The Law and the Codas

Chapter Nine

It's nighttime when we reach the fringes of an abandoned property lined by a falling white fence. A laminated sheet, nailed onto the mailbox, states this house was slated for demolition in almost two decades ago. Guess the Law didn't have enough manpower to destroy all the homes they'd forced people to evacuate.

I lean to Sin, to spy over the shoulders of our driver. Van headlights roam along a dirt road, illuminating trees on either side.

As the van slows, a floodlight kicks on,. There's a house, single floor, half-hidden by overgrown hedgerows and piles of red brick.

On the right, there's a shed and a big barn. Peeling red paint, bleached because of the sun, takes on a rusted hue, like that of drying blood.

With a squeak of brakes, the van stops. The driver and passenger get out, their doors clinking behind them before they reappear as they pull the backend doors open. A waft of air, fresh and crisp, scented with fresh rain and heavy pine, a smell that instantly reminds me of David and causes my heart to race, sweeps into the van, where I hadn't realized we'd been mired in a stench of body odor, sweat, blood, and gunpowder.

One by one, we file out of the back and give our legs a good stretch. There aren't any stars dotting the sky, but there is a moon, large and full, luminescent. It's light spills across the ground, over my slippers. I dip my fingers in its path, move them to watch how the light dances over my flesh.

"Enjoying yourself?" David sidles up to me, hands clasped behind his back.

"As much as I can," I say, moving my hand out of the light. I take a huge gulp of air and relish in the way it doesn't smell like a locker room after a hard day's practice.

David stares at my face. I shift my weight, hoping it seems like I'm giving my legs a good stretch. "How's your neck?"

"It'll heal." Just like my hand. Just like all the wounds, seen and unseen, afflicted today. They'll heal, eventually, if they don't kill us. "You?" I nod to his bandaged neck, where rust-colored drops have seeped through the gauze around his chest.

He touches his neck gingerly and grimaces. "I think I got out all the metal shavings. Hurts like hell though."

"Yeah. I bet punching a holographic projector's a lot like hitting Kevlar."

"Hey, you!" Della motions us over. "Line up!"

Sam grimaces. "I know we saw the Facility implode on itself, but somehow it doesn't feel like we've left."

I nod. "Maybe it's their way of making us feel comfortable."

Marava snorts. "As if." She runs her fingers through her shoulder-length hair, pulling at the tangles. She glares at the Codas looming next to the spot where we've been ordered to convene. "Next thing you know they'll be weighing our shits."

My mouth gapes. Had Marava just cracked one?

Sam's laugh answers my question. "Or forcing us to take tests." He furrows his brow. "One-hundred and fifty questions, all multiple choice."

Marava clucks her tongue at us. Sam whoops and then, we all quiet and still as Della approaches, a dozen Blackhole bags clutched in her hand. We all shirk back.

The smart bag Della lovingly carries ever nearer was fairly common military fare. Made of opaque metallic fibers and outfitted with the latest bio-monitoring tech, it could cinch around a neck at the touch of a button, regulate air purity and flow, and if by chance, the bag's sensors caught wind of wandering hands, the fabric constricted, stoppering airflow, leaving the wearer to suffer an agonizing death.