Noology (7 page)

I begin packing provisions for my getaway
in the torn duffle from under my bed with alternating grey and fuchsia stripes.
I should fold my clothes, but settle for throwing them in a haphazard pile. A
persistent scratching on my door arrests my progress, forcing me to attend to
the unannounced visitor. Tate leans against the splintered doorframe, an
animated smirk plastered on his face.

“Hello, beautiful,” he drawls. “Got room
for me in that suitcase?”

“Unfortunately, no. They don’t make bags
big enough to fit that ego. Sorry,” I shrug. He feigns offense, placing an
overdramatic hand over his heart in mock astonishment.

“Are you heading home for break?” he
prods.

“Yeah, I am staying with my parents and
Rian is visiting. Are you going to come with?”

Tate spends most holidays with my family,
and none with his own. His family is highly dysfunctional, and not in a quirky
but endearing way. Tate’s father was once the brightest prodigy in his high
school class and when he enrolled in college, he was practically guaranteed to
be an Ascender. The SMART’s were a mere technicality to be complied with. The
summer before his third year, he suffered a horrific accident when the
ramshackle roof of his dorm room collapsed and buried him in the scattered
rubble. He was rescued from the debris and was fortunate to be alive, but his
body was compromised in the process. Tate’s father was forced to undergo
physical therapy to repair the damaged musculature in his limbs, and doctors
operated on his spine to reconstruct four fractured vertebrae.

He began taking vicodin to cope with the
excruciating pain as his body struggled to rewire itself. Eventually, his weak
body was able to withstand mild exercise and function in an almost normal
manner. He would never be a marathon runner, but his rehabilitation was
successful enough that he could reenter university and complete his final
years. Unfortunately, he had become addicted to vicodin over the course of his
struggles, and this crippling dependency retained him in its vice-like grip.
Tate’s father graduated as a tier two general practitioner and built a family
with Tate’s mother. Miraculously, he has held his respectable job despite his
severe addiction, perhaps because he takes his pent-up anger and frustration
out on his wife and only son (Tate’s mother vowed never to bring more
defenseless children into this hostile and dangerous situation). Deprived of
humanity because of the seductive drugs, Tate’s father stumbles around the house
breaking material possessions because of both sheer clumsiness and an explosive
temper. In this inebriated state, he screams descriptive expletives and
demoralizing profanities. Perhaps without the accident, things could have been
warm and familial in the Decker household, but as it stands Tate rarely speaks
more than a word to his estranged father.

“I can’t, Avelyn. I have to review for my
SMART’s. My hourglass is running low on sand, and each day more slips through
my fingers.”

“Tate, you haven’t missed a holiday with
my family in years! You have to come! My mother is already expecting you, and
is making the house up for company. My parents adore you! If you don’t come it
will break their hearts.”

“I only have two months left to study and
this is my future we are talking about. I really should stay on campus and take
advantage of the quiet.”

“I can’t go without you. Rian will have
Amy, and if you aren’t there, my parents will drive me up the walls with
questions about my classes. Please!” I am aware that I sound like a petulant
child right now, but if this charade convinces Tate, I don’t care. I flutter my
eyelashes flirtatiously and beam at him with a coy smile. “I’ll owe you a
favor.”

“Well, how can I turn down an opportunity
to get a little leverage in this relationship,” he finally concedes. “Okay,
I’ll stay with you. But I really do need to study at some point over the
holiday.”

I skip in elation and give Tate an
appreciative hug before spinning him around to face the open door. I pat him
firmly on the butt, saying, “Time to pack then. Off you go!”

As soon as he is out the door, I resume
my task of bundling supplies for the week, sorting through mountains of tops,
bottoms, shoes and unmentionables. After a half-hour, I am prepared for this
vacation and drift towards the kitchen to procure a few snacks for the journey.
I settle on a wrinkled peach, a handful of wilted lettuce leaves, and a couple
of course buns growing a slight film of sea-foam blue mold. As I retrace my
steps with this hoard, I see Tate shimmying towards me, paint-riddled messenger
bag in hand.

“I am all packed and ready to go,” he
boasts.

“Good, well I will see you tomorrow
morning then. I plan to leave just after dawn.”

 
“Okay. Sleep tight, and don’t let the bedbugs bite,” he
teases.

I monitor his loping gait as he continues
down the hall towards the vacant study. The SMART’s stress every student beyond
comprehension, and I hope he isn’t neglecting his bodily needs during this
ridiculously demanding period in his life. God! I sound like a concerned mother
doting over a restless infant!

All I know is he had better be awake
tomorrow morning in time to leave this hellhole for my cozy home. This time
tomorrow, we will be laughing with Rian and my parents around our glowing
fireplace as the crimson flames lap at the busted remnants of old wooden
furniture.

I immediately drift to sleep as soon as
my head hits the down pillow, and I don’t stir even a fraction of an inch until
dawn the next morning.

The resonant squawk of a lone rooster,
concealed somewhere in the valley below, reverberates through my aching bones,
and I steel myself for the long day ahead. After changing swiftly into my worn
windbreaker and muddy hiking boots, I soundlessly glide into the frigid
corridor and brace myself for the battle I must win to prize Tate from his
domicile. As I tiptoe towards his room, a voice behind me inquires, “Where are
you going?”

I nearly jump out of my skin, and twirl
to see Tate slumped against the mousy wallpaper.

“I really loathe you sometimes,” I growl.

“That’s no way to treat a guest!” he
scolds.

We saunter down the aisle and out through
the double doors, cringing as the sleepy sun assaults us with its penetrating
blaze.
 
   

“I spy with my little eye something
brown,” Tate unenthusiastically mutters.

“Is it that tree?”

“No.”

“Is it that electrical post,” I point
along the horizon.

“Nope.”

