Last Light Falling (4 page)

Social security no longer exists. The money that was invested was needed for the loss of bank funds during the economic collapse. High-debt credit cards were pardoned by the government in an attempt to help save the economy. After the economy dipped too low for the country to maintain its value, other nations surprisingly aided us, but for a heavy price. That was when our country turned from its own principles we worked so hard for, changing our ideology forever.

Other nations strongly suggested that we were better off working in unity than divided if we were to preserve the world’s economy. We were one of the few nations left to commit to the credit-point system.

The middle class is all but gone, and America has dwindled down to class wars. The social order has labeled our worth into four categories: politically rich, wealthy, poor, or a Watcher.

The politically rich are those who either contribute to or work for the federal government. They are treated very well for their compensations. Wealthy exists as it always has—those who inherited riches. And then there’s us—the poor, a term I should be used to, but despite the negative connotations it has had in the past, it’s not even on the same
level as the poverty-stricken towns that exist today. These are filled with “Watchers,” a derogatory term for someone who takes up space, contributing nothing for the better of the nation, only to sit and watch as onlookers pass by.

“Watchers” is an expression we have unfortunately infused in the vernacular today. Some people still refer to them as “homeless,” as was the term in the past. Those are the people I have more compassion for. Most are unable to work or can’t even function among the public because of mental, physical, or emotional illness and depression. The government holds no loyalty or concern for those who don’t contribute to their gluttonous ways.

Just like Gabe, I have a heart for these people. I ask myself every day how any person has the right to judge someone before they even know them, but more than that, my brother will always remind me that we shouldn’t judge anyone at all.

During the early years of the newly founded government, many Watchers were killed for just existing. This was the government’s way of intimidating people into thinking that if they worked hard, they would reap the rewards, and if they failed to contribute to society, they would be exterminated. It was also a message to those who questioned the philosophies of the nation’s new direction. America is no longer a great nation—it has become a mockery governed by spineless, godless, self-absorbed creatures.

Poor or not, I’m proud of the name that was given to us and the heritage it derives from. I just lie quietly on the bed and soak up the silence for a minute. It’s so quiet and peaceful right now, I can hear the second hand clicking on the clock hanging above me, and every few seconds a robin perched outside by my window sings a tune. The silence almost immediately evaporates as my brother’s clogging feet rumble up the stairs. I never have to worry about Gabe trying to sneak up on me. I can hear his heavy shuffling a hundred feet away.

There is a surprising knock at my door, yet I know it can’t be Gabe because manners isn’t necessarily a quality trait he subscribes to. “Come in,” I say softly.

“Hey, Scrapes,” Niki says with a smile.

Scrapes was a nickname my father gave me when I was a kid. Judging by the name, apparently I skinned my knees quite often. I had no fear of getting cut, bruised, or scraped. It was one of the first things I ever shared with Niki. I was shy when we were taken in, and it was her presence and gentleness that bonded us. I knew whenever she called me by that name she had something important to share with me.

“I have something I want to give you,” she says. She walks over to the bed and sits next to me just like my mother did when she comforted me after I had a bad day at school.

“Here, I want you to have this,” Niki says. “It’s a friendship bracelet my sister, Grace, wore. I have one just like it. We got these a year before she died, and it was our special way of knowing we had each other’s back.”

Speechless, I hesitate a little from accepting the gift because of what it means to Niki.

“Thank you, I shall never take this off my wrist,” I say as a tear tries to escape from my eye.

“I know we are not biological sisters, but it doesn’t matter to me. You’re my little sister no matter what, and I will always love you.”

I know how much Grace meant to her. I know deep inside she somehow blames herself for letting Grace go alone to the shelter that day. The tear that was hanging on for dear life scurries down my cheek. I hug Niki and don’t want to let go. I want to feel like this for eternity.

“Hey, you’re fifteen now. I’m not going to let you go to your first day of high school without something new to wear,” says Niki joyfully. She pulls out a colored sack from behind her back, and I excitedly look through its contents. It’s a brand-new black skirt and shirt lined with tiny diamond sequins, and a pair of black boots with laces and buckles. These boots were made for me. They look like something I would hunt in, and yet they have a girlish appeal. This must have set her points back a little, because the boots alone must have cost her 100 credits.

“I have to go to work now, but I will be back tonight,” Niki says.

“I don’t know what to say … you have done so much for me. Thank you, sister.” As I hug her once more before she leaves, I know right then that God placed Gabe and me here with this family for a reason.

“Arena,” says Daniel, coming up the stairs, “we are leaving for the library in about ten minutes; I’ll go tell your brother. Oh, and, uh, I almost forgot, this came in the mail for you yesterday.”

He hands me a padded envelope addressed to me, but with no return address. I’m a little apprehensive about opening mail that doesn’t have a return address. I’ve read too many horror stories about letters being sent out to random people and exploding upon opening. I’m too paranoid to open it, but the curiosity is killing me. I let it sit there on my bed for a minute, still hesitant to look inside, while I put on my shoes and wait for Daniel to leave the room.

“Well, I’m not going to know if I don’t open it,” I say to myself. I look inside the envelope and find a letter that has been folded twice. It’s covered in some sort of thin black material that shimmers. It’s anx-lead mesh, a material that was created to shield plant workers from radiation in the nuclear factories in Russia. Finnegan told Gabe and I about the discovery of anx-lead in the Russian mines. I remember because he wore a jacket lined with it when he first came back from Iraq, and I kept inquiring about the material, annoying him to the point that he had no choice but to tell us what it was.

