Burned Away

 

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About the Author

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Caris kept close to the dirty brick building, out of the yellow rings of streetlight coming from above. The story, brewing in her head for the last few days, began to take shape.
Night, and the crumbling streets of Metaltown are still with anticipation.
She committed the line to memory so she could jot it down later in her notebook, now tucked safely in the satchel hanging over her shoulder.

Her worn boots creaked over the frosted sidewalk, and her mittened fingers gripped the strap of her bag even tighter as she picked up the pace. A week ago she'd overheard some of the boys from McNulty's crew talking outside of the Cat's Tale.
Metalheads in one of the factories over the beltway are tired of being pushed around
, they'd said.
They're making some sort of stand.
Rumors of fighting had come to Bakerstown. Not the usual violence the factory district was known for, but some kind of pushback against their boss. She'd known right then that this was what she'd been waiting for. The story that snobby editor at the
Journal
needed to take her seriously. He thought she wasn't reporter material, just because she was sixteen? That she couldn't land a
real
story? They'd just see about that. Hampton Industries owned half the Tri-City—the logos were printed everywhere from her schoolbooks to the outside of the hospital where she'd gotten stitches last spring. If Josef Hampton's workers were standing against him, something big was going on.

The memories of that first day in Metaltown were enough to make her heart pound. The young workers of Division II, blocking the entrance of the factory. Shouting back at the Brotherhood thugs who attempted to pull them away.
Press
, they'd chanted. They were refusing to work until the boss came to talk to them.

That was the first time she'd seen him. The boy with the cockeyed smile.

He'd stuck out in the crowd—grinning when everyone else was shouting. Smiling when the tension had broken into fights. A group of workers had walked together to one of the restaurants to meet their boss, and while they all looked worried, he'd stood tall, a head above most of them anyway on account of his height, a crooked smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. It was like he wasn't afraid of anything.

She'd stuck around as long as she could, hoping for another chance to see the curious boy, but had had to leave before the end of that meeting in order to make it back before her Aunt Charlotte got home from the hospital and realized Caris hadn't gone to school.

She walked faster, thinking of the press, and of Hampton, and of the tall boy with that crazy smile. It was getting dark earlier, but it wasn't too late. If any of the workers from the press were still around, she might be able to get an interview. An inside look would be impossible for the
Journal
to turn down.

Even in the haze, the factories stuck out: giant fortresses, each the width of a city block, each bathed in harsh yellow streetlights. The number of each division carved into the tarnished stone over the entryway. Only once she'd reached Division II did the nerves that had been creeping over her skin sink beneath the surface. Everything about this place screamed danger, but danger was part of the job. To get the good stories, you needed to take risks. That's what her mom had told her.

Caris's chest grew tight, and as she buried her chin into her scarf she glanced from side to side, looking for bums, or murderers, or worst of all, the men who ran these streets as McNulty ran hers at home: the Brotherhood.

Where
was
everybody? Just two days ago half of Metaltown had gathered here to watch the press, but now the streets were empty.

Creeping closer to the building, she snuck down a narrow alley filled with trash until she came to an indented double doorway, marked by the words
Employees Only.
Her heart sank. She'd heard the workers sometimes worked late, but the door, which appeared broken at the lock, was already chained shut. Everyone had gone home.

Refusing to let the trip be a waste, she opened her satchel and removed her notepad, flipping back the leather cover and a dozen pages of random notes from her first visit here. On the first blank page, she recorded the time and place with a charcoal pencil she'd lined with bite marks. By the time she'd finished her observations of the building itself, she'd sagged against the brick behind her. Her thick coat provided a buffer, but the cold still leached through.

If she left now, Aunt Charlotte probably wouldn't have noticed she'd been gone. She'd save herself the interrogation and wouldn't have to listen to all the reasons why this trip had been a stupid idea.

“Hey. What you doing over there?”

Caris jumped at the voice coming from the street, holding up her notepad to block the light. A man, bundled in a thick coat and knit hat, turned into the alley. Her eyes drew to his hand, where he pointed what looked like a metal stick her direction.

