Filtered (2 page)

The rest of the students have settled in and the monitors have moved from their places outside in the hall and are now standing at intervals around the room. Arms crossed, they stand along the walls creating a very real sense of being trapped. Two of the largest male monitors stand in front of the two sets of double doors. The auditorium is quiet with only the sound of shifting students and the slight scuffing of feet on the benches. The Authoritarian of Neptus Memorial steps out onto the stage. His black polished boots echo loudly in the stillness of the room. Taking his place at the small, dark wood podium I get the best look at him I’ve had in years. He is an old, stately looking man. Even through the glass disks of his mask, his eyes are piercing and as dark as the wood he’s standing on. Some of his grey hair is poking out under the straps of his mask. He wears the brown uniform of the instructors but it is made of higher quality fabric and stitched and tailored perfectly. His chest is covered in blue and black ribbons and a gold aiguillette hangs over his right shoulder. Even from the great distance between us, and the obscuring slits of the rebreather he’s wearing, I see contempt for us glistening in his dark eyes.

“Rise for the Anthem.” He commands, his voice projected from a microphone in his mask.

A great noise of a thousand students rising in unison to the Authoritarian’s voice shatters the silence. I find myself standing among them, without having given conscious thought to it. The hidden speakers in the vaulted room crackle to life and begin to play. The recording of the Einsam Children’s Choir guides us along as we struggle to sing with muffled voices. My lips form the words but no sound passes through them. Whether the other students are enthusiastic or not is hard to tell by their muffled murmurs.

“The flag on high! Our society closely knit! Our Great Society marches, step, step, step! Together marching strong we drive subversives from our midst. Loyalty to each other, and from the Caretakers we’re granted gifts. With hard work and discipline we build a lasting peace. United in our purpose we toil, with heart, and grit.”

The speakers crackle again and go silent. The students remain standing. A few have their heads lifted up, as if inspired by the song. I feel no inspiration, only bewilderment at the absurdity of a recorded anthem played atop a muffled mess.

“Sit!” The Authoritarian’s voice booms. Startled, I sit obediently. The other students respond similarly and once again the silence of the auditorium is disturbed by the settling of a thousand seats.

Waiting until the room falls again into stillness, the Authoritarian addresses us. “As I am sure most of you are aware, yesterday there was a tragedy at one of the city’s other schools. Their air filters failed and it resulted in the death of twelve students. As a precaution I have ordered that until our school’s air filters are checked, and redundant systems installed, all students and faculty will wear their masks at all times. I understand the difficulty the instructors and yourselves will have in communicating with your masks on so I have arranged that we will spend the next week or so watching some of the great films our Caretakers have created for us. Do not, under any circumstances, remove your masks. Any student found removing their own, or attempting to remove the mask of another student, will be severely punished and handed over to the authority of Peace Officers under suspicion of sedition. If you do what you are told this will be an easy few weeks for all of you. Do you comply?”

In a thunderous roar, hundreds of muffled voices shout in chorus.

“Yes, sir!”

My lips stay pressed together tightly.

“Starting from the right side exit row by row in an orderly fashion toward your respective classrooms. You are dismissed.”

The students sitting at the far right end in the first row begin the process while the majority of the students remain perfectly still. No hand, head, nor foot dares to move out of sequence. Sitting obediently, we wait minute after minute in the silence of our minds.

After having waited for what feels like an eternity, my turn to rise and exit lockstep with the rest of the school arrives. I stand and begin my escape from one room into the confines and restraints of another. The sounds of rhythmic breaths and footfalls serve to keep the time. I follow the other twelfth-year students out the door on the opposite side of the auditorium from where we came in. The monitors have spread out and are now filling the twelve branching hallways leading off to each year’s wing of the massive concrete and steel school. Keeping my eyes on my feet to avoid the monitors sharp glares, the journey down the long hall is mind numbing. Step, step, step, step. I shuffle along and envision myself on a chain gang like the ones I’ve seen in old films.

