CHAPTER 1 // LIOR

Smoke rises in wispy, languid plumes above the city like souls reluctant to leave their bodies. Ash flutters on the wind, delicate as feathers, some still burning as they fall. The once vibrant city is now nothing more than a bleeding, paling cadaver. Buildings stagger the horizon, their mammoth frames war-torn and beaten, exposing a marbled grey-yellow sky. Real sky. A sky I have never known. Each of my memories painted with shades of magenta from Enoch’s force field. But here, in her ruin, there is beauty.

My eyes and throat burn from the smoke, the very substance of it choking. I shift to find free air, my footing unsteady over the piles of rubble. I’m careful where I step. Fire continues to consume the city, reaching through cracks in the concrete like a hungry, all-consuming hell that has broken free of its earthly confines. Pits of red-hot coal sizzle and spit, shooting embers into the air that weave through the falling ash.

The further I step through the ruin, the more the haze clears to reveal Enoch’s destruction.

Ravaged buildings lay toppled one on top of the other, broken and defeated by their own skyward aspirations; steel frames grown feeble beneath the weight of greed. Those that managed to remain standing appear like soldiers that perished on their feet, metal support beams piercing through charred, stony flesh. Smaller in their wake are the bodies that pile atop the rubble. Most of them whole though there are some that are shorn of limb or head or both. Skin shredded or burned away. Men. Women. Even children. Corvants, tradesmen, common folk. None are spared the Mother’s mercy.

I look to the sky to avoid their faces, hoping not to find someone I know. Yet it seems they are aware of my feigned ignorance, and, in their silence, I can feel them watching me. Mouths agape. Eyes transfixed, piercing through the thin veil of death. Discomfort prickles along my skin, raising it in little bumps. A shiver creeps down my spine despite the heat that surrounds me. The dead plead, asking for help I cannot give.

I walk past them all, walking further into the destruction when I should be walking away. But something draws me forward. Perhaps it’s a need to know what happened, or to know if there’s anyone left alive. Though the more I see, the more I begin to realize the prospects of finding life are growing increasingly grim.

A gentle breeze channels through the fallen buildings, sweeping up ash and debris. I pull the neck of my cowl over my mouth in attempt to filter the saturated air. Something catches my attention, moving high overhead. A shadow moves swiftly, elegantly, cutting a path through a swath of steely cloud to eclipse the pale and sickly sun. Through the haze I’m unable to discern its form as it curves in large arcs to occupy the same stretch of sky. I step forward toward it, the crunch of glass breaking beneath my feet. I glance down, my thoughts earthbound for a moment. So much lies in my path.

My curiosity grabs hold of me, filling me with a sudden determination. I want to see what it is that soars in the sky. More than that, I’m filled with a rush of hope to know that there is another sign of life.

The way is not clear. Nor is it easy. And though much of what I see is familiar, there is nothing that I know. From what I know of them, many of Enoch’s eight precincts look the same, but I’ve spent my life in the Fifth long enough to know that this is not it. Even in the chaos, I would recognize the streets. The small alleyways where I’ve spent my childhood, more content to be amidst the people than the current apartment I was told to call home.

Urging myself forward, I do my best to step over the bodies and debris. Stone and bits of glass pop and burst beneath my booted feet. My legs remain steady, my balance unwavering. As I walk through the field of the dead, I wonder what has happened to them. The scourge of war marks the city, but yet I find no weapons. No bullet shells, no shrapnel of explosives. There is no evidence that this is the work of men. I try to find familiarity in each of their faces, to see if I can attach a memory or name, but they remain unknown to me.

Stepping over the body of a Corvant, I glance down to see the thick metal of the helmet cracked down the side. The visor’s tinted glass has partially shattered away, exposing the cold and bloody face of the man beneath. So often have I seen the Corvants suited head to toe in their dark armor, that I only now remember that they, too, are mortal. Despite the blood that stains his face, he would be handsome. Even in death. I’m unable to tear my gaze away as I stare into his glossy, vacant eyes. So many thoughts bubble up into my mind. Who was he? Why did he dedicate his life to the protection of this city? Did he regret his decision after the siege? How much does failure haunt us in the end? A chill rattles down my spine, and I’m unsure if it’s my own uneasiness or the absence of heat as I move past the fires, which smolder like funeral pyres beside the bodies they char.

Overhead, the shadow still swims in the sky. I see it now, the blurred form of a bird—wings spread wide—that ebbs and swirls in the Corvant’s empty eyes, falsely giving them life. I look up, remembering why I’m here.

It’s not to ask questions of the dead.

A loose strand of hair cuts across my eyes, obstructing my vision. I tuck it back behind an ear, now staring up at the great steel canyon that envelops the heart of the city. Buildings, each of them a war-beaten sentinel, defy their wounds to fulfill their sworn duty. Wind channels through the narrow streets, swiping at my arms and face. Tugging at my clothes. I fight against it, one arm raised so I can see, and press deeper into the sanctum of the city. Ash and embers are carried by an invisible current, biting at the places where they touch my skin and singeing the fabric of my shirt where they cannot.