Her spine zipped straight. Every bit of fear in her body balled in the pit of her stomach.

This was not the interview she'd been hoping for.

Without another thought, she lowered her head, turned, and walked quickly the other way.

“Stop before I make you stop,” he called.

Taking that as a cue to run, she sprinted between the rust-stained stone walls, heart pounding in her ears, bag slapping against her side. She glanced over her shoulder, finding not just one man chasing her, but two. Their faces were hidden by shadows, but the weapons in their hands were easy enough to spot.

With a wince, she spun back, slipping on the frosty ground. Her body spilled forward, heels of her hands striking the concrete first. The bones felt like they'd shattered straight up to her wrists. Her pants ripped at the knees. Swinging forward, her bag smacked against the side of her face. She tried to scramble on, but before she could was hauled to a stand and slammed against the alley wall.

“Wait,” she said before the sneering mouth before her could speak. Her breath clouded in front of her face. “Is this Division Two? It is, right? I'm a little lost. See, I'm supposed to start work here tomorrow, and I just wanted to make sure I'm in the right…”

“Shut up,” said the man gripping her shoulders. He shoved her against the wall again, but her coat absorbed most of the blow. He couldn't have been more than a few years her senior but was several inches shorter and had a fresh cut on his upper lip that he dabbed at with his tongue. He lifted his chin and met her gaze.

“Shouldn't have strayed from the pack, little girl,” he said. “They send you out here on purpose? You spying for your little charter?”

She recognized the word. The Brotherhood was supposed to be a charter—the factory employees who made sure the workers were being treated fairly—but as far as anyone was concerned they were a gang, just like McNulty's crew. The workers who'd been pressing, they'd claimed to be a charter too. She wasn't sure which side these men fell on, but clearly they didn't like the other side.

“How can I be a spy? There's no one here to spy on but you two.” Her voice shook with nerves and a disappointment that was impossible to hide.

“Maybe she's a thief,” said the second man. “Maybe she was trying to break back in.” He ran his knuckles along the side of his jaw. They glowed yellow from the pale streetlight behind them, and her gut tensed at the thought of how much a punch from him would hurt.

“With my fingernails? I don't think so. You'd need some bolt cutters at least to get through that chain…” They were staring, and it occurred to her that telling them she was unarmed was probably not the best idea.

“Well,” she said. “This was fun. Now that I've found where I need to go, I'll just be heading home.”

She shifted to the side, eyes darting to the notebook, still on the ground to her left. The man with the cut lip followed her gaze, bending to retrieve the book before she could. As soon as he touched it, her cheeks turned hot, and her hands balled into fists.

“That's mine,” she said.

He grinned at her, the cut in his lip cracking open. He pressed the back of his gloved hand to it.

“What's this? A diary?”

He tossed it to his friend with the brass knuckles. Automatically, her hand rose to intercept, but she missed.

“Where'd a metalhead learn to write so nice?” he asked, turning it on its side, as if she'd written sideways. “These love letters to your boyfriend?”

“They're none of your business,” she said.

How many times had she told her aunt the same thing when she'd caught her snooping through that notebook?
This kind of stuff's going to get you in trouble
, Aunt Charlotte would say. Caris hated that she was right.

Brass Knuckles turned the book the right way and glared at the page before him. “What are you writing about Small Parts for?”

“Small Parts?”

“The factory,” said Cut Lip. “Don't play stupid, sweetheart.”

“Don't call me sweetheart,” she snapped, then took a deep breath. Her mother's words whispered in her ears:
the truth is stronger than the fist.

“If you have to know, I'm writing a story for the
Journal
.”

“What journal?” he shot back. No wonder people in Bakerstown always laughed at metalheads. If they all were like these two it was a wonder the whole district hadn't caved in on itself by now.

The two men looked at each other, then back to her.

“The
news
,” she said, exasperated. “They've sent me to report on what's happening at the factory.” It was close enough to the truth anyway.

“There's nothing happening,” said Cut Lip, staring evenly at her. “As you can see.”