Filtered (6 page)

I look back at the stage. Monitors are dragging Victoriana away. Her cries are shrill and full of sorrow. A small black bag is brought up and Cinnamon’s remains are unceremoniously dropped inside. The Authoritarian retakes his place behind the microphone.

“That concludes your lessons for today. Fall out to your respective classrooms where you will spend the remainder of the day sitting in silence to contemplate what you have just seen.”

Wordlessly, the traumatized twelfth-year students comply. I stand still while they move all around me. Their bodies tremble and I hear their soft whimpers as they pass by. The Authoritarian thinks he’s won. He thinks he’s stomped out the fire of inquiry from his senior students, but he’s mistaken. The fire he sought to quench within me has grown stronger. I owe it to everyone to find the truth. I owe it to Victoriana, Delia, Mother, Father, and myself. I won’t find the truth today but I now have somewhere to start, and I won’t stop until I’ve found it. Shaken but undeterred, I follow the other students back across the black field and enter the school.

Chapter Ten

The classroom is silent and peaceful. The first hour of sitting here after the Authoritarian’s demonstration was filled with the creaking noises of fidgeting students and their soft whimpering. But now a mass numbness has fallen over the class and they sit staring at their desks. Speer sits watching us over the top of his dog-eared copy of
Drumbeat
.

His eyes are obscured, but I’m sure they are twinkling with some kind of sick pleasure. Now that I’ve seen the state Victoriana is in, I’m certain Speer helped her get that way. What else would explain the way he was disheveled yesterday? One day he’ll get what’s coming to him along with the Authoritarian and Inspector Aldridge. How can they claim to be doing what is right and just when innocent blood stains their hands? The stillness they have dished out as punishment has given me the time I need to process the past few days. It seems every obstacle they place in my path to discourage me from finding the truth serves to boost me up to another level of dedication and commitment. In this stillness I need to choose my path, and choose it carefully. I’ve been lucky so far, but I’d be a fool to think that my luck will last forever. Tackling the repression and fear throughout society is out of my grasp. How does anyone, let alone a seventeen-year-old, challenge the institution without falling victim to it? I’ll have to put that on the back burner and cross that bridge when I come to it. Hopefully I know what to do when that day comes.

The obvious place to start is my mask. Why is there no
real
explanation as to why we wear them? And why is that answer guarded so viciously? There is more than meets the eye here, that much is clear, but where to begin? Should I simply remove my mask and see what happens? The image of Cinnamon convulsing in the throes of an agonizing death tempers my enthusiasm for that course of action in an instant. I wonder if Delia died in that alley, face-down and covered in ash? I could have run right past her. I feel trapped. It seems whatever course of action I take will lead me right back to the fear of capture or death. It’s as if I’m already in prison and the mask is my prison cell. I want to be free of it, but the un-caged world is full of too many mysteries, too many dangers.

It hits me. I feel ashamed not to have seen it sooner. I’m approaching this problem like a free person. A person with options, allies, places to run. If I approach it this way I’ll never succeed. The way to get out of here is to think like a prisoner. Does an inmate ask the guard for the keys? Does he try and stroll out the front door? No. He burrows his way out. Piece by piece he moves the earth and stone that inters him. He does it alone, and he sticks to the plan. It takes diligence, patience, and a good deal of luck, but in the end he’s able to tunnel out and no one’s the wiser. I must embrace my status as a prisoner of society confined to the cell of this mask. So where to begin?

A filter a day keeps death at bay
. Are these the words of a concerned friend or a guard scaring you with the consequences of escape? I must think of the billboards that stare back at me through my penthouse windows as my prison guards. I look out at them and their words put the fear of escape into me. But do guards tell you the truth or do they say what they must to keep you in your cage? There is only one way to find out. Mother has bought into the guard’s lies. Every day she obediently does what they ask of her. She changes her own filter and then watches me change my own. I have to put an end to this ritual. Tomorrow, I’ll begin a test dig. I’ll prod the edges of the illusion and see what’s true. When she hands me a new filter I’ll screw it into my mask without complaint or hesitation, but when she’s gone back to the confines of her room I’ll pull my old filter out of the trash and put the new one back there in its place. When I’m here at school and she comes into my room she’ll still see a single filter in the trash can.

It’s a good plan, it doesn’t leave her any evidence to pique her curiosity and start snooping around. It also allows me a way to sample the
poisons
of the outside air in a diluted and controlled manner. If one day I feel the telltale signs of burning or irritation I can return to a new filter the next day and lay my suspicions to rest. I need to be careful though. I can’t raise any suspicions. I have to keep this completely to myself. I can’t step out of line or get into an altercation with anyone lest I ruin all my work and I have to start my figurative tunnel all over again.