I walk for what feels like miles, working my way over piles of rubble and twisted, blackened metal. Sparks burst from the cables of a derailed train, gliding across the cracked pavement until they fizzle and fade. Signs of rigamortis in a fresh cadaver. As the buildings grow taller, the city subsides into shadow. The air grows colder, and a sense of unease pits itself in my stomach. I’ve lost sight of the bird, my beacon of hope, crowded behind broken monoliths of steel and stone. Suddenly, the emptiness presses in on me.

And then I see it. In a clearing where the buildings come to an abrupt halt is a sliver of dark, dark metal—the quality of which I cannot tell if it is natural or changed because of tempering. Either way, it’s impressive. Rivaling the structures that surround it, the metal pierces the earth where it has landed like bone breaking through a wound. The area around it is blackened, the stone charred from intense heat. From what I can see, it appears to be the piece of a larger vessel, severed during battle and fell to its ruin here.

Could this be what destroyed the city? I look up as if doing so might yield some answers, though all I see is an expanse of angry sky. The wind and clouds shift steadily as if to conceal away the secrets.

Stepping forward into the courtyard, I approach the massive structure. At first I think it’s my reflection, playing off the surface of the metal, but then I realize who I’m looking at is someone else entirely. Encased beneath a sheath of thick glass, lying as still as death, is—my mother.

My breath catches in my throat, my knees threatening to buckle beneath me. I’ve never met the woman, but somehow I know it’s her. As if I can feel her calling to me across the distance. I press myself closer to the glass, trying to be as near to her as I can. Her hair, flowing about her in loose, untamed waves, is the same deep auburn as mine. Her skin just as pale. I inventory every detail about her that I find, taking the time to commit them to memory. This may be the only way I can remember her.

A thousand questions race through my mind. Why is she here? Is she alive? Can I save her?

Longing floods through me, urging me to rescue a woman I never knew. There is so much I want to ask her, so much I want to know about myself. I begin to pound against the glass, a ferocity overtaking me. “Wake up,” I say, my voice cracking as if from disuse. “Please.”

Hot tears prickle the lids of my eyes, threatening to spill over. I’m overcome by anger and sadness, frustrated by my futile attempt. “Wake up!”

I’m startled by a tiny glint of light that travels along the jagged surface of the glass, like a drop of water trickling along an uneven path. My first thought is of the sun shifting rapidly through the sky, but when I turn, it’s not the sun at all.

A fireball pierces through the clouds on a jet of flame, crashing into one of the buildings that border the city center. The metal screams and twists from the oppressive heat, the intensity of which I can feel from where I stand. It breaks beneath the pressure, and the north-facing side of the building hurtles toward the ground. I watch as it falls in slow motion, seemingly unaffected by the power of gravity, until it drives into the open concrete with incredible, concussive force. The ground shudders beneath my feet, and I nearly collapse to my knees. Bits of glass, dust, and ash surge into the air, blanketing the clearing in a thick haze.

The fire begins to fall more steadily—like a meteoric rain—shredding apart the city around me and bringing even more destruction. A fireball slams into the concrete some thirty yards behind me causing the ground to shudder beneath my feet. Another blazes overhead, puncturing through a nearby building with such speed that I’m forced to cover my ears.

My heart pounding, I turn back to the comatose form of my mother. I beat my fists against the thick glass like mallets on a war drum, attempting to break it. The jagged texture slices through the flesh of my hands, drawing blood that leaves crimson smears on the surface of her tomb. “Wake up!” I yell, as if my voice can do more than my fists.

Something collides with the metal structure. A rain of embers showers down upon me, searing my skin and clothes. I cry against the pain, but do nothing to avoid it. My only hope is to save my mother from a more certain death.

“Please! Wake up!” I cough and splutter through the smoke. Tears track down my cheeks. Will I die trying to save her, a woman I never knew?

Just as despair threatens to take hold, and I resign myself to a fiery death, my mother opens her eyes—stark, penetrating blue peering through cloudy darkness to stare unrelentingly at me.

“Wake up!” The plea comes again, but this time it is not my voice.

My breath catches in my throat, and I lose my footing. As I fall backward, I feel the weightlessness of my body and I anticipate hitting hard, unforgiving stone. But the fall is longer than it should be, and before the smoke or fire can consume me, it’s gone. All of it. The chaos, the burning city, my mother. All of it is gone. What remains is me, in the darkness of my room, and the cold sweat that now sends a shiver down my body.

“Lior, wake up!”

I awake from one nightmare into another. Jumping out of bed, I fumble blindly through the pitch-black apartment, trying to follow the sound of Coby’s voice; disturbed by how a sliver of my dream has shaped itself in reality.

“Coby!” I call to him, trying to place the location of his voice. Light filters in from the force field outside, but it’s not enough to truly see. Each of the walls cast in long, tapering shadows. Coby could be hiding in any one of them. “Coby, where are you?”

