost, but I guess it doesn’t really matter because I don’t know where I’m going. Just as long as it’s not familiar and not home.

As I wander, thoughts of the dead school kids flood my mind. I imagine being in my classroom, surrounded by the other students I hardly know, and choking to death on poison air as Speer looks on from behind his rebreather. In my last gasping moments, I would be alone in a room of strangers. I have no friends or anyone that I could hang onto for comfort in those final agonizing moments. Despite her cruelty, Victoriana would at least have her sycophants to cling to her and reduce the isolation of death.

Death, choking, sacrifice. The foundations of our Great Society. My imaginary demise mingles with depictions of lifeless, mounded martyrs from the documentary—their bright red blood covering the ground as the ash does now. I try and push these morbid thoughts away, but everywhere I look, and with every breath I take, I’m reminded by death’s looming presence. Just a filter away.

I was beginning to think I would aimlessly wander the streets with these horrific thoughts forever when the muted thumping of heavy music stirs me out of my mind. I follow the sound around the corner of the building on my right and look down.

A steep staircase delves below street level. At the landing is a door that was probably painted blue when it was new. A sign hangs above it, but its words are incomprehensible under a thick covering of soot. The music is coming from behind the door and entices me toward it like a siren. Normally I am repelled by loud, obnoxious sounds, like those of the television, but this music feels different. It’s deliberate and foreign. I’ve never heard anything like it before.

Carefully, I make my way down the slick steps. Twice I have to catch myself on the handrail bolted into the concrete. Stepping onto the landing, my body fills with euphoric anticipation. My hand hovers over the knob for a second. Fingers tingling, I grasp the handle and press inside.

Next Chapter: Chapter Four