Silent Changes
Chapter 1
“Screw the government!”
Mom and I exchanged startled looks at the treasonous words filtered through the thin walls from the apartment next to ours.
A large crash thudded against the wall, shaking it and knocking a lone painting askew. Terror and pain flitted across Mom’s face before the lines settled into resolve and she reached for the phone.
“No.” I whispered, shaking my head. My eyes pleaded with her, but she stood from our rickety table and turned away to face the sink in our kitchenette.
The apartment next door had gone silent after the outburst, but it wouldn’t be for long. I scraped my chair back and crossed the room to a ratty couch. I couldn’t listen to her conversation. I sat and pulled my knees up, preparing for what would come next.
I’ve known Jack and Jill for six months, ever since we were relocated. Jack had been a writer and Jill a lawyer before the changes. After the changes, they’d been factory workers, like the rest of us in building 1508. Soon, they’d be gone.
They’d been angry, like my father had been. But they were smarter, kept their mouths shut about the change. Didn’t try to fight it. Jill said they’d hoped to fix it from within. By the time they’d realized it was hopeless, it was too late.
I guess the hopelessness became too much for Jack. He started drinking. I’ve heard writers weren’t too reliable before the changes, but the loss of freedoms had been worse. Lots of writers died during the first year. Their books deleted, their words gone forever. Only those that claimed to support the new laws, who spoke out in favor of the government, remained.
Once he started drinking, Jack changed. Or maybe the veil he’d hidden over his true self came off. The arguments started then. We could hear their voices at night, muffled and distorted by the walls. It was dangerous, but still relatively safe. We couldn’t hear what they were saying. Until tonight. Until Jack uttered three little words that sealed his fate. And not just his, but Jill’s and ours as well.
All we could do now is wait. Mom hung up the phone, but kept it gripped in her shaking hands. She leaned back against the counter and looked towards me.
“You heard him, Lacey. I had to. You know that.” She whispered across the tiny, worn living room. Her eyes large, pleading with me to understand. “If someone else had called. If it wasn’t us.” Her words grew shrill even as she tried to keep her voice down. Keep them from hearing her. “They would have come for us too. They‘re listening. Always listening.”
They were the Boots. The Civil Patrol. Part police, part soldier, they watch over us and protect us from the rebels and ourselves. It wasn’t always like that. Ten years ago we had real soldiers. Soldiers we didn’t have to fear. My Dad was one of them, before our military was disbanded.
Dad.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the memories, but on a night like tonight, they were inevitable. They pulled me in, sucking me under, forcing me to re-live the last time my life had changed.
We had a small house in a little town outside of one of the bigger cities. He didn’t hunt much, but my father was an avid gun collector. He had three or four hand guns and a dozen or so rifles. When they came by to collect them, he kept one of the hand guns and two of the rifles hidden away.
They weren’t registered. I don’t know how they knew, but one night during a rainstorm they came back.
“Why?” My mother asked in a pained voice.
“I’m sorry, Maddie.” My father said before urging us upstairs. He told us to stay put no matter what we heard.
We huddled together in my room on my pink bedspread and did as he asked. We heard him yelling followed by a gunshot, and then we heard the clip-clop of boots as they climbed the stairs.
And we stayed put.
Just like we were doing now. They’d taken us then, brought us here. There was no where else for us to go. We were one step away from the Casino, the boogey land of harsh desert and sparse water where they sent you to die.
The crack of breaking wood made my eyes dart to our door. It was as solid as it could be. No dents, no scratches, no axes tearing through the cheap plywood to split it apart.
I’d missed the clip-clop procession of Boots echoing in the hallway, but I heard them now. My heart hammered in my chest and a bead of sweat slipped down the middle of my back. I turned wide eyes at my mother. Her gaze was on the door, but she turned to me.
I wanted to scream at her. Remind her of our promise. But I didn’t. Her eyes turned pleading, begging me to understand.
I felt sick. I turned my back on her and stared at the dividing wall between our apartment and the one next door. Saw past the peeling wall paper, the framed painting of a field of flowers now tilted. My eyes burned and I blinked away threatening tears, but I said nothing.
I could hear their muffled noises. Voices sharp and angry, but I couldn’t make out the words. Jack’s voice mingled with the Boots and then I heard a loud thump, glass shattering and more wood breaking. Jill screamed.