I feel my lips turn up in a smile. One day I’ll be out of here and they’ll all be left scratching their heads as to where I went. Content on the solidity of my plan I close my eyes and drift off into a day dream of tunneling out of some ancient stone prison. Dwelling there until the end-of-day bell tolls, I feel a tiny bit of the weight that has been pressing on my chest pull away.

The bus ride home from school is uneventful. Some of the students in my class talk a little on the bus. It’s too hard to pick up every word they are saying but it’s clear they are terrified and have no intention of ever taking their masks off. Earlier I would have felt uncomfortable by their willingness to comply and give up on finding the truth but I have to admit the Authoritarian’s demonstration was pretty powerful. If I hadn’t known the truth about Victoriana or seen the silver truck Delia warned me about, I think I would have given up too. Fear is powerful and capable of forcing doubts into someone’s most fervent beliefs. If I were angry or disgusted at them I would be denying the realities they live with. I wouldn’t be any better than the Authoritarian who is surely feeling smug and superior to us all after what he just did.

Stepping through the airlock, I enter the lobby. I take this moment to pull off my mask and breathe in the clean and refreshing air of the building. Though still filtered, it doesn’t have the day’s carbon taste or hot uncomfortable feel on my skin, and the faint smell of lemon makes me feel at home.

I listen to the whirring of the gears and pulleys during the elevator ride. It’s such a soft a peaceful noise that it is completely lost when I’m wearing the mask. Because of that, it’s a secret, beautiful song playing just for me.

I step out of the elevator and start the walk down the long hallway and toward home. Each step builds a feeling of tension. Looking at the door I see
1745
engraved in a silver plaque. My reflection stares back at me in the shining surface. Looking at myself in the small reflection I steel my courage and with a quick motion place the mask back over my face.

The door handle turns smoothly. The lights are all off and the house is still. The hunger I’ve been keeping with me for a few days now hits me. I walk to the refrigerator. The fridge has been cleaned and emptied of the petri dishes masquerading as leftovers that were there this morning. Filling the shelves now is row upon row of instant prepackaged
meals for one
. If this is a sign of things to come then I think it’s safe to assume family dinners, and hot and ready breakfast, are out of the picture for the foreseeable future. I take the little box off the top, rip open the package, and throw it into the microwave without looking at the cover. Knowing what the meal is supposed to taste like only leads to bite after bite of disappointment.

Grabbing a fork from the drawer I lean against the counter. Watching the food spin while I wait is soothingly hypnotic. The microwave beeps loudly, disturbing the stillness of the house. It’s hot, but not too hot to eat. I toss the food on the table in the kitchen. Taking my ash-stained trench coat off, I hang it on the hook just inside the front door then go back to the table. The food lies on the table, steaming. I lift my mask up just enough to eat. Grabbing my fork, I start cutting into the hunk of mystery meat with the texture of gelatin surrounded by viscous, overly salty, brown gravy.

I force down four bites before the taste and texture become too much to stomach. I toss the remainder away, then rinse my fork. I pull the mask back down over my mouth. Walking quietly so as not to disturb the stillness, I approach the living room windows. I see the blue-white flicker of the television under Mother’s door. There is nothing I can do about it now. Maybe once I discover the truth I can show it to her and free her. But that’s a long way away. In my regular spot, I focus in on the cheery dolled up housewife.
Remember, a fresh filter everyday keeps death at bay!

“We’ll see about that.” I whisper aloud.

Feeling my business at the window is finished for the day, I decide to retire early. Tomorrow is a big day and its excitement is going to keep me wired. A quick shower then I’ll go lie on the bed. I probably won’t sleep but I have to try. Tomorrow the tunneling starts and there is no going back.

Chapter Eleven

Hours of lucid dreaming leave me disoriented for a few minutes after I wake. I dreamt of the Authoritarian’s cruel display in horrible detail over and over again. I was forced to watch from Victoriana’s perspective each time the glass box was lifted and the poison gas killed her beloved cat. It was terrible and seemingly without end.

Shaking the dream from my head, I sit up on the edge of the bed. The dream is gone but I can’t stop wondering where Victoriana is now. I hope they’ve let her go home. I hope her parents keep her home from school.

The light of the clock grabs my attention away from my thoughts. Seven thirty-two. I don’t normally wake up early, but then again I don’t normally dream of being trapped in an infinite loop where I’m forced to watch my worst mistake over and over. I still have thirteen minutes to wait before Mother enters the room, shuffling and wheezing with her distorted breath. I need to refocus. I can’t let my past failures interfere with my plan. I will make it up to Victoriana one day but that day requires that I get through this one. I breathe in heavily. The taste of charcoal is overwhelming and helps refocus my attention on the task at hand. Closing my eyes, I sit and wait while my palms grow sweaty. My leg bounces of its own volition.