I find him footsteps from his room, barely having crossed the threshold. Cast in silhouette, he appears like some gangling creature, hunched at the back and coughing hard enough to rack his entire body. I make contact with him, and he collapses into my touch. His body and clothes are slick with sweat. I brush the wet hair from his forehead, feeling for fever. He’s on fire. In the beginning, I remember he would feel warm to the touch, but now his body has become a furnace.

I don’t want to let him go, but I have no choice.

“Stay here,” I say, leaving him slumped against the frame of his door. I leap over him into the dark bedroom. Pulling at the drawers on his dresser, I rummage through the contents, searching frantically for a syringe. “Where is it?!” I call frantically, though more to myself than anyone at all.

“It’s—It’s on the floor,” Coby says between fits. At the same time he answers, I step on something sharp. Glass bites at the soft under-flesh of my foot.

Dashing back to the area beside the door, my fingers scramble along the wall as I desperately search for the light. It pops on once I’ve found the switch, but the sudden, unexpected brightness is blinding. Shielding my eyes, I look back toward the dresser and the bed. There’s the tangy, biting scent of something acidic, and I glance at Coby’s bed to see the sheets covered in sick. On the floor below is a syringe and tiny, glass vial in a small puddle of orange-yellow liquid. I remember there being two vials, but one must’ve broken. I haven’t the time to ask questions. I grab the syringe, and with a steady hand, I load the barrel with the remaining drug.

It takes me mere seconds to get back to Coby. I lift him away from the wall, resting his body against me. He feels limp—deflated, as if all the fight has gone out of him. I would usually count to three or use some other sort of trick before administering the Amaranthus. This time, however, I simply plunge the needle into the meat of his shoulder and empty the contents of the syringe.

Coby doesn’t make a sound.

A moment of silence fills the room as the atmosphere becomes familiar again. The sounds and sights and smells of all the things I know. The constant thrum of the force field that covers the city. The tangy scent of gasoline wafting through the window. The rattle of a train in the distance. And the sound of Coby’s breathing as it slowly settles in his chest.

With my arm now around him, I feel his lungs giving over to the drug. I hate that I have to do it, but it has become a necessity. Nothing else I’ve tried controls his sickness the way Amaranthus does.

Holding Coby against me, I press a kiss into his hair. The taste of his sweat is tangy on my lips. Looking out his bedroom window dawn has barely broken. The sky is a soft shade of purple-red. Just beyond I can make out the wispy shapes of dark clouds, like the silhouetted forms of cotton stretched thin. Soon the sun will rise over the mountaintops and all beyond Enoch’s force field will once again become invisible.

            My thoughts bring me back to the sky in my dream. It looked so vivid, so real. I wonder if one day I will truly ever get to see it. Maybe even the moon. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to see the moon. But there is a price way pay for our safety.

Roughly a century ago, a man-made pandemic known as the Cain virus, caused a mass infection across all forms of life. It began in the water, filtering through the people and animals that drank from the source. Plants were soon contaminated, and the death toll rose at a catastrophic rate. Everything was affected. Whole civilizations, constructed and shaped over millennia, were brought to their knees in a matter of years. A divide grew between the infected and the pure. The population declined significantly, dropping to nearly a quarter what it had been. The sick were shut out, left to die, while the rest of humanity tried to preserve itself. The short of it is that we did, the long: to what cost?

Most of the peripheral life—a poor term applied to all things subservient to man—was destroyed. Entire species were eradicated. Except for humans, of course. We endured. Not to say there hasn’t been significant loss, side affects, or other repercussions. Without livestock and vegetation, much of our food source has been depleted. Water now requires purification before it can be drunk. But like bacteria, we’ve become resistant to our own devices and forced ourselves to adapt.

As people struggled to survive in the wake of the Cain virus, there were those who rose to the challenge. Some of the world’s fore-leading minds searched for methods that would save us. As with any experiment, the initial attempts failed. And just when we thought we had the virus contained, a new outbreak would emerge. But when all hope seemed to vanish, one man, Gaspar Vendesla, introduced his force field technology, and thus Enoch—the Impenetrable City—was born.

Built in the bedrock of a mountain range, Enoch was designed to operate as a singular ecosphere. All of our resources we are able to pull from the land around us. The Protea River not only provides us with our water, but our electricity as well. Before passing through each precinct’s distillation plant, it is dispersed to the city’s nine hydro-generators. The rushing water powers the generators, which, in turn, provide Enoch with its force field.

It’s these two things—the water and the force field—that now provide the city with its ubiquitous background noise. Here, at the edge of the Fifth Precinct, the hum is louder. We’re closer to the generator here. Every precinct has one, and the closer you are to it, the less fortunate you are.

Coby and I have settled in the Furrow, the outer stretch of the Fifth Precinct notorious for its poverty and crime. Many consider it beyond the reach of law enforcement, but I know that to not be true. The truth is they can’t be bothered to police us all the way out here. And, more often than not, the corruption infiltrates the law, completely defeating the purpose. Corvants have been known to involve themselves in the black market, trading in drugs and who knows what.