A large crack of flesh meeting flesh and another thump. The screaming stopped and it grew quiet again. Voices murmured and finally I heard the distinct sound of bodies being dragged. Were they dead already or would they be taken to the Casino? Forced to spend the rest of their lives cutting stone in the rock mines.
The steady clip-clop of Boots left the apartment and echoed through the hall for a moment, diminishing with every step they took away from us. I released a ragged breath and closed my eyes.
I would miss them, but thanks to my mother, there was nothing anyone could do for them now.
A knock sounded at our door, startling me even more because I thought it was over. I huddled on the couch with my knees up by my chest, my arms circling them, but my mother jerked into movement. I could see her trembling as she staggered to the front door and opened it.
One of the Boots patiently waited with a basket in his hand. He was young, only a few years older than me with light brown hair and blue eyes. He’d be handsome, if he wasn’t wearing the despised grey uniform and those grey boots.
There was an easy smile on his face, as if it were nothing to drag out two strangers and condemn them to death. But he hadn’t condemned them. My mother had. The proof was in his hands. He’d merely taken them to ensure sentencing would be carried out.
“Your government thanks you.” He tipped his hat towards me after Mom took the basket. “Have a pleasant evening.” And then he turned on his heel and clip-clopped after the rest of his patrol.
Mom shut the door and sagged against it. When the clip-clop was nothing more than a memory, we finally stirred. She moved first, pushing herself up to stand, and gave me a shaky smile as she held up the basket.
“Well,” she said. “That’s over.”
“You promised.” My voice was soft and trembling as I whispered the accusation.
“What?”
“You promised.” I said a little louder. I let go of my legs and let them touch the floor. “After what happened with Dad. You promised we’d never do that.”
I looked at her but there was no hint of guilt in the harsh gaze that met mine. We’d both promised to never call. Never turn anyone in for trying to hang on to freedoms that were supposed to be guaranteed, but were yanked away.
“If it wasn’t for your father, I wouldn’t have had to. I didn’t have a choice, Lacey. We don’t have a choice.” She stalked across the wooden floor to the kitchen and dropped the basket on our rickety table, heedless of the peach that fell out and rolled across the wooden surface.
“His stupid collection was more important to him than we were. If he’d turned all those damn guns over like he was supposed to, we’d still be living in our home.”
I’d never heard her sound so bitter.
“You’d still be in school and we wouldn’t be here.”
She turned away from my still accusing eyes to dig in the basket. She pulled out a loaf of bread and a half gallon of milk as well as a couple more peaches.
Fresh food. The going rate for a pair of radicals. I stayed strong, kept my moral outrage. What she’d done was wrong. We both knew it. But a block of cheese followed the peaches. And then a hunk of meat. Real meat not the canned stuff we’re given on grocery day.
I knew what everything in that basket would taste like, from the tart and juicy peaches to the tangy cheese. I wanted it. My stomach rumbled and my mouth salivated, but I wasn’t going to eat it.
I stood and crossed to the kitchen, making a wide circle around the table to reach the cabinet. I pulled out a box of stale crackers and a packet of peanut butter. They were staples given on grocery day and were about all I could stomach.
“Don’t eat that.” She said. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”
“I don’t want one.” I said, spreading the peanut butter over a cracker.
“It’s here, we might as well eat it.” She was trying to cajole me, but it wasn’t going to work. At least not tonight. Not when everything was right up front in my mind. She might be able to tempt me in a few days, after hunger has tinged my memories of tonight. I hope not.
“I said I don’t want it.”
“Lacey.”
“No, Mom. Just no.”
I put the peanut butter away and took my crackers to a small corner. We’d hung sheets to give me the illusion of privacy. I swung them shut and sat down on the only piece of real furniture. A paint chipped daybed with a thin, lumpy mattress. My clothes, what there was of them, were folded neatly in a crate next to my bed.
I could hear my mother moving around, opening the mini-fridge and the cabinets as she put the food away. She was going to want to get rid of that basket as soon as she could. She’d have to. No one likes informants. No one trusts them.
Fear squeezed my stomach. Fear for my mother and fear for me. If they found out, our neighbors would turn on us. There’d be an accident in the factory, something no one could prove. I’d seen it happen before. Was it any wonder all I could stomach was the crackers?