Reaching the classroom, I take my seat and relish in the end of our long march. I scratch at the itch created by the imaginary manacles on my wrists. A few minutes of silence pass as we wait for the other students to arrive from the auditorium. After a few blissful moments of quiet and peace, the last student enters the room and takes his seat. Directly behind him is Instructor Speer. As soon as he enters the room I long for those few seconds of stillness and quiet back. He closes the door behind him with a crash. Taking his place at the front behind his desk, he stands for a moment and observes us through his rebreather’s slit glass eyes. The sound of his rebreather fills the room. Why must the silence always be broken by shallow and meaningless noises? I’m positive I could learn more from my own silent and still mind than the gruff and trivial words of Speer. Normally his young face is visible and his expertly styled brown hair bounces gently while he pontificates and gesticulates. However, these outward qualities mask his true nature which, despite his youth, is cruel and vindictive. The rebreather seems at home on his body and makes him look the way I imagine he should.

“I understand how sad and scared you must feel, but feeling scared or shedding tears after such a tragedy befell your contemporaries, is a sign of immaturity and weakness. A wise and strong person, such as myself, feels overjoyed. And I am overjoyed. Overjoyed that I have escaped a gagging, screaming death. But I also feel elated because now measures will be taken to prevent further tragedies. Your fellow students sacrificed themselves so that you could live in a world that is safer and more vigilant than the one they departed. Be thankful, and rejoice that you have such good Caretakers who were able to respond appropriately to this tragedy. That being said, how is the class doing today?”

In a chaotic roar, each student responds boisterously with their own expression of “joy.”

Letting my lips crack open, I let out a mutter, “Suffocated.”

Instructor Speer’s reaction to the class’s outcry is impossible to gauge on his face hidden behind his mask, but his smug body language strongly suggests that he is relishing their sycophantic words. Now that his ego has been recharged, Speer turns to the wall behind him and presses his hand into the projector’s command module. His fingers dance in the rays of light awakening the aging projector which comes on in a flicker of prismatic colors. The equally antiquated speakers crackle like the ones in the auditorium. As the projector warms up, the start screen for a Great Society film comes into focus.

“Because we will be watching films for the next week or so, I decided we have the time to start at the beginning. Today we’re going to watch one of my favorite films.
Year One, the Origins of Our Great Society
. This film tells the tale of how the Great Society formed itself from the ashes of oppression and foreign invasion. You should take in the whole film and appreciate it all, but pay special attention to the story of our first High Caretaker Antonius Neptus. He is truly our greatest hero, having singlehandedly formed the nation and created a great and lasting peace.”

I could sense my own disinterest among my fellow students, but after twelve years we’ve all become experts at repressing our true opinions. No one makes a peep, not even me.

“Remain awake, remain attentive. When this week of movies and vacation is over there will be a test, a detailed one.”

For a moment I contemplate living out one of my long-held fantasies. In it, all of the students spring from their desks, charge Speer, strap him to his chair then run out of the school. We’d run and run until the thick smog clouds of the city disappeared and the towering shapes of the countless skyscrapers faded from view. We wouldn’t stop until we reached that mythic
Mountain Air
. But deep down I know it will always be a fantasy. I have never risen up, and even if I did, none of my classmates would rise up with me. They’d be the first to hold me back.

The projected image dances to life while the narrator’s dark and smooth voice fills the room.

“Here in the fourth century of the Great Society, we all take for granted the wonders and bounty we have been born into. From time to time, however, we should all pause and remember the great patriots and martyrs whose blood and bones our civilization’s foundations are built upon. Be thankful and appreciative of what they have given you…”

The film continues for almost two hours, but none of it sticks. Drifting off into my own world I watch the re-enacted scenes of the great evils of barbarity and hedonism in the old world and the great battles that were fought to eradicate them. I witness walls and blockades, made from the bodies of an untold number of patriotic martyrs, holding the rest of the uncivilized world at bay. The narrator names a dozen heroes and heroines, a hundred battles, and a thousand enemies, but their names all fail to imprint themselves within my mind. Only his final words work themselves out of the regular muck and propaganda that saturates everything that passes his lips.

“The greatest sacrifices of our Great Society have yet to be made. Are you willing to give everything to ensure the survival of the greatest human achievement?”

