The Tenets of Man (The Tenets of Man Duet #1)
Delilah
“Remember, democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts, and murders itself. There never was a democracy yet that did not commit suicide.” —JOHN ADAMS
They came in the middle of the night. Several loud pops—like the fireworks we light on the Fourth of July—reach my ears as I hide in the attic. I cower in the corner of the dark space, trying not to think about the spiders that could be nearby in the most neglected part of our house.
My skin crawls anyway.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight and pull the small bundle in my arms closer to my chest to combat the fear snaking its way up my spine, but my mom’s scream has them popping open.
“Calvin!” she screams. “No!” She cries my father’s name over and over. I’ve never heard my mom cry like this—helpless and broken. Even at ten years old, I know that kind of guttural sound can only belong to someone who’s lost a loved one.
Her voice grows quieter. Maybe from grief. Maybe because they take her away. It’s impossible to tell.
My baby brother squirms in my arms, rooting around for my mother’s breast. “Shh,” I whisper, bouncing him in my arms as silently as I can.
Voices of unfamiliar men bark at each other as they tear through our home, carelessly breaking our belongings as they go.
Tears well in my eyes and my chin wobbles as my brother grows impatient.
I know it’s only a matter of time before he starts wailing.
I’ve seen my mother feed him enough times to know what the process looks like: he goes from perfect little cherub to screaming banshee if you don’t feed him fast enough.
It’s not his fault, he’s only a few months old.
Even so, a sense of helplessness takes root in my chest as his cries get louder.
My breath comes faster and my heart beats so loud I wonder if they can hear it.
Footsteps pound on the stairs like thunder.
Doors are kicked open and slammed shut. I clamp my hand over my mouth as a whimper escapes involuntarily, but my panic is rising like a rogue wave in the middle of the ocean.
I watched a documentary in science class about them once.
They appear out of nowhere, claiming unsuspecting victims and destroying everything in their path.
Stories of raids just like this one have spread like wildfire across the country. They call it The Reckoning. Groups of men, armed and organized, have been systematically rounding up and separating children from their parents.
If they come for you, you do as you’re told, my mother said. Don’t fight. Don’t run.
I let my brother suck on my knuckle, but it does little to curb his insatiable hunger. His little gums bite down on my bent finger until his frustration mounts and his cry echoes through the small room, giving away our location.
Silence.
Mumbled chatter.
More footsteps, closer now.
The door bursts open and a flashlight searches the space until it lands on us in the corner. “They’re in here!” the owner of the flashlight calls behind him as he approaches us.
I squint my eyes against the glaring white of his light, only able to make out his silhouette.
Other men rush into the room, all dressed in black clothing, guns strapped to their hips and masks covering their faces.
That undeniable man-smell fills my nose, mixing with the stench of my fear and my brother’s wet diaper.
I’m paralyzed. My legs shake, but I don’t dare move.
“She’s young,” the man with the flashlight states. “Probably only eight or nine.”
I’m ten, you stinky old man, I think, but instinct tells me to keep my mouth shut.
“Grab her and let’s go,” another man says with seasoned authority. He’s loud and confident, like he’s used to getting his way.
Flashlight Guy grabs my upper arm, dragging me behind him out of the room and back down the stairs. My bare feet slap against the linoleum as I struggle to keep up with my escort’s long strides.
In the kitchen, I step in a puddle of something sticky and warm, and I look down as my steps now track behind me across the floor.
Even in the dark of night, I can see the substance is red.
There’s no body, but I know it’s blood. It smells like my piggy bank: like copper and dirt and impossible dreams.
Outside, black school buses line our neighborhood streets as women and children are sorted into various groups; mothers and older women, as well as children, are all separated by age and sex.
The only men around are those conducting the raids.
I try not to think about what happened to my father, to the men who aren’t a part of this frightening group.
One night, a few weeks ago, I snuck out of my room and overheard the news after the first raid happened.
The reporter said the group calls themselves The Brotherhood, but their motive for these raids is still unclear.
That’s what the man on the news said, anyway.
All they know is that the group clearly has ties with both government and law enforcement agencies, which is why no one is stopping them.
I search through the faces of my neighbors, looking for my mother, as the princess nightgown I’ve long outgrown but can’t seem to part with billows in the wind. Something sharp bites into the arch of my foot as I continue to follow the man through the street, but I don’t cry out.
He carelessly deposits me into a group of girls, all of them around my age or older, as we wait to board the bus…
to where, no one knows. We huddle together for warmth, but we’re silent—aside from a few girls who are crying quietly—as we’re herded like livestock onto the vehicle.
Before I can step on, a man comes and rips my brother’s small body out of my arms and takes him away to be with the other boys.
My scream dies in my throat, along with any other ideas for rebellion as my now-empty arms hang lamely at my sides.
I watch my only sibling disappear into the night, silently wondering if I’ll ever see him again.
Mom said Liam was a miracle baby, that lots of people want to have babies but can’t, and it has doctors and scientists worried.
On the bus, I sit next to a girl a year or two older than me. Her hair is a mess of curls and she smells of body odor, but I wrap my arm around her shoulders anyway as she shakes with silent sobs. I stay quiet as my own tears slide down my cheeks, salty and warm.
The cut on my foot stings. I can feel the dirt and grime from the street rubbing against the open wound, but I can’t do anything about it.
I can’t clean the cut with a warm washcloth and put a band-aid on it like my mom always does.
None of us have anything but the clothes on our backs: no personal belongings, no family photos, nothing to differentiate one girl from the next, except maybe our names.
The bus engine roars to life, causing several girls to startle and cry out, but we fall silent as the driver steps on and surveys us closely. Like the other men, he wears all black and a mask that reveals only his eyes, which betray no emotion as his gaze scans over each one of us.
His voice comes out muffled, but still clear enough for us to understand. “There are two rules on this bus.” He holds up his fingers one at a time. “Don’t talk. Don’t move. Follow those rules and the next six hours will go by just fine.”
Six hours? I think. Where are they taking us?
One girl raises a trembling hand. The driver’s eyes land on her, but he ignores her and walks toward his seat. She must be bolder than me, because she speaks anyway. “What if we need to go to the bathroom?”
The driver goes eerily still as we sit and await his answer. He turns around and stalks back toward her, his dark eyes now filled with anger. He grabs her cheeks roughly with one hand, covering her mouth with his palm as he screams in her face. “What’s rule number one?”
The girl sobs as she wets herself, a small puddle collecting beneath the bench. Other girls who were crying quickly swallow their tears, and the bus grows completely silent, save for the drip drip drip of her urine onto the dirty metal floor.
The skin around the man’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and even with the mask on, I can tell he’s smiling. “Well,” he says. “I guess we took care of that problem, didn’t we?” He releases the girl’s face and walks back to the front and takes his seat, shifting the bus into gear.
After that, no one dares to break another rule.