“Is it that tool shed?”

“Ding ding ding. We have a winner,” Tate
snidely drawls. “Do you want to pick something now?”

“After this enthralling game? I don’t
think I can handle it,” I sarcastically jibe. “Let’s just walk for a while.
Without the pressure of trying to constantly amuse ourselves.”

It is about a ten-mile walk from the
dormitory to the suburbs on the edge of the city. Since the collapse of the
ancient society, we have to rely on pedestrian modes of transportation because
the automobiles have crumbled into flakes of rust and twisted hunks of metal.
The city is compact enough that this remains an accomplishable feat; however,
we are no longer able to journey beyond the perimeter to other surviving
colonies because of the vast expanses of treacherous terrain separating us from
them.

The methodical rhythm of my footsteps lulls
me into a stupor, and soon I forget my surroundings, delving deeper into my
subconscious thoughts. I tread lightly across the springy forest floor littered
with pine needles, and take pleasure in the repetitive actions of my body.
Apparently my active mind wanders more easily than my companion’s, and soon
Tate begins delivering a diatribe on the ill conceived governmental plan to
continue backing doctoral occupations rather than lab technicians or even
mechanics and engineers.

“How can they continue to subject us to
the stress of trying to fit a mold that produces clones capable of replicating
the system, but ignores the fundamental importance of looking to the future.
Sure we need physicians and surgeons, but without skilled lab workers we will
never find a cure to cancer. Humanity has been searching for a cure for ages,
and despite years of intellectual study and advancement, we are no closer to
achieving that goal than we were in the 21
^st
century!” He throws his
hands heavenward in frustration. “I’ve just been thinking a lot while preparing
for my SMART’s. There are so many debilitating diseases that require attention,
and yet the prodigies of our time are wasting their brains on performing menial
medical treatments.

“And this business of ‘Treatment, not
prevention’ is absurd! If the government invested more resources and funding in
producing viable crops for consumption, our species would no longer be
continually plagued by malnutrition and parasitism. We could have robust
children with healthy immune systems rather than thin and pale specimens
spiraling towards an early grave. It’s not right.”

Tate is always very vocal about his
political opinions, but it is unsettling to see his normally crafty smile bound
up in a concerned pout. His eyes are turned downwards and a shadow of
depression passes over his tired face, distorting his features.

“I wish I could change things,” he
mournfully pines. I reach down and squeeze his palm firmly in my own. He
glances up at me, carefully measuring my features with his calculating hazel
eyes. I don’t trust myself to speak, so for a while we amble in complete
silence with only the shrill chirping of the birds to interrupt our serenity.

The radiant sun beams overhead, beating
down on our miniscule forms as we journey through the endless sea of conifers.
As we bask in its balmy glow, a howling gurgle escapes from my stomach before I
can suppress it.

Tate chuckles. “I guess we had better
feed that demon before it attacks.”

“Shut up. What did you bring?”

“Nothing. I figured my benevolent host
would provide an opulent feast fit for the two of us.”

“You have a lot of nerve. Making fun of
my stomach, then expecting me to actually provide for your own!”

“Well, if I wasn’t cocky, you wouldn’t
like me as much,” Tate replies with a slick grin.

“Wipe that smug smile off your face, you
dog. I ought to send you back to the pound with all the other mutts. Too bad I
already told mother you were coming, and she would kill me if I showed up
without you.” I sigh in concession.

We construct a makeshift table from the
surrounding scraps of wood and Tate wrangles up a bench for the two of us from
a fallen log. I rummage through my duffle, finally producing the meager rations
I secured from the kitchen last night. We dig in to the buns, picking off the
largest colonies of fuzzy mold and entrusting the rest to our sturdy immune
systems.
 

“I am excited to see Rian again,” Tate
professes through a mouthful of soggy wheat.

“Eww, Tate. Chew your food first please!
You don’t see me spitting dripping crumbs in your lap.”

He dramatically seals his lips and
proceeds to chew his cud with a thorough efficiency.

“Better?” he questions, opening his empty
mouth to placate me in my request.

“Much,” I reply with a derisive smirk.
Silly boys. Someone has to keep them in their place.

I lean back, savoring the satisfying
spray as my teeth puncture the peach’s imperfect skin. Beneath the midday sun,
I am empowered and I drink in its vibrant fire. Awakening from my reverie, I
offer Tate some of the sweet peach, golden nectar slipping across its rounded
shell. He declines, and I rip off another piece of its intoxicating flesh. In
this clearing surrounded by the sights and smells of nature, I am immersed in
my own private Eden and I surrender to the temptations of my forbidden fruit.
In this bountiful haven, I release all of my anxiety on the gusts of wind
tickling my neck, and allow happiness and contentment to swallow me whole.

We have been walking for hours, and are
only about half way to our destination. When we passed the university a little
while ago, a slight tremor rippled through my body as the eerie silence put me
on edge. The campus is always bustling with movement and the constant mental
activity of its constituents creates a palpable atmosphere of tension and
unrest. Today, however, the buildings are devoid of all humanity and the result
is a foreboding aura permeating the air.

I race to keep up with Tate as we follow
the compressed earthen path ringing the gleaming hospital and manufacturing
plant. It is hard not to contemplate the future when such an imposing monument
to the medical profession is accosting your vision with its powerful whirring
and piercing electric lights. What title will I be branded with at the end of
my schooling? Am I destined to live out my days as a highly specialized surgeon?
Or as a subservient nurse to a general practitioner?

I can tell Tate is plagued by the same
internal questioning. A somber reverence punctures his otherwise effervescent
persona as doubt and worry consume him. These injurious queries can poison the
mind and take root in the soul, especially this close to the SMART’s. In an
effort to halt the deadly flood of apprehension, I rekindle conversation and distract
him from these destructive thoughts.