It feels so smooth, but why is it wrapped around this letter? And better yet, why is it in an envelope marked to me with no return address? There’s something hard in the folded letter, an impression of what feels like a key. As I unfold the letter, a silver key drops out, and the blood rushes out of my body as if someone is draining my soul. I sit there on the bed stunned, as if every muscle in my body has contracted all at once.

Three words are written on the letter:
I’m still alive.

I stare at the letter, wondering where it came from and who sent it to me. Maybe I’m a bit delusional from the mass exodus of blood from my head, but could this have come from Finnegan? Whoever sent this wanted to make sure the key was masked with the anx-lead mesh. This is possibly the only way the key could be virtually undetected by the x-ray machines during the mailing inspections. The government has reduced the amount of material that can be shipped or mailed due to heavy speculation of possible terrorist activity. Anything slightly unusual and it’s normally destroyed and traced back for some outrageous interrogation.

There’s a cluster of numbers at the bottom of the paper separated by peculiar dashes. Puzzled, I try to convince myself that this letter was mistakenly sent to me, but how conceivable is it for parcel service to switch mailing labels? And if they did, whose package do I have and where is the package I was supposed to receive? The shock has worn off a little, and I’ve acknowledged the fact that there is no mistake. This was purposefully sent to me, but why?

I hear the rumbling of feet again, and Gabe comes rushing through my door. “Are you ready to go or what?” he says.

As I turn to him, I nonchalantly hide the letter underneath my thigh, hoping he won’t notice.

“What did you get in the mail, a birthday package?” he inquires. I respond only with a confused look on my face. “The opened envelope is on the floor, and the letter is sticking out of your shorts.”

I love my brother to death, but he can be a meddling little bugger. But, I got to hand it to him, he has a keen eye even compared to the most observant of people. He’s beyond observant; in fact, his intuitive nature has given him a strength I wish I had. He can sense when something bad is going to happen. Though sometimes eerie, his gift has benefited us more often than not.

I remember the first time he saved my life. Two years ago, we were walking home from school and decided to take a shortcut through the back street of Devine’s Rock and Fence Company. Gabe’s instinctive
senses stopped us in our tracks, turned us in a different direction, altering our course and saving us from being crushed. Five seconds later, an overloaded forklift lost its balance and dropped two tons of limestone where we would have been walking. He hasn’t been able to explain how he sees things before they happen. And it’s never at a time you want it to happen, but at a time that is unexpected, yet purposefully necessary.

“Can you please keep this between you and me? I don’t want Myra or Daniel to know about this. I don’t know what to make of it, and I’m a little freaked out,” I say quietly, wrinkling my brow.

Gabe studies the letter intently and without hesitation, he immediately notices the groups of numbers. “These numbers are coordinates. The first set of numbers is most likely latitude, and the second set of numbers is longitude,” he says without doubt. “But I have no idea who is supposed to still be alive and why.”

“You don’t suppose this is from Finnegan, do you?

“Finnegan? Even if he is alive, why would he send you this. Besides, it’s not like Finnegan to be so cryptic.”

“Who else could it be?”

“I don’t know, but it’s obvious they want you to find out.”

“What do you suppose these coordinates have to do with this key? Do you think the key could open up whatever is at those coordinates?” I inquisitively say.

“Possibly, I say we check it out,” says Gabe anxiously.

“Whoa, wait a minute.” I sit up. “We’re still speculating it’s someone we know. What if it’s just bait from some child molester? I’m curious about what this key may open, but I’m still a little uneasy about the situation,” I retort.

“Arena! Gabriel! It’s time to go!” shouts Daniel from downstairs.

“Take the letter with you, and we’ll figure out the coordinates at the library,” says Gabe.

I grab the letter, fold it back up with the key inside, and stick it in my pocket. I quickly run downstairs and out the door, but before I can get into the car, my feet stop in their tracks. The corner of my eye is suddenly occupied by a shadow standing beside a tree.

A man dressed in a long, black robe is staring in my direction. For just a slight moment, I hesitate to get in the car. It’s a priest, but he notices I’m fixed on him now, so he walks away.

“Arena, get in,” says Daniel.

Almost hypnotized by what I see, I quickly come to and get in the car. A priest walking in our neighborhood, staking out our house, is
odd, but there’s something very familiar about that man. I’m having a case of déjà vu.

“What’s up with you? You still freaked out about the letter?” whispers Gabe.

“You didn’t see that priest by the tree staring at us?”

“No, what priest?”

Okay, now I’m more than a little freaked out, because the most observant person I know didn’t even notice the random priest standing near the bushes. Did I imagine it? I can only think about one thing right now, and that’s trying to figure out what the hell this letter means.

Gabe and I are always at the library every Saturday. Every chance we have, that is where we want to be. Since there really is no place around here in the city to hunt, nor is there any need to, reading has become the next best thing in my life. I made a pact with Myra and Daniel; as long as I maintain good grades, I can train with Henry as much as I want. And the library is just the place to exercise my brain.

Carrington, a small northeast Texas city, looks old and depressing, but it’s vibrant during the daytime. At night, though, it becomes a ghost town due to the government’s nationwide curfew—another one of the major changes this country has had to suffer through. Everyone plans their time carefully, choosing to do most of their shopping during mid-morning. Federal officers are spread out like ants, monitoring civilians’ behaviors. If you are caught in public past the 9:00 curfew, you are subject to a minor violation if it’s your first offense, but you will be arrested and sentenced to farm labor if it’s your second.