Морин Макхью - Wastelands - The New Apocalypse

The building is made of Firestall, the same material used to construct the Dome. It’s only used for government buildings, and the Protectorate is the only government facility in this part of town.

I burst through the doors, and the scanners go off. There’s nothing in my pockets except the glass bottle. I don’t own anything but the clothes on my back, and I spent all the coins I had this morning.

“Stop right there,” an officer shouts. His weapon is pointed at me, the red glow signaling that it’s armed. He’s prepared to use the heat we all fear to kill me.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “My sister—she’s missing. I think someone took her.”

“Scan her.” He nods at another officer, with smooth hands a few shades darker than the flesh on his face and neck. Skin always takes on a darker shade after it heals from a burn. Judging by his hands, he was burned badly. Only the expensive salves can smooth the texture of the affected skin.

The officer waves a small electronic device over my body. “She’s clean.”

The weapon lowers, and I struggle to catch my breath. I notice the cages hanging above us—at least twenty feet from where I’m standing. Arms hang between the bars. There are men inside.

“Someone broke into our room at the domicile, and my little sister is missing. She’s only ten.”

Please help me.

“How do you know it was a break-in?” the Protectorate officer with the scanner asks.

“The door was wide open, and everything inside was destroyed.”

He shakes his head. “Maybe she left in a hurry. Don’t you watch the vid screens? You know how many kids run away every day?”

I try to make sense of what he’s saying, but I can’t. “You think they’re running away? Where would they go?”

The one with the weapon leaning against his shoulder shrugs. “The Abyss maybe. Who knows? Lots of kids like it down there. Plenty of stuff on the black market to help them forget about their problems.”

“My sister doesn’t have problems.” I realize how ridiculous it sounds as soon as I say it. “No more than anyone else.”

I don’t know how to make them believe me. For a second, all I can think about is my father. He died two years ago, slowly poisoned by toxic fumes he and the other evacuators inhaled decades ago when they risked their lives to save others. My father would know what to say to make these men listen.

I shove my hands into my pockets, my fists curled in frustration. The cool glass slides against my skin, and I remember the bottle safely tucked inside. My hand closes around it, but I hesitate. What if they take it? I don’t trust these men, and it’s the only clue I have.

The officer with the scanner looks bored. “I’m sorry your sister’s missing, kid. But we can’t chase down every runaway.”

I take a deep breath and swallow my anger. If I lose control, I’ll end up in one of the cages hanging above us, and I won’t be able to look for Sky. “Did you ever think that someone might be taking them?”

They both laugh. “Why would anyone want extra mouths to feed?”

“Maybe they’re not feeding them.” It’s hard to believe these idiots are responsible for protecting us. But I have to convince them to believe me.

I start to pull the bottle out of my pocket—

“Sounds like a conspiracy theory.” He shakes his head. “Did you come up with that on your own, or are you one of those crazy evacuators’ kids?”

My whole body stiffens, and I push the bottle back down into my pocket.

The evacuators are the only reason you’re alive .

That’s what I want to tell him, but the familiar shame eats away at my stomach instead. My father was crazy, a fact I tried to hide when he was alive.

But he taught me to trust my instincts, which is the reason I slide my hand back out of my pocket. Empty.

A cage above us rattles, and something falls, nearly hitting one of the officers. His head jerks up. “Throw something out of there again, and I’ll rip your arms off. You hear me? Then I’ll send you back down to the Abyss, and we’ll see if you can steal without them.”

His partner looks at me. “You kids think the Abyss is one big party because there are no rules, but it’s full of criminals. If you spend enough time down there, you’ll end up in a cage too.”

Full of criminals…

These men aren’t going to help me find Sky. I’m going to have to do it myself.

But at least now I know where to look.

The entrance to the Abyss is a round metal plate in the street. A ladder leads to what’s left of the underground city where everyone lived until scientists figured out how to build the Dome. I climb down until the ladder reaches the damp ground, the mouths of stone tunnels surrounding me. Names and arrows are painted on the walls, directions to places I don’t recognize.

My father brought me down here once when I was Sky’s age. I remember the darkness punctuated by dim strings of tiny bulbs that led to a crowded market of open stalls. He was looking for a friend, one of the guys like him who helped thousands of burned and injured people find their way down here during the Evacuation. He bought me a piece of dried meat from a stall—the first thing I’d ever eaten that didn’t come from a sealed silver pouch—and left me to play games with the other children while he spoke to a man with one arm. My father didn’t explain the visit, and made me swear never to go down into the underbelly of the city again.

He would understand why I am breaking that promise now.

I don’t remember the name of the place my father took me, so I choose a random tunnel and follow the steady stream of water and rats. I can’t imagine Sky down here. Everything about her is clean and bright.

I try to imagine my father guiding me, but all I can think about is the last thing he said before he died. When the toxicity levels in his blood rose so high we had to admit him to a clinic. “Be brave, Phoenix. Take care of your sister.”

Another broken promise to my father.

My feet are soaked by the time I hear voices and notice a pool of pale light in the distance. The tunnel opens up, and I see the stalls. They’re lined up in crooked rows, the ripped awnings forming aisles. Tiny strings of white bulbs dangle above them. I’m not sure if this is the same market I visited as a child.

I scan the crowd, searching for any trace of my sister’s blond hair. I move closer to the stalls and watch as customers haggle over the price of burnt books, medicine long past its expiration date, and sweets in clear plastic wrappers instead of pouches. Everything the merchants are selling here is illegal. Things the Protectorate officers would throw you in the cages for possessing aboveground. But here, people are bartering for drinks in dark glass bottles and matches—a controlled substance in Burn 3. The sight of them makes my skin itch as if it’s already on fire.

“Whatcha lookin’ for, kid? Jerky? Cigarettes?” a man with an eye patch shouts.

I don’t know what he’s talking about. “Have you seen a girl with blond hair? About this tall?” I hold up my hand to match Sky’s height.

His eye narrows, and he glances over his shoulder. “Little girls don’t buy cigarettes.”

I try again. “Have you seen her? She’s wearing a black tunic and outercoat.”

He strikes a match in front of me and watches it burn. “Do you know what this is?” I hold the glass bottle with the printed label in my palm.

His eye grows wide, and he covers my hand with his, closing my fingers around the bottle. “Not here,” he hisses under his breath.

“I don’t—”

He jerks my arm so hard it feels like he’s trying to break it. “Got me those cigarettes back here,” he yells loud enough for anyone listening to hear.