After the Fear (Young Adult Dystopian) Read online

  Dylan pats the surface beside me.

  ‘Can I?’

  I swallow and shuffle over. Suddenly I don’t know what to do with my body. How was I lying before? Everything seems unnatural; nothing fits into place like I want it to. Thankfully, he doesn’t lie down, just sits up near my head, his legs dangling over the edge. He brings with him the faint smell of dirt and metal. I sense his eyes are on mine so I look directly ahead, acting as though I don’t notice.

  ‘Grand night, isn’t it?’ he asks. I keep my gaze upwards. I can’t believe a killer is making small talk with me. Then again, he doesn’t act like a killer. Ignoring him would be rude.

  ‘It would be nicer if we could see the stars.’

  ‘Aye. You’re not wrong there.’ He tilts his head back so I take the opportunity to glance over. His wild brown hair sprouts in layered tufts, sticking out in an adorable way. His cheekbones are high, his jaw set, and those deep blue eyes look through such long, thin eyelashes. His only imperfection is what looks like a twice-broken nose. Unfairly, it makes him more beautiful.

  Without warning, he brings his gaze back to me. I let my lips part in surprise, unable to take my eyes from his. Maybe it’s the leaves which surround us, the night which hides us away, but when he whispers that maybe one day he could show me the stars, I close my eyes.

  His lips are on mine.

  I don’t have time to think, I just move my mouth gently. He tastes sweet and bitter all at once.

  With a jolt in my stomach, my senses kick in. What on earth am I doing? One sweet line and I’m kissing a stranger? I push him off me in a violent movement and sit up straight, my breathing quick and shallow.

  His eyes dart around wildly. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was—you just looked so—ah. I’m sorry.’ He grabs the edge of the trampoline and pushes himself off in a fluid motion, before turning to me once more. His mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Eventually, he runs his hand through his hair and hurries back inside.

  For the second time tonight, I’ve been left alone. But for the first time in my life, I’ve been kissed. I touch my bottom lip. When I look up, I swear I see two stars twinkling in the distance.

  The stars move. An outline solidifies and Coral steps out from the shadows. She stares at me with eyes so narrow all of the light I saw before disappears.

  A moment later she stalks back inside the house and it’s as if I had never seen her at all. Yet I know I’m going to pay for my kiss with the Demonstrator.

  A million different words jam into my mind, vying for my attention. Demonstrator, killer, murderer, sweet-talker, party-goer, rule breaker?

  Or maybe, a strange part of my brain murmurs, just Dylan.

  Sola Herrington is in bedroom 2 of Flat 436 Rotunda Building (home)

  I SPEND THE NEXT WEEK obsessively checking Coral’s Debtbook profile. I’m not sure what I’m looking for—a mention of her party, perhaps—but there are only the usual updates: comments, whereabouts, events, friends’ birthdays . . .

  Nothing about Dylan.

  I suppress a grin. The Demonstrator strides into my mind more than I care to admit, followed each time by a soft, hot flourish which causes me to draw breath. I could check his profile, but I’m scared. I can only access the profiles of those from Juliet, but public figures like Demonstrators are open to everyone as long as we sign up as a follower. So if I found him, he would know that I’d signed up.

  Almost subconsciously, I tap Coral’s name on my digipad. Her profile zooms up from the corner of the page.

  Coral Winters is attending Demonstrator Tryouts—Two Teams, Only Winners Survive! tonight (touch to follow link)

  Why am I not surprised Coral is attending the most horrific Demonstration around? The price of a ticket is probably more than the cost of this flat.

  With a sigh, I grab the four-leaf clover hair pin from my desk. I’ve been wearing it all week, and each time I catch a glimpse of myself, I remember Dylan. I twist all of my hair into a messy bun and secure it with the pin, reliving the kiss in my mind one more time before school. That sensation swells again in my stomach, like when you’re going backward on a swing and for a second, you trick yourself into thinking you’re free falling.

  Chasing the delicious smell of microwaved bacon, I scan into the kitchen. The beep makes Dad jump.

  ‘Oh! Morning. How do you fancy a cooked breaky?’ He sounds surprisingly cheery for before eight o’clock. There’s not enough room in the kitchen for both of us to stand, so I manoeuvre around Dad and hop onto the stool in the corner.

