in a fantasy book filled with romance and suspense that’s got you all flustered? Perhaps War and Peace for the hundredth time?”
“You don’t even know the meaning of flustered when it comes to love nor that book. But no there isn’t,” Sonu looked her son directly in the eyes before taking another step back toward him; leaving the door wide open. “Okay, I’ll be right back. Watch for me.”
She stepped again and hopped over the pile of books they were keeping and kissed her son gently on the head and tugged on his hair. It completely messed up any attempt for his rugged look he was going for.
“You need a haircut,” she said as she made it back to the open front door and slid the industrial metal frame shut. Brixton bolted all the locks and sauntered back to the window seat fixing his hair as he went.
This day spiraled into quite a peculiar one very quickly.
It’s gotta be the rain, he figured as he opened the curtain back up.
On dull and gloomy days like this, hardly anybody walked the streets. Beggars even tucked away. It also meant the Fatalities weren’t on duty. They were too lazy when the weather turned bad. There was no need to keep their home on such a locked downstate.
The empty streets looked and felt relaxing. They actually made the Court look somewhat normal for a change. Even the tanks faded into the gray buildings and fog accumulated between them.
The dreary scene reminded him of some sort of fantasy world where the Court rested on a cloud and monster tanks blew smoke from underneath. Its entire people, demolished. Only a few survivors remained hidden within the shadows and safety of the buildings.
“Man, you have a weird imagination,” he said to himself as he shook his head back into reality.
He looked down at the book in his hands. Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. He had already read it twice but repeated it every now and again on days like this when it rained.
“Each story has a purpose, Brix,” Sonu told him the first time he read it. For herself, she took out War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy and grazed the cover lightly with her fingers.
“Once upon a time, we lived in a different world. Someday- it will be better again.” She brought the book close to her heart and held it tight. “Many battles were fought then, too; like in this story I always read. “Countries invaded other countries and forced them to live in ways that they didn’t want to. Although these are all just stories, they come from the author’s perspective of some event in their lives or the lives of others. But their lives and experiences on paper are nothing like the fall of our island and everywhere else. We aren’t the only ones in this world. Did you know that? Our entire nation fell as well as all other nations. The whole world handed itself over to the Fatalities.”
Brixton couldn’t help but think of WWII and the children that suffered then. Surely their lives were worse than his. If anybody suffered, it was them. He and his mother never had to go to the camps described in the hundreds of volumes he read. Then again they did live in a barricaded city, on an island, with no way to escape. He was surprised he could read stuff like that in the first place now that he thought about it.
The Fatalities didn’t want the people to learn about those things. The pain, the failure of domination, the “good guys” winning. They didn’t want children to read about anything, really. Hope and positive values that so many of the stories concluded with seemed to be the worst.
To prevent any ideas for uprisings and “good guys” winning, schools closed ten years ago. Brixton was among the lucky few that learned how to read before they shut it down for good. By not teaching children to read, the Fatalities gained more control. Eventually, the entire population would be uneducated and easier to handle. They figured an ignorant person wouldn’t understand any better life than their present state of living.
Even if he didn’t know how to read, Sonu probably would have taught him anyway. She still gave him lessons each day and it was nice to have somewhere to start besides at the beginning. He felt ahead of the curve when his mom created lessons of her own to teach him.
On one hand, Brixton felt lucky to still be learning. On the other, on some days, he didn’t see the point. Nobody else would care about the things he learned so why bother with it? It wasn’t like he could discuss it with anyone. That would just get him and whoever else that listened into trouble.
One of the few places Brixton felt safe consisted of the bolted doors in his own home. He liked his apartment. Sure, it was no mansion, but the exposed brick and plastered walls around the room suited him and his mother. What was it his mother called it? Eclectic meets New Century loft. They were far from the New Century. But that seemed to be the time she liked the most besides the Victorian era. The New Century was the first part of the two-thousands; before the big fall; before the Fatalities. Brixton couldn’t understand why anyone, even of that era, would want to live in a building that looked like it was falling apart.
Sonu didn’t see it like that though. She saw in the walls a time when people were happy. She loved the vastness of the room. Their entire apartment opened up to beams and rafters above the second floor.
During a history lesson, Brixton found his island, then his building. He lived in Nantucket. Massachusetts was the bigger chunk that neighbored it about thirty miles away. Their island was one of the last places to go under. He guessed it was because they were such a small island that they would be easy to control. The bigger cities became a bigger focus. New York, London, Paris, Mexico City, and so many more were the first to go.
A candle factory claimed the building they lived in at one point long ago. It later became a museum. Remnants of the museum still decorated the walls today. He was surprised at how the building and even the island still looked like it did back then in the photographs. His mom kept the carved whale teeth on the mantle above the fireplace.
“I love the history. Plus it livens up the place,” she said.
The island was small. Its area was close to 100 square miles. It seemed even smaller knowing that no matter what they did, they would never be able to leave. That was part of the system. Nobody came in and nobody left. The one bridge that connected Nantucket and Massachusetts stayed heavily guarded round the clock. A giant gate blocked the way and two guardhouses planted themselves on both sides. Spotlights dotted the entire 30-mile stretch. From afar, it looked like a single white line that disappeared over the horizon. Brixton thought about what it would look like from space and how many other lines like this connected other islands to the mainland.
He opened his book for the third time. He figured, an hour for every two chapters, his mom should be back in three chapters; an hour and a half.
On a good day, he could sprint to the library and back in eight minutes. It wasn’t far at all. Three blocks down, turn right, and then there it was.
The library took up the entire block. Its statuesque appearance made it stand tall like some Greek structure. The whole thing was white. Even the brick wall around the front was made out of white bricks that the citizens repainted every year in the spring. The library was one of the only buildings the Court’s citizens took pride in. They held mini celebrations and fed whoever volunteered to help paint and clean the outside of the building. Sonu and Brixton helped every year by bringing extra paintbrushes and fresh sprigs of parsley for the buffet tables. He read once that the building next door to it used to be a children’s library. He must have known those went together at some time since they looked so much alike. The building was now a public mess hall for families who needed extra meals. Nobody went there though. It made
