Chapter 2 #2
I am a social person—honestly—but I figure this is all temporary, and attachment only leads to heartache, which I have been over-served already.
The girls at my last location were sweet—verging on na?ve, really—but they insisted on bringing me into the fold.
If it weren’t for them, I’d still be dressed like a teenage boy with short-cropped hair, and in spite of my best efforts, it was difficult to part with them, which is something to keep in mind as I sit with Sasha.
Despite having woken before sunrise, I realise these moments are going to be my only downtime.
Since the bar doesn’t open until eleven, the morning becomes occupied with Sasha.
Hours have swung by, and we’re still knee-deep in conversation.
And no matter how hard I try to resist, it’s hard to maintain a distance when we’re so like-minded.
This is her fourth year on her Independence Interval, having moved up here from Memphis, which hosts a large New York community after the war.
She asks, “So, do you know anyone who went to the R you shouldn’t see him much. As long as you don’t go breaking his rules or getting caught, at least,” she says with an oily smile.
Sasha seems like the dose of realism I need. A little less green than the girls I left behind, but in a city like this, perhaps she’s seen enough to know how truly dark the world has become.
To remain hidden, I fasten my khaki padded coat to my chin and tuck my long hair beneath my baseball cap, taking a deep breath before braving the outdoors.
The undoing of multiple locks sounds like the countdown of a clanking clock, and when the door closes behind me, their uniform claps send my head low, hoping no one is alerted to my presence.
Our apartment is above a cigar shop, so I move down the black iron stairs, where dead leaves have woven and failed to find light among the spindles, and I wonder if I too will wither in the city’s shadow.
The sodden streets hiss beneath the bustle of bodies marching towards their day jobs, and I keep my face low as I join the stream.
A screech of scorching metal pierces the air, with a flurry of hot sawdust snowing into the path from the open-fronted workshops.
At the end of our block, the four-faced infotron is displaying the remnants of the Capitol building in Washington, D.C.
, its domed roof fractured open like a cracked egg atop the greyed rubble.
The once-virescent lawn now sprouts saplings beside a burnt-out tank and the remnants of government vehicles.
Today’s quote is another from President Bryce Beckett.
“They can attack our great states, but they will never break our state of mind. United we stand!”
This speech was played on loop across every channel, and I can even recall his voice, the stern shaking of his temper, the quiver of his thin upper lip.
I wonder if there will ever be a day when I don’t shudder at the thought of President Beckett.
After a flurry of attacks on our biggest cities, he insisted on dropping state borders, and this was the anthem to quell the pushback—to unite the Americans as one state.
Beside me, the men’s chins raise to watch the screens until it becomes uncomfortable, and they reset to their forward-facing march.
My fathers taught me to conceal my gender, appearing taller as I push my shoulders back, and to walk with a strict step, striding from my hips rather than my ankles.
Unnatural, it demands a level of concentration, but helps me disappear.
The shoulders of men graze mine, with their splattering steps echoing into the dark corridors of roads and sidewalks between buildings, dimly lit beneath the cold streetlights.
They must be triggered automatically by the lack of natural light on this overcast morning.
The smog I saw during my entrance to the city does it no favours, cloaking the sky and absorbing any colour that dares to brighten the day.
Faces painted so sullen and stern pass by without a single gentle grin or subtle smile, as if their quest for survival is a chore.
But this isn’t survival; this is merely existing.
There’s an abundance of sadness. It’s visible, but it’s also something I can feel, weighing on my clothes and hanging from my shoulders, like the sodden weight of rain.
Their sorrow has a gravitational pull on the lines of their faces, deepening within their skin.
But it all makes sense—what do they have to be happy about?
The men’s chins rise and fall with every infotron, and mechanically reset after each crossroads.
My supplies require replenishment, so I search the shopfronts for a local store.
After saving up my last few dollars for the city, I have been desperate to appease my one true vice: tea.
I can make do with coffee, but nothing brings me joy quite like a hot tea, and I’m overdue for my fix.
Because this isn’t just a drink to me. It’s like a Band-Aid on a flurry of anxiety, a medicinal shot of comfort when I’m lonely, a respite to punctuate the end of a chapter on a bad day.
One deli catches my eye. Its colours pop against the greyscale streets, large windows displaying shelves of fresh produce.
I move out of the herd, hopping onto the store’s stone porch, and startle when the bell above the door jingles with my entry.
A curl twinges the corners of my mouth when I find timber trays tiered against the wall, presenting a spectrum of colours, stacked with a variety of fruits and vegetables, many of which I have not seen in years.
I breathe in that earthy, sweetened scent, allowing its perfume to monopolise my senses.
There is even a fridge with what looks like dairy products, sealed with a lock.
My fathers said it’s standard for stores to sell meat, eggs, and dairy as common food items. Now, with the phenomenon, animal products are no longer a staple of our diets, and milk, cheese, and meat hold more value than gold.
Behind the counter are more shelves, lined with large, airtight glass containers of rice and plainly labelled cans of beans and lentils.
It’s hard not to stare, since this place has triple the variety of the local store back in the Wilds.
A single storekeeper mans the shop, his short silver hair reaching his dark beard. Not even looking up from his newspaper, he asks, “How can I help you, sir?”
“I was wondering if you have any loose tea—”
My feminine tone causes his tickled face to shoot up from the pages, his forehead filling with deep lines. He nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose, revealing a contagious smile.
“Tea! Yes, dear. Bear with me… We get tea customers about as often as we get lady customers.” He moves to the lower shelves of the back wall.
There’s a TV mounted on a metal arm, pointed towards the door.
Every establishment is required to have one, and his is tuned to the standard infotron channel broadcasting the historic destruction of America.
He returns to his feet with a bounce, presenting me with two large jars atop his counter.
“Looks like … Earl Grey,” he says, straining to read the labels, “and then some … chai?”
“Ohhh! Earl Grey, please. I’ve not found this since … a while. It’s been a while.”
He snickers as he scoops the loose, fine-ground tea leaves into a small container.
I reach into my pocket. “And batteries—two of these?” I ask, presenting a pair in my palm.
He nods as he reaches into a drawer, placing them on the counter beside my tea.
“Thanks. How much?”
He waves his hand. “No, no. No charge for your first visit.”