  A crazily loud advert makes me jump in my seat. I wait until it’s over to look at the left wall where the large digiscreen incessantly flickers between mine and Dad’s profiles, occasionally interrupted by some Shepherd propaganda. Sometimes I like looking at it ‘cause when the pictures change from Dad’s to mine, I see the resemblance between us: the button nose; eyes which are too far apart; the sloping grin we both share. I used to see my resemblance to Mum on the screen, too. If I had had my way, her profile would still be up there, living right between mine and Dad’s, reminding us we’re still related. I guess the Shepherds don’t like to think of those who’ve passed.

  I still remember hugging that screen, my tears smudging on the cold surface as the status changed.

  Luna Herrington’s profile will be deleted in 26 minutes. 25, 24, 23 . . .

  I shake my head; profiles don’t matter. If I really had my way, she wouldn’t have been killed at all, wouldn’t have left me and Dad alone for the last seven years.

  ‘You sleep okay, Sola?’ Dad stands right in front of me. I blink, take the plate he’s offering, and balance it on my knees.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’ There’s a whir above me. ‘Why’s that on again?’ I whisper, watching the unblinking red dot in the corner of the trigger camera. Dad follows my stare.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realise it was. You haven’t been sleep-talking, have you?’ He smiles and leans back easily against the fridge.

  ‘Has something happened?’ I ask. In my head I add, with Coral.

  ‘Okay, okay. I wasn’t going to say anything because nothing is certain, but—’ He drops to a whisper. ‘—I’ve been asked to work crowd surveillance at the Demonstrator tryouts tonight.’

  I let out a long breath. He expects me to be pleased. Looking at his hopeful face, I put on my best fake smile. It evidently doesn’t convince him.

  ‘Still a judger, are we?’ He gives a little shake of his head. ‘Do you have any idea how much crime has dropped since the Demonstrations were put in place?’

  Oh man, here we go.

  ‘Would you prefer having a bigger Debt, Sola? The Demonstrations tax those who can afford tickets. The more you attend, the less chance you have of being picked for the Debt, which offers people an incentive to work hard, save for the tickets and not spend money on frivolous things. We all have issues with the violence, but “bad things only happen to people who deserve them”.’ He repeats the Shepherds’ motto.

  I don’t need to reply. I just stare. At least Dad has the courtesy to realise his mistake and look sheepish.

  ‘Well done. It’s a big step up from profile monitoring,’ I say sarcastically, because I can’t say what I’m really thinking with the trigger camera activated.

  ‘Yes it is. A big responsibility, in fact. This is simply the start, Sola. If I get this right, there’s no reason for Mr Winters not to give me the prom—’ He looks towards the camera. ‘Well, you know.’

  My dad’s smile is catching, so I set aside my disgust over the tryouts. As soon as I pop the last bit of sandwich into my mouth, he whips the plate from my lap.

  ‘Right, you better get to school.’

  I groan, sliding off the stool. ‘Yeah, I couldn’t possibly miss double cookery. We’re making vegetable cake. Again.’ I can almost hear Mr Laver’s monotonous voice in my head. It’s the most efficiently balanced meal for both taste and vitamins. You receive your five fruit and vegetables a day, as well as f
ibre, calcium, and protein all in one meal.

  ‘Well, don’t worry too much about saving any for me this time, okay?’ Dad says.

  I open my mouth in pretend outrage. ‘Hey! I’ll have you know I’m a great cook. I just don’t work well with that recipe,’ I lie.

  Dad gives me a sarcastic ‘yeah, yeah,’ before I scan out and head to the lift.

  As I walk down the hall, Dad’s chuckles turn into a cheerful humming. I recognise the melody. It’s the first time I’ve heard the tune in our flat since the morning before Mum died.

  ***

  I’M STILL HUMMING when I scan out of school. Cookery was a disaster, as usual, and my uniform is covered in dough, but I can’t help but wonder if Dad’s right, if things are looking up.

  My smile is stopped by a flicker of glossy red hair. It catches my eye through the gaggle of school children running for the rail. Although my station is the other way, I run to catch up with Coral.