I do my best to avoid them all. I’ve learned long ago it is best to keep your head down and keep to yourself.

Our home, a ramshackle apartment, rests in a bank of low-set buildings. By appearance, you would think half of the block is abandoned. Many of the windows are boarded and the walls graffitied. But there is life here, and perhaps more than anyone might expect. The slums began to fill as the cost of living nearer the city sanctum grew higher. The telltale signs of life vary from the puddles of urine along the alley walls to the lines of clothing that stretch above the streets. Now, silhouetted in the pre-dawn darkness, they look like the sad remnants of a macabre festival.

 “Lior?” Coby says in a near whisper. I’m surprised he’s still awake as the Amaranthus is a sedative by nature. As he turns his face toward me, I can see his deep blue eyes are wet with tears. His forehead knit with worry. Something about his expression concerns me enough to pull his small frame against mine and wrap myself around him.

My show of comfort triggers a release. A sob bellows out of Coby that vibrates my ribcage. I pull him in tighter if only to let him know that he’s safe. “Shhh.” I run my hand through his damp brown hair, the very edges of it turning up in a loose curl. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” He shudders, and I don’t know if it’s the illness or a result of him crying.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, his voice muffled in the crook of my shoulder.

“Coby…No,” I say, taken aback by the unexpected apology. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” I glance to where his bed is across the room, my eyes finding the stains that wouldn’t come out in the laundry. I will wash those sheets a thousand times, until they’re threadbare, to keep him with me. I press a kiss into his hair, curling my hands into fists at his back. “Come on. Let’s get you back into bed.”

I shift back from him, loosening the embrace. Coby looks up at me with tears streaming down his cheeks. I smile at him, wiping them away with the balls of my thumbs. He’s only five years younger than me, but seems so much smaller. Leaning down, he wraps his arms around my neck and I scoop him up. I carry him over to a chair in the corner of the room and gently set him down.

“Here, let’s take this off,” I say, tugging the soiled shirt up over his head. I throw it onto the bed to be dealt with later. Coby grabs his arms, pulling them across his body for warmth. I find a clean blanket and wrap it around him.

Turning back towards his dresser, I look down at the little pool of citrine-colored liquid and the bits of shattered glass. I examine the mess like it is evidence from a crime scene, attempting to piece together what happened.

“I broke it,” Coby confesses, his voice small behind me. “I tried calling for you, but you… You weren’t waking up.” He looks at me as though I might chastise him for his comment. “I thought I could do it myself.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you.”

My mind travels back to the dream. To the smoke and burning metal. To the image of my mother and her unforgiving stare. I close my eyes, trying to dissipate my own thoughts. I pull the sheets from off of Coby’s bed and use them to clean up the mess. He was well overdue for a new set anyway.

Crossing back to the doorway, I notice the little smears of blood I’m leaving behind. I must’ve cut myself on the glass when I was moving through the darkness earlier. I pay the blood no mind. I add it to the list of things that will have to be taken care of later. Instead, I retrieve the syringe and vial beside the door. It’s all we have left of the Amaranthus, and I can’t afford another accident.

Looking over at Coby, I see he’s stopped shaking. He’s pulled the blanket tight around him and rests his head on the arm of the chair, staring out the window at a rust colored sky. A subtle pinkness in his cheeks lets me know that the fever is subsiding. Another bullet dodged, but how long can we remain bulletproof?

As I turn off the light, a cold, slimy feeling works its way down my throat like the hand of something dead, reaching with long, clammy fingers until it takes firm hold in my gut. I try to push the thought away, refusing to give it substance. I believe he’s a Carrier—infected with the Cain virus. The symptoms seem to indicate as much, but I don’t know for certain. All I know is from videos and stories, tales told from a generation before our own. Taking him to ReGen is out of the question. For more reasons than I can bring myself to admit. Perhaps we’re both scared to know the truth, but it’s certainly the secret we keep.

The fact remains even if I replenish the supply, even if I had all the Amaranthus in the world, it won’t suppress the virus forever.

“Lior,” Coby calls to me once more, but this time his voice is soft and calm, all sense of immediacy subdued. He shifts to look at me, standing by the doorway and watching him. “Can you stay with me for a little while?”

I smile at him, my heart breaking just the smallest bit. Crossing back into the room, I set the vial of Amaranthus down on his dresser before joining him in the chair. It’s large enough for the both of us if only because he’s so small. I occupy the right half, adjusting Coby and his blanket so that he’s cuddled up against me.

Coby breaks his gaze from the world outside the window to look at me, his eyes heavy-lidded. The sedative properties of the drug are beginning to take effect. I brush loose strands of hair from his forehead, my hand caressing down the side of his cheek. Following his gaze out the window, I contemplate the changing sky. For a moment I’m lifted away—back into my dream—remembering the way the clouds loomed darkly overhead and the destruction they brought.

