The Wanted

Camille wrapped the fur around her shoulders a little tighter. The fox’s glass eyes stared at me in the backseat, seeming to say, You don’t belong here. We drove out of the garage, followed by another car filled with soldiers.

Judith picked at her nails and Denis sat upright, rigid. His earphones were missing. He was missing.

Grant drove at a snail’s pace, cursing every splash of mud that sullied the paintwork and every squeak of the windscreen wipers. It was sleeting until it turned to flurry. I shivered as ice pelted the windows, barely paying attention to where we were going, only that it was away from Grant’s home. We went through gates, which the soldiers had to open for us, futilely covering their heads with their arms as they tried to shield themselves from the weather. I exhaled sadly, missing the forest, fires, and wolves. Wondering if this was my last winter.

Suddenly we dipped, the suspension creaking. Grant drove down a well-lit concrete slope into an underground park. He slammed the brakes on when we reached the bottom, our heads surging forward, and ordered us to leave the car. He seemed a little nervous. A guard quickly came to Grant’s door with the wheelchair. We turned before being asked this time.

Grant was arranged in his chair. He wheeled ahead of us eagerly. “Come!” he said excitedly. I could tell he was picturing himself walking, striding proudly out of this place. Guilt. Displaced, misplaced guilt crept up my skin like ants searching for a crumb.

We followed, with ten guards in our wake, their boots thudding on the concrete in unison.

This was the end, the begi

I crumpled my dress in my hands and held my breath as the lift shot upwards. Mirrors lined the four walls, so all I could see were many sets of Grant’s excited eyes dancing under the harsh light. He turned his head slowly to me and his lips spread wide. His glare was cruelly triumphant. I let out a small, hysterical laugh, wondering if he wanted his legs back just so he could kick me with them.

The doors parted, and the smell of a hundred dishes twirled together into one delicious stream hit my nose. A banquet flush with flowers toppling over vases as centerpieces and tall candles wavering in the air conditioning slapped my eyes.

People were gathered in small groups but when Grant rolled into the room, they all turned and started clapping. Beaming, proud faces with an undercurrent of fear of the terrible man glistened in the warm light. I stared down, hiding behind the siblings. Diamond shapes and messy scratches printed on the garish carpet greeted my eyes.

The Grant family stepped forward and I followed like a baby elephant holding the tale of its mother, taking in the table, the plastic chairs with brown velvet cushions, and the glass window that enveloped one whole wall of the large room. Below the window, metal glinted and the glass coffin hung suspended in the air. We were in some sort of amphitheater.

He was going to have a party and then make us all watch as he died.

Two guards grabbed my arms relatively gently and took me to a chair. The eyes of the guests trailed me across the room.

One guard leaned down and spoke to me slowly, like I was slow myself. “Now you stay put, Miss.”

I nodded briefly, distracted by the party and the guests. I recognized with shock that both Superior Sekimbo and Superior Poltinov were present. They looked older than their posters, but still. I shrank smaller into my chair as Sekimbo noticed and approached me, rolling over like a giant dark pudding. He held a plate of food in front of him like an offering.

“So you’re the girl?” he bellowed, his voice like smooth stones being rubbed against each other.

“I am a girl. I don’t know if I’m the girl,” I said, leaning away from his alcoholic breath.

He grabbed my cheeks and squeezed them. “So small, so thin,” he muttered, his large cheeks wobbling as he shook his head. “Here, take a cake.” He shoved a small cupcake at my face. I shook my head. I felt too sick to eat.

He placed his hand on top of my head, his broad, flat fingers squeezing as he tried to hold me still. I could feel the violence in his voice as he said, “Wyatt said you were… uncooperative.” He was going to shove that cake down my throat.

Grant’s stringy voice sailed over the crowd and Sekimbo released me, the cake tumbling to the floor. He leered and swayed from drunke

“I’d like to thank you for coming to this meeting and this celebration.” People clapped. “We’ll discuss business first. I know you are concerned about recent developments in the towns. It is true we are struggling to keep control of Radiata and Birchton. We have lost Palma. Helicopters have been unable to approach, and a significant portion of our army has defected. The citizens of Palma have weapons and are firing.”

The crowd murmured, and Grant’s face showed slight frustration.

“Please, please…” he started, pumping his hands. “We are still in control of the majority, and I have complete faith that we will regain it in the towns that are rebelling. All is not lost. We know the terrorists have recruited some of our residents. But,” he put his finger to the air, “we have our own operative and have just received word of the terrorists’ next target.” I leaned forward.

His eyes found me and bored into my head like black drills. “Isn’t it wonderful when everything just clicks into place?” he said, ignoring the confused faces of the other guests. “Like it was simply meant to be.” He swept his arm in an arc and looked to the ceiling. “Written in the stars.”

Sekimbo laughed heartily, holding his belly and slurring, “Get on with it, Wyatt. I have women waiting for me at home.”

Grant’s eyes snapped to him in irritation. “As we know, the terrorists have been projecting a video showing a very one-sided view of what we are trying to achieve here. It has upset the community u

“Tell them, Daddy,” Judith encouraged.

“I suggest we make our own video,” he said, weird mischief in his tone.

Everyone was still very quiet, hanging on his every word, and he loved it. He clicked his fingers and someone brought a large roll of thick, blue paper to the front, laying it down on an empty table to Grant’s right.

The guests moved in like moths to a flame and Grant hungrily absorbed their attention, grabbing at their silken wings and shoving them in his pockets. “I had already selected Pau Brazil as the site for personal reasons.” My hands dug into the underneath of my chair. It felt gummy and strange. “But now that our operative, Olga, has told us Pau Brazil is the rebels’ next target, it seems like the perfect opportunity to strike. We can show the terrorists what we’re capable of and issue the most severe of warnings to the other towns before the terrorists have a chance to reach them.”

Olga? No, no, no. That can’t be true.

“No,” I whispered, feeling everything I knew being shaken and poured down the drain.

Poltinov spoke, his aged voice slipping over his words. “Er, how do you propose we, er, strike? Cough, cough, ahem. We don’t have their kinds of weapons.” Then he muttered, “There never, er, seemed a need, cough, to develop them.”

“And Wyatt let the one man go who could have whipped us up a few bombs and high tech guns,” Sekimbo shouted.

Grant’s stare was the sharp end of a knife when he looked at Sekimbo, who in turn, was unflappable.

“Come,” Grant said, beckoning with his finger, which then flew in semicircle and landed on the large drawing. “These are the original drawings President Grant commissioned before Signing Day. See here…” I couldn’t see what he was pointing at. “We haven’t had to use this before, but I think now is the time.”