  I need to make things right with her. We’re taught at school that if you overlook problems, they get worse. Like with the Debt, it started as just a small deficit; England kept thinking it would get better. We kept borrowing and borrowing from other countries, increasing taxes until the whole country rioted. Finally, our grandparents voted in the Shepherds to take control, and since then, each city has been trying to pay back its Debt. Coral isn’t exactly my best friend, but I can’t ignore the fact that I kissed someone she liked.

  ‘Coral!’ I reach out and touch her arm. She spins around, a moment of panic flitting across her face before she pulls her earphones out and smiles at me. It catches me so off-guard that instead of talking, I just stare like an idiot. Eventually she sighs and looks over her shoulder at the rail. It’s easier to speak when she isn’t beaming at me.

  ‘Um, I wanted to say I’m sorry. I would’ve done it earlier but I couldn’t catch you after school. What happened at your party—’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she says with a flick of her hand, turning back to me. ‘It’s sorted.’

  Okay, I wasn’t ready for this. All of a sudden, it’s obvious why I haven’t been punished for the kiss. Coral’s actually too hurt to be petty.

  ‘I really didn’t know how much you liked him,’ I say. ‘I only went out to jump on the trampoline. You know, like how we used to?’

  ‘Like how we were forced to, you mean?’ She’s still smiling, but it seems dead on her lips. Before I can speak, she touches her forehead as if she suffers from a headache. When she brings her hand down, her eyes are narrowed; the rim where she usually wears her eyeliner is a painful red.

  I’ve never seen her cry before. Not even when we were kids. Tantrums, yes. Not real tears. My heart hammers and without thinking I bring my arm around her shoulders, pulling her towards me. She heaves a great sigh into my neck and the smell of marzipan drifts from her hair.

  This second, right now, I forget about the bullying I’ve endured from her through secondary school. All the snide remarks and the shrug-offs from her friends. I think about the person she used to be—before she started wearing heels and makeup and going on diets. I think of the games we used to play, how we would pretend we were lost children and our parents were out looking for us. How we used to hide in her playhouse when Mum called for me to go home.

  ‘You’re so much like your mother, you know,’ Coral says into my shoulder. Despite her cold tone, my chest swells with the compliment. Just as I think we might break apart and laugh about all those childhood memories, she pulls back, her plastered-on smile making a mockery of how I feel.

  ‘Bye, Sola,’ she says brightly before walking towards the rail.

  A strange vibe creeps over me. I try to understand our embrace, to recapture that sense of friendship, but all I can hear are her sharp heels against the pavement.

  Coral takes up nearly all of my thoughts on the walk home. One moment I’m annoyed with myself for hurting her, the next I’m annoyed with her for tainting the memory of my first kiss. By the time I scan into the flat, I’ve decided I’m actually annoyed with Dylan for turning me into the kind of girl who over thinks everything.

  That’s weird. Dad’s briefcase is in the living room. He’s meant to be at work.

  ‘Dad?’

  I peek into his room, then mine. Nothing. A faraway digger makes me jump, and I let out a half breath/half laugh to myself. I always creep myself out so easily. I’m actually relieved to hear a noise from the kitchen, because a noise that’s definitely someone is better than a creak which could be someone.

  ‘Why didn’t you answer me?’ I ask, rushing into the last room of the flat.

  Three people crowd my kitchen. I bounce back from the threshold, as if I’ve hit an invisible wall. Mr Winters stands by the door, tall and gangly with his hands held behind his back. His grey face almost matches his white coat. The other two are surly-looking men I don’t recognise, but their Liaison uniforms unite all of them against me. One eyes me greedily, his arm resting on my kitchen counter.

  A sticky bubble forms at the back of my throat. Mr Winters holds a finger up to silence me, although I hadn’t even opened my mouth to speak. He motions the digiscreen with a flick of his bony hand.

  It’s fixed on my Debtbook profile. My picture grins into the room. There’s a new status underneath my name, but I can’t read it. I glance at Mr Winters and something catches the light in his hand. From in between his curled fingers protrudes the long stem of a needle.

  Everything slows, although I know it happens quickly.