“Did you have another dream?” The question catches me off guard. I forget how much he really knows me; can see things in my eyes. Five years may be the age difference between us, and although I might be more of the caretaker, Coby embodies more wisdom. Perhaps being bedridden most of the time sharpens your powers of observation.

“Yes,” I answer honestly. I know well enough not to lie to him, even if it’s only a small one. We’ve both been lied to far too much already. As children yielded unto the government’s care, we were promised shelter, food, a family… But all of these were just unfulfilled promises.

When I turned fifteen, I released myself from governmental custody and took Coby with me. I knew that I could care for him better than anyone. We’re not related, Coby and I. Not by blood, anyway, but by circumstance. And that’s how we wound up here, in the Furrow—in the gutters of the Fifth Precinct.

He wasn’t sick then. At least neither of us knew if he was. Had that been known information, I dare not think what his fate would have been. The city and its people don’t take kindly to threats, and anyone identified as a Carrier is definitely seen as a threat.

There has never been a documented case during our lifetime of someone contracting the virus within the city walls. At least, if there has been, the public was never privy to that information. Rest assured, the moment the media got hold of the news there would be pandemonium.

Coby’s eyes narrow into slits, the way they do when he’s analyzing my face as though he can read my thoughts. It’s moments like these that I’m thankful he can’t. If he only knew how much I worry about him, worry about our future. Perhaps he thinks I’m still lost in my dream, and I’d rather him think that than know what it is that now concerns me.

“Was it a good dream?”

“It was,” I reply, even if only that was half true.

I want to tell him it was my mother I dreamt of, but instead I say nothing. Sometimes saying nothing is better than lying when you can’t tell the truth. Though I dream of mine, Coby was the one who knew his mother, was with her when she died.

Years ago, when were both much younger, I would ask him questions about her. Much like any child who was curious about something they didn’t understand. Who was she? What did she look like? Did you love her even though she left you?

Since then, I’ve learned not to. Not because he wouldn’t answer them, but because it would send him to a place that would sometimes be difficult for him to return. In some ways I’ve learned to read him the same as he does me. I can identify the signs of pain, fear, perhaps even abandonment. I’ve come to understand some things are best left alone, and because Coby is all I have in this bleak world, I try to keep him as present as possible.

I never knew my parents. For all I had tried to learn about them, the only thing I was told was that they left me behind—had chosen to give me up. Yet there never came a point when knowing why became irrelevant. As with most painful things, the hurt just lessened with time until it was no more than an ache.

Coby wriggles beneath the blanket making himself more comfortable. Resting my head against the top of his, I listen to the sound of his ragged breathing. Leveling my breath, I try to give him a metronome by which to measure out his own, if only by unspoken suggestion. It seems to work. Several long minutes pass by, but at long last his breathing sounds much less labored.

“Coby?” I whisper his name in the dark, afraid I’ve lost him.

“Yeah?”

“Just making sure you’re still there.”

“I’m still here,” he says, voice weak. It’s such a simple thing, but hearing those words gives me comfort. Coby shifts a little in the chair, pulling the blanket up around his neck. “Lior?”

“Yeah?” I smooth the blanket out so it covers him more evenly, plucking at a tucked corner to cover his shoulder.

“Tell me a story.”

“A story?” I ask, a little thrown by the sudden request. “About what?”

“Anything.”

I draw in a deep breath, letting it go until my lungs feel completely empty of air. Glancing around the room for inspiration, I finally turn my attention out the window to a bronze-colored sky. Just beyond, through a hazy veil of red, is a silver smudge. Like a diamond nearly overtaken by sea of molten gold. “Have I ever told you about the moon?”

“No,” Coby says. It amazes me how childlike he can be.

I remember where I had been when I first heard the tale. Amidst all of my caretakers, there had been only one I actually liked. Shassa. I was seven-years-old during the short time I lived with her before she died one evening in her sleep. Shassa was a kind, elderly woman full of stories about the earth, which only seemed appropriate. Her hands were dark and gnarled like the roots of some great tree; her smile warm and gentle. Thinking of the night she first told me about the moon, the richness of her voice fills my ears.

“Before the world was the way we know it to be, the planet was a beautiful place. Full of green with forests and gardens. Plants and flowers of all kinds. The water and air were clean, no virus to infect them. People lived happily then.” I stare out the window trying to imagine this fictional place. “In that time, there was no Higher Council, but a kingdom ruled by a beautiful queen.”

“What was her name?” Coby asks, content to lay still despite the eagerness I hear in his voice.

“Eden.”

“Like the planet?”

“Just like the planet.”

“Was she a good queen?”

“The best anyone had ever known. Merciful and kind, but also just. Mother they called her, and threw bushels of flowers and grain at her feet. Many wished to take her hand in marriage, but she refused. Until one day she met a knight.”

“Like an Honor Guard?” I smile at Coby’s interruptions. Like any curious child, he has such a profound attention to detail.