End excerpt
“Screw the government!”
Mom and I exchanged startled looks at the treasonous words filtered through the thin walls from the apartment next to ours.
A large crash thudded against the wall, shaking it and knocking a lone painting askew. Terror and pain flitted across Mom’s face before the lines settled into resolve and she reached for the phone.
“No.” I whispered, shaking my head. My eyes pleaded with her, but she stood from our rickety table and turned away to face the sink in our kitchenette.
The apartment next door had gone silent after the outburst, but it wouldn’t be for long. I scraped my chair back and crossed the room to a ratty couch. I couldn’t listen to her conversation. I sat and pulled my knees up, preparing for what would come next.
I’ve known Jack and Jill for six months, ever since we were relocated. Jack had been a writer and Jill a lawyer before the changes. After the changes, they’d been factory workers, like the rest of us in building 1508. Soon, they’d be gone.
They’d been angry, like my father had been. But they were smarter, kept their mouths shut about the change. Didn’t try to fight it. Jill said they’d hoped to fix it from within. By the time they’d realized it was hopeless, it was too late.
I guess the hopelessness became too much for Jack. He started drinking. I’ve heard writers weren’t too reliable before the changes, but the loss of freedoms had been worse. Lots of writers died during the first year. Their books deleted, their words gone forever. Only those that claimed to support the new laws, who spoke out in favor of the government, remained.
Once he started drinking, Jack changed. Or maybe the veil he’d hidden over his true self came off. The arguments started then. We could hear their voices at night, muffled and distorted by the walls. It was dangerous, but still relatively safe. We couldn’t hear what they were saying. Until tonight. Until Jack uttered three little words that sealed his fate. And not just his, but Jill’s and ours as well.
All we could do now is wait. Mom hung up the phone, but kept it gripped in her shaking hands. She leaned back against the counter and looked towards me.
“You heard him, Lacey. I had to. You know that.” She whispered across the tiny, worn living room. Her eyes large, pleading with me to understand. “If someone else had called. If it wasn’t us.” Her words grew shrill even as she tried to keep her voice down. Keep them from hearing her. “They would have come for us too. They‘re listening. Always listening.”
They were the Boots. The Civil Patrol. Part police, part soldier, they watch over us and protect us from the rebels and ourselves. It wasn’t always like that. Ten years ago we had real soldiers. Soldiers we didn’t have to fear. My Dad was one of them, before our military was disbanded.
Dad.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the memories, but on a night like tonight, they were inevitable. They pulled me in, sucking me under, forcing me to re-live the last time my life had changed.
We had a small house in a little town outside of one of the bigger cities. He didn’t hunt much, but my father was an avid gun collector. He had three or four hand guns and a dozen or so rifles. When they came by to collect them, he kept one of the hand guns and two of the rifles hidden away.
They weren’t registered. I don’t know how they knew, but one night during a rainstorm they came back.
“Why?” My mother asked in a pained voice.
“I’m sorry, Maddie.” My father said before urging us upstairs. He told us to stay put no matter what we heard.
We huddled together in my room on my pink bedspread and did as he asked. We heard him yelling followed by a gunshot, and then we heard the clip-clop of boots as they climbed the stairs.
And we stayed put.
Just like we were doing now. They’d taken us then, brought us here. There was no where else for us to go. We were one step away from the Casino, the boogey land of harsh desert and sparse water where they sent you to die.
The crack of breaking wood made my eyes dart to our door. It was as solid as it could be. No dents, no scratches, no axes tearing through the cheap plywood to split it apart.
I’d missed the clip-clop procession of Boots echoing in the hallway, but I heard them now. My heart hammered in my chest and a bead of sweat slipped down the middle of my back. I turned wide eyes at my mother. Her gaze was on the door, but she turned to me.
I wanted to scream at her. Remind her of our promise. But I didn’t. Her eyes turned pleading, begging me to understand.
I felt sick. I turned my back on her and stared at the dividing wall between our apartment and the one next door. Saw past the peeling wall paper, the framed painting of a field of flowers now tilted. My eyes burned and I blinked away threatening tears, but I said nothing.
I could hear their muffled noises. Voices sharp and angry, but I couldn’t make out the words. Jack’s voice mingled with the Boots and then I heard a loud thump, glass shattering and more wood breaking. Jill screamed.