After his words finally echo away, an image of a Peace Officer’s recruitment facility and Guardian’s barracks fill up the front wall of the classroom. The image lingers there, blaring, “Join Today,” even after Speer switches on the lights.

Confidently standing in the diminishing light of the projector, Speer addresses us, his voice filled with energetic patriotism no doubt put there by the film.

“I want all of you to take a moment and contemplate the heritage of sacrifice and turmoil our Great Society has endured for you. No matter which path you choose when you finish schooling and join the ranks of ours, the greatest of societies, always remember that giving your life in service to the Great Society is the least you can do.”

The room falls silent. I see a few of the boys fidget with their sweaty palms under their desks. They’ve probably eaten the whole story up, taking each word as truth. I bet even now they’re planning their activities the day after our rapidly approaching graduation. They’ll wake up early, eat one last home-cooked meal from Mother then trod off into the muck-filled streets until they reach the Great Society recruiting offices. Inevitably there will already be a line and they will stand there for hours shuffling through soot in their haste to become thralls of the state. The last few years I’ve seen the lines with my own eyes, and no doubt most of these students will be there. Maybe once I would have joined them. Standing in line with them I would have dreamed of being a heroine of the state and having my own likeness cast in bronze to stand vigil over my grave for perpetuity. As desirable as that path may be for them, it is not the one for me. After watching the film, I am filled with new doubts. Were the walls and blockades built to keep them out or us in?

Chapter Three

“We will proceed to the dining hall. The Caretakers have graciously supplied us with emergency rations. I trust you all know how to use the liquid ports on your masks.”

Speer’s words force me to put aside the questions still gnawing in the pit of my stomach from the documentary. I sit upright in my chair and focus on him.

“Rise and proceed single file.”

The room fills with the squeaks of chairs being pushed against the concrete floors. In silent choreography, the class lines up with mechanical precision. I do my part and fit effortlessly into the flow.

The march down the hall is devoid of incident. Lockstep and staring at the feet in front of us, the only conversations that take place are safely contained within our individual minds.

The dining hall is large with high, arched ceilings. It is the only beautiful part of the school. Its stone walls are carved with long, flowing lines and inlaid with white marble. This room’s beauty stands in stark contrast to the rest of the school’s rectilinear concrete monotony. Speer tells us that the whole school used to look like this but most of it was destroyed in a fire and when they rebuilt they did so in a more modern style. He says that the uniform concrete architecture is supposed to make us feel safe in its regularity and simplicity, but it feels just as isolating and suffocating as our masks.

I stand at the counter holding my hand out ready for the emergency ration, having inched along in line mindlessly, mechanically. I’m constantly surprised at my ability to go through the motions without any effort of my own.

“Take your ration. You’re holding up the line, student.”

The server points at me from behind the box of rations. The server seems so out of place in his mask.

“I’m sorry.” Tendrils of white-hot embarrassment dart across my face.

I grab the small silver pouch and start to move toward the table when I hear a voice behind me.

“If she was any more air-brained she’d blow away,” says the muffled voice from behind me.

The embarrassment I’m already feeling intensifies and shoots down my neck. I don’t mean to zone out, but there is so little life outside my mind it’s hard not to retreat there. I make haste toward the nearest table, keeping my head low and my eyes fixed forward.

I find a seat and place the silver pouch in front of me. I try not to look at the students passing by so as not to make eye contact with whoever made fun of me, but it is too late. She makes eye contact with me. Slim, tall, and flanked by other girls, Victoriana Zarrov is hard not to recognize with her bright blond hair flowing out from under her mask down to the middle of her back. She stares at me for a moment. It’s impossible to tell if she’s going to say something.

“Oh, sorry. Just zoned out there for a second. Silly me,” she says.

Her voice, normally too sweet to be genuine, sounds glassy and dark as it resonates through her mask. Her gaggle of friends erupt in a chorus of scratching, smoky laughter. The troop follows on Victoriana’s heels as she walks away, her shoulders back and proud. I close my eyes and let the stillness of my mind calm me down. She’s a terrible person and I just need to let her words go. At least she couldn’t see me blush today.