“Kind of,” I say, trying to find the equivalent in my head. Honor Guards, the highest level of our martial system and protectors of the Archon, are perhaps the closest. “Though handsome and chivalrous. The knight asked to marry Queen Eden, and still she refused. But he persisted, laying down his sword at her feet and swearing to protect both the queen and her kingdom.

What is there to protect me from? Asked the queen. I have no enemies. When the time comes, prove yourself in your oath and I will take you for a husband.

With these words, the queen brought upon her people a great evil. A sorceress descended from the mountains seeking to take the queen’s power. She brought fire upon the kingdom, burning many of the villager’s houses. The people turned to their queen for help, but it was the knight who saved them. After a great battle, in which the knight had nearly died, he struck down the sorceress with his sword. The darkness crept back into the mountains and peace was restored to the kingdom.

Keeping her promise just as the knight kept his, the queen married the knight and not long after did they have a child. A daughter, beautiful like her mother.”

“Did she have a name? The princess?”

“Orana. And Orana grew with grace and valor just like her parents. But the princess was also very sad. She felt neglected by her mother, whose favor had always been placed on the people of her kingdom. When Orana came of age, she would retreat to the palace garden. There she would sit amidst the flowers, watering them with her tears.

One night, long after the sun had gone down, Orana was visited by an old woman in the garden. When asked why she was there, the old woman told the princess she liked the flowers just as much as she did. Orana was pleased to have this new friend. As they sat and talked, the queen called out to her daughter, but the princess did not answer.

Why do you remain quiet, child? Your mother calls for you.

I don’t want to go, Orana said. I like sitting here and talking with you. Eventually Orana relented and went in to her mother. But night after night, the old woman returned. She and the princess would talk of many things, and Orana felt at last she had someone to confide in.

One night, when the queen called for her daughter to return, she did not come. Curious as to where the princess went, the queen went looking for her. But when she walked through the garden it wasn’t Orana that she found, it was the old woman. She stood stooped over a rose bush.

She asked the woman what she was doing there, how she had come upon her garden. But the old woman did not answer. Instead, she removed a pair of shears from her pocket and clipped the only bloom from the rose bush.

Why did you do that? The queen asked.

Do what? Replied the old woman, seemingly unaware she had done anything at all.

You’ve cut a rose—the only rose—from my rose bush.

I see, said the old woman. Well, this isn’t your rose bush. Nor is this your rose. Despite where a thing grows that does not make it yours or mine. A rose simply grows where it will.

Then why would you cut it if it were not yours to cut? Asked the queen.

Because, sweet queen, we often take what is not ours to take. You will learn that in time. With that, the old woman offered the queen the single white rose. Surprised by the gift, the queen took it, but when she held it in her hands, the white petals withered and turned brown.

Dropping the rose on the ground, the queen looked up at the old woman, frightened by the trick. The old woman laughed, throwing off her robe to reveal herself as the sorceress.

Where is my daughter? Asked the queen. What did you do with Orana?

She who tends the garden oft overlooks the single rose, said the sorceress. Using her magic, she transformed the withered rose into the body of Orana, who lay quiet and still upon the ground.

My child! Cried the queen.

A rose dies if you do not water it. The sorceress, satisfied with her work, disappeared, leaving the queen to her misery. Stricken with sorrow, the queen forgot her people, and the kingdom fell into despair.

The knight tried to console her, but he, too, was heavy with grief. Each night the queen would retreat to the garden to sit beside the grave of her daughter. There she would cry until at long last she had spent all of her tears. One night, unable to bear the heaviness in her heart, she cut it from her breast. But what emerged was a ball of silver light. The cool heat warmed her cheeks, drying away her tears. The light lifted higher into the sky, growing larger and larger until it took the shape of the moon.

The queen smiled at this, knowing that her love would always shine upon Orana’s grave. Never again would the princess doubt her mother’s love. And it was there, in the quiet of the garden, that the queen passed away.”

Following the conclusion of the story, I’m met with sudden and resounding silence. I shift enough to look down and find Coby fast asleep. Either my story failed to keep his interest or the full effect of the Amaranthus finally kicked in.

I’m careful not to wake him as I slide out from my position in the chair. Pulling the covers up over his exposed shoulders, I stoop down to kiss his forehead. While cooler than it was, his skin always runs warm, a sign of the constant battle that rages within. Once again, I feel the ever-hanging clock ticking away the time until the virus wins. More than injections—more than hugs and myths about things that never were—there’s something I’ve got to do to save him.

It’s well past daybreak once I’ve cleaned up the apartment, bandaged my foot, and dressed. Wrapping myself in a large cowled sweater and oversized scarf, I pull the hood up over my hair. The thick-knitted brim falls just above my eyes. Before I go, I check on Coby one last time. He’s still asleep, having moved back to his bed and lying formless beneath a heap of blankets given life by the rhythm of his breath. A pang of guilt works its way into my chest. I hate to leave him, but if I don’t there will be no way of stopping another attack.