A large crack of flesh meeting flesh and another thump. The screaming stopped and it grew quiet again. Voices murmured and finally I heard the distinct sound of bodies being dragged. Were they dead already or would they be taken to the Casino? Forced to spend the rest of their lives cutting stone in the rock mines.
The steady clip-clop of Boots left the apartment and echoed through the hall for a moment, diminishing with every step they took away from us. I released a ragged breath and closed my eyes.
I would miss them, but thanks to my mother, there was nothing anyone could do for them now.
A knock sounded at our door, startling me even more because I thought it was over. I huddled on the couch with my knees up by my chest, my arms circling them, but my mother jerked into movement. I could see her trembling as she staggered to the front door and opened it.
One of the Boots patiently waited with a basket in his hand. He was young, only a few years older than me with light brown hair and blue eyes. He’d be handsome, if he wasn’t wearing the despised grey uniform and those grey boots.
There was an easy smile on his face, as if it were nothing to drag out two strangers and condemn them to death. But he hadn’t condemned them. My mother had. The proof was in his hands. He’d merely taken them to ensure sentencing would be carried out.
“Your government thanks you.” He tipped his hat towards me after Mom took the basket. “Have a pleasant evening.” And then he turned on his heel and clip-clopped after the rest of his patrol.
Mom shut the door and sagged against it. When the clip-clop was nothing more than a memory, we finally stirred. She moved first, pushing herself up to stand, and gave me a shaky smile as she held up the basket.
“Well,” she said. “That’s over.”
“You promised.” My voice was soft and trembling as I whispered the accusation.
“What?”
“You promised.” I said a little louder. I let go of my legs and let them touch the floor. “After what happened with Dad. You promised we’d never do that.”
I looked at her but there was no hint of guilt in the harsh gaze that met mine. We’d both promised to never call. Never turn anyone in for trying to hang on to freedoms that were supposed to be guaranteed, but were yanked away.
“If it wasn’t for your father, I wouldn’t have had to. I didn’t have a choice, Lacey. We don’t have a choice.” She stalked across the wooden floor to the kitchen and dropped the basket on our rickety table, heedless of the peach that fell out and rolled across the wooden surface.
“His stupid collection was more important to him than we were. If he’d turned all those damn guns over like he was supposed to, we’d still be living in our home.”
I’d never heard her sound so bitter.
“You’d still be in school and we wouldn’t be here.”
She turned away from my still accusing eyes to dig in the basket. She pulled out a loaf of bread and a half gallon of milk as well as a couple more peaches.
Fresh food. The going rate for a pair of radicals. I stayed strong, kept my moral outrage. What she’d done was wrong. We both knew it. But a block of cheese followed the peaches. And then a hunk of meat. Real meat not the canned stuff we’re given on grocery day.
I knew what everything in that basket would taste like, from the tart and juicy peaches to the tangy cheese. I wanted it. My stomach rumbled and my mouth salivated, but I wasn’t going to eat it.
I stood and crossed to the kitchen, making a wide circle around the table to reach the cabinet. I pulled out a box of stale crackers and a packet of peanut butter. They were staples given on grocery day and were about all I could stomach.
“Don’t eat that.” She said. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”
“I don’t want one.” I said, spreading the peanut butter over a cracker.
“It’s here, we might as well eat it.” She was trying to cajole me, but it wasn’t going to work. At least not tonight. Not when everything was right up front in my mind. She might be able to tempt me in a few days, after hunger has tinged my memories of tonight. I hope not.
“I said I don’t want it.”
“Lacey.”
“No, Mom. Just no.”
I put the peanut butter away and took my crackers to a small corner. We’d hung sheets to give me the illusion of privacy. I swung them shut and sat down on the only piece of real furniture. A paint chipped daybed with a thin, lumpy mattress. My clothes, what there was of them, were folded neatly in a crate next to my bed.
I could hear my mother moving around, opening the mini-fridge and the cabinets as she put the food away. She was going to want to get rid of that basket as soon as she could. She’d have to. No one likes informants. No one trusts them.
Fear squeezed my stomach. Fear for my mother and fear for me. If they found out, our neighbors would turn on us. There’d be an accident in the factory, something no one could prove. I’d seen it happen before. Was it any wonder all I could stomach was the crackers?
End excerpt