Frightened Boy, Scott Kelly [book suggestions .TXT] 📗

FRIGHTENED BOY

A novel by Scott Kelly

© Scott Kelly 2010-2012 all rights reserved


Prologue—Three Worlds

2056. Banlo Bay (formerly Houston)


The plaque in front of me was engraved with the words "Survival is triumph enough."

I ran my hand over the side of the wall, feeling the ridge where brick met mortar. I hadn’t planned on coming—shouldn’t have, but it was on my way, and the Banlo Bay Historical Sites Committee sent a nice letter inviting the survivors to their memorial. It was a single salvaged wall of the orphanage, each brick inscribed with the name of a kid who died here. The grand opening of a gravesite.

The sentiment was stupid. The telltale signs of decay crept in only a few blocks down; this monument should’ve been real wall and not some bauble. Still, bystanders gathered to admire the carnage that occurred here years ago, as though it was some long-forgotten history.

“Sorry,” a woman mumbled as she stepped on my toe.

“Sorry,” I counter-apologized.

The misstep pressed her shoulder against my chest, her head below my chin. Hadn’t been this close to another person in years. Her scent struck me: fresh-cut petals of lavender or lilac or something. The nearness, the sensation was dizzying—rusted departments of my brain cranked into shambling frenzy.

I moved away, then turned to watch her. Big brown eyes perplexed with gloom, a chocolate brown ponytail and tanned skin. She looked confused about being sad. Survivor guilt was baffling.

She must have run from this orphanage as a child, like me. She must have felt the danger in the air and snuck past the caretakers who thought corralling us inside the building would be safer. She must have sprinted across the grounds only to turn and see swarms of thirsty, terrified people force their way into the only building with running water and electricity for miles. Then she must have seen it burn.

Bang.

The start of a twenty-one gun salute. I flinched so hard I nearly inverted.

Policemen in black coats shot their weapons into the sky as a sign of respect and surrender. The way things were going, though, I’m guessing the ritual had new meaning to the firing squad. They were taking shots at God for all this shit luck.

The crowd grew; people stepped out the small shops that lined the street. Downtown Banlo Bay filled the horizon, a gleaming glass city. When you could see that skyline, it meant you were safe. Relatively, anyway.

Enough of this. I’d die someday too, and I wouldn’t even get a brick to show for it.

Was it wrong to be jealous of a burnt orphan corpse?

At last, the policemen lowered their rifles, loads blown and chambers empty. The fireworks were over.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something suspicious: a Stranger. Someone who didn’t belong; someone wrapped in a trench coat, towering over those around him. Gloves, scarf. Not an inch of flesh revealed. Conspicuously inconspicuous. He wore a tall hat with a wide brim, some kind of black Victorian thing, mottled with moth bites and burn marks. Everyone was politely avoiding him. You never talked to Strangers, and this guy was definitely strange.

But I was aware of the danger. A Stranger was the worst thing in the world to be standing in the middle of a crowded bunch of upright citizens.

I made my way to the back of the crowd.

The sound of shooting returned suddenly in stereo and as a chaotic, arrhythmic mess. People started screaming.

I turned in time to see the Stranger in the trench coat and hat firing an assault rifle into the air. Throughout the crowd, three more men in similar clothes began firing upwards, just mocking the salute, spinning in place and peppering the sky with ammunition.

Strangers, fucking with people again, pushing the world past the brink.

Someone bumped into me, then another, pushing me onward. People ahead of me tried to turn and run. Tension rose. More gunshots. Havoc was cried, and the dogs were loosed. The wall of flesh in front of me expanded like a lung, forcing me into the mass of squirming bodies trying to escape.

Not my first mob. The only way to survive was to be the fastest rat in the swarm. I turned and ran. Some of the people I pushed past were standing on their toes, trying to see what was going on, trying to see if it was anything serious.

Gunfire was always serious. I looked at their faces and I saw cadavers. Curiosity was a luxury; these were sparse times. The smart ones were running with me. We collided like atoms; the crowd reached critical mass, and I was at the crest of a great upset.

Then I was caught, so suddenly my arms whipped out in front of me. My leg was trapped between two bodies trying to smash through the same space—I jerked at, trapped animal, losing my shoe in the process. Anything not to get trampled.

My struggles were successful; I broke free. Not too far ahead was a break in the road where the crowd could thin out. I focused on it, ignoring everything around me.

The nice-smelling woman, the one who stepped on my foot, screamed. I watched her go down hard as an older lady behind her used the young brunette for balance.