Tugging on my boots, I’m careful to be quiet while opening the door. I slip out and down the stairway, and soon I’m out of earshot.

Outside, the city has come to life. People fill the alleyway beside our building, going about their routine business. A woman leans out her window overhead, tugging in her clothing that drapes high above me like a tattered, colorless curtain. A man, swathed in faded black, leans against his doorframe, following me with his gaze as I pass. Every day he is there, standing on his stoop and staring at the world as though refusing to be a part of it.

I pay him no mind, pulling my hood a little tighter around my face as if the inability to see him makes me invisible. Soon, I turn the corner and he fades out of sight and mind.

It’s twenty minutes walk to ReGen, and to get there I’ll need to go through the Trade District. Each precinct has one. It’s a veritable marketplace where you can often find anything you need. Truly, anything. Particularly here in the Fifth where things come cheap, but they always have a price. For me, it’s a prime place to scout food. The bustling streets make for easy cover, and I hardly ever have trouble nicking a small loaf of bread or picking a pocket.

I don’t pride myself on being a thief, but it’s what I have to do to survive. There’s little in the way of employment here in the Fifth, at least for a girl of seventeen. And what there is… Well, I would rather steal.

Our Trade District shares space with the central promenade, a square expanse of concrete that connects all major roadways in the precinct. It’s where we congregate for major announcements when not distracted by the many booths and fabric covered tents that line the perimeter. A large monitor is mounted on a network of metal beams, looming over the promenade with silent authority.

I’ve heard that other precincts constantly air advertisements on their monitors, displaying the latest trends in fashion and luxury. These precincts, of course, are more affluent than the Fifth. Here, we can’t afford the broadcasting. Instead, we get nothing but a black screen.

Despite being early morning, the Trade District is alive and thriving. Teeming with people of all types that shuffle side by side through the open streets. They move as if carried by a current. Mostly in unison, but sometimes intersecting. Children carve through a forest of legs, some chasing each other and others being pursued by an irate adult. Sliding through the crowd, bending and flexing out of the way of shoulders and elbows, I make my way deeper into the throng. It’s easier to go unnoticed being in the heart of the action.

Near to a clothing merchant, I hear two men break into an argument. Their voices rise high above the usual din, clearly incited by something irreconcilable.

“Look at all these people,” I hear one of them say. He’s so excited that his words are almost indiscernible, ripe with an unidentifiable accent. “You think none of them are influenced by the Mother? How do you sit here, reading the scripture, and tell me this?”

I turn to watch the altercation. One man sits on a crate, a large book in his hand. His clothes are threadbare and covered in grime, not unlike most of those around me. But something about him is dirtier, poorer, more desperate. He’s consigned himself to his religion, body and all. The contrarian—only slightly more put together—looms over him. He bears down like some patriarchal force, chastising a child for his misbehavior.

“She is in everything,” the standing man continues, one hand waving wildly about. “She is in me, you, the ground you sit on!”

I’m curious as to what they’re talking about. More specifically, who. But my attention on the two men dissolves when I see a Corvant working through the crowd. He—or she, at this distance I can’t quite tell—creates a hole in the crowd, most people keeping a wide berth. The slick, oiled gleam of the black suit cuts through a sea of murky browns and greys. With every shift of the head, the visor on the helmet reflects the faint orangey light from the force field above.

The skin on the back of my neck prickles. Corvants are a rare sight in the Fifth, and seeing one usually means more ill than good. As Enoch’s presiding law enforcement, they’ve come to represent fear and retribution. But despite the precinct’s reputation for crime, the Corvants don’t hold a presence here. Not like they do in most of the other sectors of the city. I often wonder if that’s on purpose, assuming they believe we’ll stamp ourselves out of existence. A deserted precinct will mean that many less mouths to feed.

A second and third Corvant appear in the crowd. That’s when I know something is amiss. The others in the square seem to realize the same thing. Heads begin to turn, faces pale with apprehension.

The heavy churning of motors and the scent of gasoline fill the air as two large, bullet-grey vehicles pull into the square. As if of a collective mind, everyone’s attention is now directed to the stretch of open concrete. A mass of Corvants unloads from the rear of each truck, spilling out to form a perimeter around the central promenade. Several others break from the group to form a single, perfect line beneath the large, static-filled monitor. The way they move is so precise and effortless, as if this exact drill has been practiced to perfection. Once the Corvants establish their formation, a stillness settles over the crowd.

Each officer stands stock-still, resolute in his or her militaristic demeanor. All sport the same black armored suit, their assault rifles held at the ready across their chests as if anticipating disorder. There’s an instantaneous shift in the atmosphere, and it isn’t a friendly one. Coming to the edge of the crowd, I glance around at the civilian faces. Some look skeptical, others expressing fear or shock, and then there are those who maintain a stalwart neutrality.

Murmurs float through the thicket of bodies.