The digital numbers on the clock shine seven forty-five. Predictably Mother’s approaching shuffles become audible. A nervous sigh falls from my lips. I wish I could tell her. I wish she were someone I could trust. She turns the handle and opens the door. One look at her and I know she can’t be any of the things I wish her to be. Her frame is already withering, no doubt from malnourishment and confinement. She shuffles over, her hand quivering ever so slightly as she extends the new filter toward me. Taking it from her, I replace it swiftly. The old one plunks loudly into the bottom of the can. Satisfied, she turns and begins her shuffle to the exit. Her rasping, distorted breaths grow softer until they finally disappear behind her bedroom door. The blue-white flicker begins almost immediately.

Standing calmly, I wipe my sweaty hands on my bath towel hanging next to the door. It’s such a simple thing. Pull the old filter from the can and place it back on my mask. But the weight of its importance makes the simple task feel impossible. I let out another anxious sigh.

“Here it goes.”

Slow and quiet, I close my bedroom door. Walking on tip-toes, I move back to the can. Plucking it from the can, I become keenly aware of its weight. Before I can hesitate or second guess myself I twist off the new filter and toss it on the bed. Clicking the old filter into place a wave of accomplishment washes over me. Picking the new filter up one last time I lower it slowly into the metal trash can to avoid any unusual sounds. This was the first and most important step in my plan, and now it’s done. This most definitely will not be the most difficult part of my journey, but the success or failure of my plan depends on this first step. I’ve dug out the first rock from my tunnel so to speak, and I’m ecstatic. Piece-by-piece, day-by-day, I’ll unveil one element of this charade. With purpose, I move to start my day.

Making each day its own little victory, my spirits remain high. Surprisingly quickly I fall into the routine. Mother shuffles into my room each morning looking more withered and sullen than the day before. Once she’s returned herself to the binding vortex of her television, I close my bedroom door and exchange my filter with her new one. Slowly lowering each new filter into the trashcan builds my confidence and extends my imaginary tunnel.

Father has taken permanent residence on the couch. For a week or so after he was exiled to the living room, he would fold his blanket and stack his pillow neatly, but now he leaves them as he left them. He’s working later and later, most likely to avoid having to interact with Mother, but as a consequence I hardly see him anymore. Only rarely do I stay awake late enough to see him stumble through the door, take a
meal for one
from the refrigerator then plop himself in front of the television. He has taken to falling asleep with it on so the light of the television shines under my door now as another reminder that everything in the family is not all right.

I have also won a small victory over Mother. She can’t dispute me having my mask off in the kitchen when I eat a few bites of a
meal for one
before I give up on it then head out the door. And as soon as the front door closes behind me I pull off my mask and relish in the few minutes of my day without its restricting presence. Once I’m through the lobby, the airlock and onto the bus I mold myself into a perfect student. I sit quietly, sit or stand, walk, or wait. All as I’m supposed to.

Victoriana still hasn’t returned to school, and the looming presence of extra monitors drives that point home with every step I take within Neptus Memorial’s halls. The two weeks came and went for the air filtrations systems to be upgraded yet still we wear our masks inside and watch the endless volumes of Caretaker films. Each day in class I sit and nod diligently to Speer’s endless ramblings about the importance of what we are about to see and how we should take these lessons to heart.

At lunch I sit alone, eat quickly, and never speak. I haven’t done a single thing for even a single moment to give Instructor Speer, or the swarms of watchful monitors, reason to suspect me of anything.

When the end-of-day bell tolls I return on the bus. Once inside the apartment complex lobby, I’ve taken to lingering for a moment to absorb the unrestricted feeling of breathing without a mask. I never stop or loiter long, but I walk slowly enough to drink in the freedom for as long as possible.

Walking down the hallway I prepare myself to reenter the farce. I put on my mask, then step inside the apartment. Normally Mother is locked in her room. Whatever mystical power the television has over her keeps her enthralled, but occasionally she’s released from her cell to do a few aimless laps around the
yard.
I keep my mask on prepared for those rare moments she emerges.

After I eat a few more bites of the processed slop in a box, I spend a few hours looking through the window at the city below. Watching the swirling clouds of ash and the hectic push and shove of the people on the street from the calmness and objectivity of my vantage gives me infinite fuel for thought and contemplation.

The routine normally ends after sundown. Alone in my room I read. I read whatever I can get my hands on but mostly it’s the drivel they put out in the
Drumbeat
or
Caretaker’s Quarterly
. They don’t provide me with stimulation to create new thought, but they do give me a sense of the depth and complexity of the grand illusion the Great Society weaves. Falling asleep, I dream of Victoriana, I dream of escape, I dream of a better tomorrow. Day after day I breathe through the same old filter and day after day I make it through. I haven’t experienced a single symptom like the ones I observed in Cinnamon. Soon my tunnel will be complete and I’ll be a fugitive on the run looking for the one thing that can clear my name, the truth.