The pretty girl’s hand shot out and grabbed my ankle; her fingers clenched my foot. My shoe was gone, and I could feel her cold skin. My first female contact in years.

She was already on the ground, lost. I jerked my leg out of her grip with manic strength; she was beyond saving. Lilacs and lavender had no place on the streets of Banlo Bay. Her face was twisted with terror; another cadaver. I just turned and ran. Heroics were a luxury.


1. Knots

A month later.


It wasn't a good day. I had to get my Citizen Card renewed.

If you had a job, you had a card, and if you didn't have a card, you might as well be a Stranger. I did my time diving in dumpsters and drinking from drains; I wasn't going back.

My local neighborhood Banlo Bay City Center was a dismal building, a stout block of bureaucratic order which was slept around, pissed on, and spray painted by the hordes of disgruntled people who wanted to get cards but couldn’t. This was the gate holding back the muddied masses who desperately sought protection in America's last sanctum of civility.

I pulled open the door and was met by a warm waft of stale air that smelled like a hobo with morning breath blowing across his armpit and into my nose. I settled in place behind several dozen other dour faces, a progression of gradually worsening moods that crescendoed with myself at the rear.

An hour into my wait, a foot stepped onto the back of my shoe, pulling it half off my foot as I inched forward in the line. I ignored it politely until it happened again, then again. I half-turned to see the offender out of my peripheral, but something I smelled sent my memory into overdrive. It was that beautifully alien scent on my sinuses again—the scent of lilacs and lavender.

“Excuse me,” she said.

I turned to face her.

“Haven't I seen you somewhere before?” she asked. Soft brown curls, big brown doe eyes, elegant chin, sculpted neck. Young, vibrant, and curious about each new thing. A fawn. My world used to have a place for them.

“I doubt it,” I mumbled. I’d rather her not remember me at all than be remembered for abandoning her. But from her face, it was clear she knew exactly who I was. “Wait—maybe at the opening of the Chapel Hill Orphanage Memorial.”

“Yes, the Strangers! I still have the bruises to show for it,” she said, smiling now and pulling back her sleeve to reveal a slender arm with a yellow bruise which looked at home beneath her skin.

“Shit, yeah. I’m glad to see you got out of there.” No thanks to me.

“Barely,” she said. “So, what’s your name?”

“I’m Clark Horton,” I said, extending my hand. She took it. Oh God yes.

“I’m Erika Bronton. You’ve got a space to fill,” she said, motioning in front of me where an opening had appeared. I moved forward to fill it.

A few minutes passed before she spoke. “So you were at the Orphanage?” she asked. "When it burned?"

"Yeah, I was." Don't like thinking about it. "You?"

"You're next," she said politely, nodding at the line in front of me, leaving my question unanswered.

She was right. I faced the man behind the desk. He looked like someone who was practiced in pretending to be patient but was always on the verge of snapping. It was a veneer shared by most everyone within the confines of Banlo Bay; it was the mortar that held the city together.

I handed him my card; he reviewed, then stamped it.

“You’re done,” the man said and slid my card back to me. I pocketed it. We used to be required to wear them on our shirts, but derelicts kept running by and ripping them off.

I began walking back toward the entrance when Erika grabbed my shirt sleeve. “Hey, wait for me,” she said. “It’s gotta be fate that we met two times like this.”

The person behind her cleared his throat with some significance.

“I’m going, all right?” She stepped up to the bureaucrat and pulled three crumpled documents from her purse, spilling them onto his desk.

“Moira Blocker,” she said. “I need to renew.”

The worker looked at his computer and then back at her, making no effort to hide the skepticism on his face. He repeated this activity several times.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, “but I can’t renew this. You don’t have your ID-a, your STM-9, or your DSM. The last time someone went to check on your situation, he reported an incorrect address. You don't even appear to have a job. To be honest, ma’am, you shouldn’t be here in the city at all. I think you need to see the Warden.”

Erika took a step backwards, stepping on my toes for the tenth time since I’d met her. This time, though, she didn’t apologize; from where I was standing I could see her hand dive into her purse and clench something there.

“I have a new address. That’s why there's the confusion. He can vouch for me,” Erika said, turning around and tugging at my sleeve. “I live with him. Please, I have lived here my whole life. Please, you have to let me stay."

I raised my hands up like I could somehow block the fact I was being drawn into this.

“Sir?” the worker asked.

“Tell him our address,” Erika said, her eyes widening. “It’s so embarrassing! I just moved in with him, and I don’t even have it memorized yet.”

I didn’t want to get involved.

“Sir, if she’s living with you,