I look down at the pouch. Its liquid contents jiggle when I pick up the bag. It feels thick and after my encounter with Victoriana I have little desire to eat. Placing the ration back on the table, my thoughts return to the documentary and the images of violence, war, and death. So much pain and suffering went into the construction of this world that I feel it seep through the very walls.

Lunch hour passes quickly. We return to our classroom with the same automated enthusiasm and retake our seats. Speer sits waiting, reading a new copy of
Drumbeat
magazine. The projector is already warmed up, casting him in the dark blue shade of the flag. It suits him. Speer sits up when the last student enters and closes the door. While folding his magazine, he presses “play” on the command terminal.

“Two more documentaries today. The first will explore the boundless wonders of coal. And the second will explore the history of our gas masks and the airlock systems. Remember to pay close attention. I highly advise you to take notes as well.”

The documentary begins. Speer retakes his seat at the head of the class, contorting himself around to watch the video projected behind him.

Neither of these documentaries is as captivating as the first and I struggle to recall a single scene from either. The information was so perfunctory and obvious that it’s hardly worth taking up space in my brain.

The end-of-day bell rings and Speer excuses us. Orderly, we rise and march toward the exit and the silver transports that await us. The line at the airlock moves quickly and I soon find myself outside. The contrast is stark. The wind is strong today and ash and soot swirl wildly, obscuring my vision. I double check the buttons on my overcoat, pull my backpack straps tighter, and press through the wind toward the transports. But as I draw near a nervous tension builds within me. The thought of continuing to follow the same mindless routine fills me with dread. I reach the doorway but my feet refuse to take the step. For the briefest of moments I hesitate. Staring up the stairwell I see the young driver and her golden pigtails. Her head begins to turn toward me. Before our eyes can meet I step off to the side and push my way into the wind and away from the transport.

Tucking my chin to my chest to guard my neck against the rough and stinging ash and soot, I make my way across the street and into the unknown. In all my seventeen years, I’ve never ventured along these streets. Near my apartment tower I am familiar with the streets, which are well-trodden by my footfalls, but I rarely—if ever—venture this far from home and familiarity. It’s exactly the kind of thing I need to do. Get away from what I know and venture into the mysterious world that surrounds me and of which I know so little.

The wind begins to ease up as I walk and the ash begins to settle back down onto the sidewalk and streets. Sweepers emerge almost as soon as it does and begin removing heaping mounds, but no matter how frantically they sweep, the streets seem to forever remain black and slick with soot. The buildings here are just as choked and cramped as every other part of the city. Making matters worse is the black-grey grime obscuring every sign and banner that could clue me in to my location. I’m lost, but I guess it doesn’t really matter because I don’t know where I’m going. Just as long as it’s not familiar and not home.

As I wander, thoughts of the dead school kids fill my mind. I imagine being in my classroom, surrounded by other students I hardly know, and choking to death on poisoned air as Speer looks on from behind his rebreather. In my last gasping moments I would be alone in a room of strangers. I have no friends or anyone that I could cling to for comfort in those final agonizing moments. Despite her cruelty, Victoriana would at least have her sycophants beside her to reduce the isolation of death. Death, choking, sacrifice. The foundations of our Great Society. My imaginary death mingles with the depictions of dead, mounded martyrs from the documentary, their bright red blood covering the ground as the ash does now. Such morbid and dark thoughts. I try to push them from my mind, but everywhere I look, with every breath I take, I’m reminded by death’s looming presence.
Just a filter away
.

Just as I begin to think I will aimlessly wander the streets with these horrific thoughts forever, the muted sound of thumping, heavy music stirs me out of my mind. I follow the sound around the corner of the building on my right and look down.

A long staircase leads below street level. At the landing is a door that was probably painted blue when it was new. A sign hangs above it, but its words are incomprehensible under a thick covering of soot. The music is coming from behind the door and entices me toward it like a siren. Normally I am repelled by loud obnoxious sounds, like those of the television, but this music feels different. It’s deliberate and foreign. I’ve never heard anything like it before.

Carefully, I make my way down the slick steps. Twice I have to catch myself on the handrail bolted into the concrete. Stepping onto the landing, my body fills with euphoric anticipation. My hand hovers over the knob for a second. With tingling fingers I turn the handle and step inside.