Steven Santos - The Culling

I’ve been chasing sleep for hours and finally accept the fact that I’m never going to catch it. Even if I could afford black-market meds and was willing to risk Cole’s life, as well as my own, no amount of anti-anxiety drugs will quell the unease poisoning my blood.

Not on the eve of the Recruitment.

My palm presses against the cold windowpane of the box-like tenement we call home, wiping away a swatch of condensation. A spark of orange stains the dark sky, silhouetting the smokestacks from the Industrial Borough, hissing puffs of black death into the stars. That same lethal smoke birthed the cancers that devoured both of my parents’ dignity before leaving two brothers with only each other.

And before this day is through, maybe not even that.

The floorboards creak. Probably another damn rat. That’s three this week. I grope for the oil lamp on the nightstand, careful not to turn the flame too high, so as not to wake up Cole, asleep on the cot beside mine.

Too late. He’s propped up on his elbows, his big chocolate eyes staring at me through the flickering light. “Did you have a scary dream too, Lucky?” he asks.

It used to bother me when Cole nicknamed me Lucky, instead of calling me Lucian, until I realized just how aptly it described the way I felt about having him in my life. And it’s a hell of a lot better than Lucy .

I move to sit beside him, ruffling his hair. “What are you doing up, big guy? No school today, remember?” There’s never school on this day. Or work for that matter. The Establishment makes sure that everyone participates in all Recruitment Day activities.

Cole reaches out a warm, pink hand and grasps one of my own. “I can’t sleep, Lucky. The monsters’ll get me.”

Can he sense what’s coming?

Leaning in close, I smile. “Nothing’s going to hurt you, Cole. I won’t let it.”

He lets go of my hand and throws his small arms around my neck, burying his face in my chest. I enfold his trembling body in a tight embrace.

“Can you read me the story?” he whispers in my ear.

I pull away, staring at him. “I’ll read it if you promise to go back to sleep.”

He lights up. “Promise!”

I shake my head, rise, and walk over to the small dresser in the corner of the room, sliding it aside. I stoop and pry up one of the floorboards with my fingernails. Reaching into the dark crevice, I ease out a few sheets of blackened paper.

Cole’s been fascinated with the story ever since I discovered it a few months ago, hidden in the basement archives of the Parish library, just after I started working with old Mr. Croakley. When anyone turns sixteen in the Parish, they’re assigned an apprenticeship until they’re drafted into the standard military-or recruited. I’d lucked out. I could have pulled sewer duty.

This particular tale was hidden inside a dusty book, part of a collection that ranged from astronomy to poetry. I must have devoured the entire compilation in a matter of weeks.

I sink into the creaking mattress beside Cole. “Now remember. You can’t tell anyone about the story. I mean it. It would get us both into trouble and they could take you away from me. You don’t want that, do you?”

His eyes widen. “No, Lucky. I won’t never ever tell.”

I hate to scare him like this, but it’s the only way to protect him. The Establishment has very strict guidelines about what it deems appropriate reading in its schools, and fairy tales just don’t make the cut. But I think a four-year-old deserves whatever happiness he can squeeze out of this life and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to give Cole whatever I can.

Picking up the pages, I begin to read. Well, pretend to read actually. Most of the text is illegible, either burned or torn away. But it’s the drawing that excites Cole.

So I’ve made up the tale, using a few of the key phrases that I can decipher. If Cole notices that the words vary with each reading, he never says. It’s the ritual that seems to cast its spell-me reading, him listening.

And the drawing.

“There once was a beautiful queen that ruled over the land of Usofa,” I begin.

For the next fifteen minutes, I go on and on about the benevolent Lady, how she reigns over the City of Sparkling Lights, tweaking this version here and there for dramatic effect. You’d think it was Cole’s first time hearing this story, based on all his questions: Does the Lady protect the people from the monsters? From illness? Does she give them plenty of food, read to them?

Keep their parents alive?

As I patiently address each and every question, I know

it’s not answers he’s looking for, but something far greater … something I’m not sure I can really give …

Reassurance.

“And they lived happily ever after,” I finally finish, acting as if I’m going to put away the pages.

“The picture! The picture!”

I smile. “All right, buddy. Take it easy! Here it is.”

His face is a mixture of awe and joy as he studies the drawing on the page I’m holding out to him. It’s a regal woman, wearing a crown emitting the sun’s rays, torch held high in her right hand, a large bound book in the other. Her face seems serene as she stares at the magical city before her, lit up like the constellations.

“She’s almost as beautiful as Mommy was,” Cole whispers.

I smile. How can he remember that? He was too young when she …

An image of our mother floods my brain. The wheezing, gasping for breath, her eyes rolling up into their sockets-No. Not today. “Yep. She almost is.” I pull the page away. “Now you promised you’d go back to sleep.” I re-tuck him in, before he can protest.

He leans forward and kisses my cheek. “I love you, Lucky.”

As I stare down at him, he suddenly becomes blurry. “I love you, too, Cole.”

I plant a kiss on his forehead and snuff out the lamp’s flame. In a few minutes I can hear the soft sounds of his rhythmic breathing. Hopefully, the dream monsters will be kept at bay, if only for a few hours. Why couldn’t it be this simple with the real monsters?

Plopping down on my own bed, I can’t get the image of the old sketch out of my mind. A beautiful city watched over by a noble Lady. A place where people were free. Free to express their ideas, live their lives without fear. No wonder Cole likes the story so much. A place like that would be paradise compared to our lives in the Parish.

Surely, it had to be a fairy tale. If such a place ever existed it’s completely gone now, destroyed by the Ash Wars untold ages ago, replaced by the all-knowing, ever-present monster: the Establishment.

The monster that will decide in just a few hours whether or not I’ll be responsible for my little brother’s death.

The rusty key won’t budge. I have to jiggle it a few times before the tumblers surrender and I’m rewarded with an anemic click . It stinks having to trust Cole’s safety to a corroded piece of metal, but if I don’t risk this outing, the thought of what could happen to him terrifies me even more. Hopefully I’ll be back before he wakes up and finds me gone. Besides, he won’t be totally alone.

Brushing away a few paint flurries that drift from the door onto my sleeve, I creep down the dim corridor, side-stepping mounds of trash, none of which is ever edible. Food, regardless of freshness level or olfactory appeal, is never thrown out. Period.

Something squishes beneath me. The heat of whatever it is soaks through my soles. I scrape the mystery onto the warped floorboards without bothering to look.