  I back away and hit the screen. The black dots of text shuffle and sharpen. Mr Winters moves behind me. I read the words.

  Sola Herrington has been chosen to help pay the Nation’s Debt.

  ONE BLINK AWAKE. Then two. All around is thick nothingness, so black it seems blue. With every second that passes, my panic spreads. Why am I lying down? Why does my body hurt? I feel as though I’ve been dragged over rocks to get here.

  Sweat. Blood. Medicine. Earth. Urine. I choke on the vile smells stealing their way down my throat and up my nose. Yet the stench is better than the memories which jam into my mind. The needle, my Debtbook status, Coral’s father. I pretend for a second I’m still in the kitchen, that Dad will be here any minute to save me. Even as I grab the soil beneath me I wish for it to be true.

  There’s a gasping sound now, like a saw chewing through wood, again and again. It’s coming from me. Hot tears sting my eyes, burning and desperate to escape, but I blink them away. Won’t cry, won’t cry, won’t cry.

  Slowly, I push myself up so that I’m sitting. My arm throbs in protest, telling me that’s where Mr Winters stabbed me with the needle. Through the dark, I make out three walls. Bars cover the last side, as if I’m in an over-sized crate.

  There’s movement next to me. I jerk away, but my elbow collides with something warm and soft. No, not something. Someone.

  I’m not alone.

  I pause, struggling to breathe. I feel like I’ve been caught at lying. My stomach is hollow, and I’m just waiting, waiting for my brain to find a solution that I know isn’t coming. Although I wish they wouldn’t, my eyes adjust to the shade. More bodies. Every speck of soil is covered in mangled shapes. Hugging my arms around my knees, I make myself as small as possible. Maybe if I’m tiny enough, I can disappear and no one will notice me ever again. Not Coral, not Dylan, not the Shepherds.

  Coral. There aren’t enough horrible words to describe her right now. Did she send me here? To this prison which smells worse than a corpse? I need to find out what will happen to us, but my head is still foggy, and I have too many pains and aches to think straight.

  The girl next to me shudders once again, and like that, she’s awake and freaking out. I want to grab her and tell her to be quiet—instinct tells me we should keep the fact that we’ve woken a secret—but other groans stop me. Really, really slowly, I run my eyes over the room.

  The mass of bodies begin to writhe and pulse. Everyone is waking, like some sort of mass res
urrection. I cling to myself tighter. I know I’m watching something horrid unfold, like when I see something balanced on an edge, but I’m too far away to stop it from toppling over.

  And after the fall, there’s always a smash.

  Groans become cries. Someone immediately starts sobbing, while one woman starts shouting to be let out. The panic is catching, seizing everyone. My breath quickens, but I won’t beg to be freed. I sit perfectly still, clenching my fists into balls so that my fingernails make arcs of pain in my palm.

  I make a list in my head of everything I know about being chosen.

  -You either fight to become a Demonstrator, or if you’re too old, you go to work in a camp of some sort.

  -You don’t come home until you’ve paid your Debt, but I don’t know how that happens.

  -You can avoid it by going to as many Demonstrations as possible.

  Well, too late for number 3. Someone retches in the shadows, and the bitter smell of vomit filters through the dank air. My legs ache as I pull myself up, desperate not to be stamped to death. Aside from the grogginess of being drugged, there are no other aches or cuts down my body as far as I can tell, and I’m still wearing the dough-stained black trousers, white shirt and checked tie which signal my school uniform. That’s some relief—I don’t want to contemplate the thought of Mr Winters and his cronies undressing me.

  My gaze latches onto something huddled in the corner. I step closer and squint through the moving people. But it’s just a child, their knees pulled up to their chest. I clench my eyes shut against the image of them being chosen. Did they see the needle before they felt the jab? Were they alone, too?

  A loud noise buzzes above us. Long, yellow lights attached to the ceiling flicker on, filling the room with stark brightness that burns my eyes. Even with my eyelids gritted shut, red fuzz stains the dark. Blinking away the smudges, I glance around.

  Unlike me, everyone’s dressed in brown. I was right, we are standing on soil and earth. I try to peer through the brown-clad swarm of people, but all I can see is the top of the bars and a thick brown gate a few paces behind it.