“Mommy, I’m scared.” I hear a small voice say from somewhere behind me. Some several feet away is a little girl, three or four at the most, clutching her mother’s leg. She’s a waif of a thing—a stick bundled in oversized clothes. Wispy copper hair a flyaway mess, which she brushes out of her eyes with the back of a tiny hand. Her mother, a flash forward portrait of the little girl, lifts her up into her arms.

“There’s nothing to fear, child,” she says. The woman’s tone is consoling—perfect in that motherly way—but her face suggests her own underlying concern. Not so easily comforted, the girl wraps her arms around her mother’s neck and rests her head upon her shoulder.

I watch them both longer than I should, lost in a fantasy of what the girl’s life must be like. I imagine the safety of having a parent, wondering what it must be like to have someone soothe your fears or hold you while you cry. It’s a stupid thing to do, but part of me envies her.

The girl’s gaze finds me through the crowd, our eyes connecting for a lingering moment. There is no judgment in her stare, no emotion at all, but the way she looks at me so simply is piercing. I struggle to turn away, only distracted by the pop and screech of electricity that echoes above the square.

White noise drops like a net over the promenade—loud and grating—flooding from a speaker system overhead. I cover my ears with my hands to try and dull the sound. For the first time in ages, the monitor overhead flickers to life. Static fills the screen for several long moments until yielding over to the deep red of Enoch’s emblem—a geometric rendering of the city’s domed profile. In the center, where two halves of the figurative buildings rise to a peak, a ten-pointed star glimmers and rotates at the pinnacle. It’s a harsh thing, the emblem. Black on a crimson background, the star the only fleck of white. Beneath the city’s name, written in squashed, blocky lettering, is our motto: scientia fortis defendit—“science protects the strong.”

A collective unease falls upon the crowd, the hush bringing with it a heavy foreboding. Bodies gather in closer around me, clusters of men and women of all ages. Most of their faces smudged with visible signs of labor. There are couples and families and some other relationships in between. I can tell by how they touch one another—arms around shoulders or hands clasped together at their sides. Then there are those like me, standing alone with no one to offer comfort.

“Attention all citizens.” A voice booms through the square, reverberating off the pavement and buildings that surround the square. The image on the monitor has changed, replaced by the larger-than-life presence of the Archon—the chief electoral seat of Enoch’s government—Ianus Krull.

He’s older than I remember, his cropped black hair now peppered with grey. The creases at his eyelids and mouth extend outward into the skin, making his face appear more careworn. Even his eyes look tired. Once a striking shade of amber, they’ve since faded to a lukewarm brown. It must be an odd thing for a man of science—one who’s built his whole life’s purpose towards the eternal preservation of mankind—to be drawing nearer his own mortality.

But for all that’s changed about the Archon, there are some things about him that remain the same. Every movement, including his posture, is rigid and devoid of warmth. His clothing, a heavy black jacket embroidered with beautiful gold filigree, claws at his throat with its stifling high collar, the fashion trademark of a senior official. It gives me the impression of someone being held at knifepoint, as if his larynx is being held taught for fearing of being cut. Worst of all, and the one thing that reminds me most of Ianus Krull, is the way the light never quite seems to touch his eyes.

He seems to be the type of man who’s always measuring the world, calculating how best he can bend it to his will.

“This year marks the centennial anniversary since the great Exodus—a time when we rose from the ashes of an ancient civilization to ascend into a new world, a world built and preserved by science.” Heads crane up to where the Archon addresses us from above. When he speaks, remarkably, it’s only his mouth that moves. “It was during our darkest hour, when we as a species faced total eradication, that Enoch, our great city and the last bastion of mankind, became the vessel of humanity last hope.”

I break my gaze from the monitor, surveying the people around me. They’re so tightly focused on what Krull is saying that the fear is palpable. I, too, can feel it settling around my lungs like an elastic restricting them reaching their full capacity.

“It is here that we, the strong, were able to survive. Because of Zendesla and his contemporaries, we were able to rebuild society and preserve ourselves as the dominant species on this planet. But we have become shortsighted, growing comfortable and careless in our efforts. We take for granted the protective measures of this city, and have since been blindsided by our complacency.”

Bile sticks at the back of my throat as I anticipate what Krull is going to say next. Part of me doesn’t even need him to say it, the words already written in the reflection of his russet colored eyes as if mirrored by the prompt he reads. All of my fears and suspicions swirl around me, waiting to materialize and become stark reality. And that’s when I hear him say it.

“It is with great regret and a heavy heart that I must tell you the Cain virus, the same virus that once threatened to destroy us, has returned.” My heart begins to race upon hearing Krull’s last words, and I know I’m not the only one. A buzz works its way through the crowd as everyone struggles to process what’s been said. Before Enoch and the walls that now protect us, the Cain virus spread across the globe in uneven, arrhythmic patches. But now, unleashed within the city, we are all just fish swimming round and round the proverbial barrel.

“At this time, we do not yet know why or how the virus has come to penetrate our defenses, though I assure you your government is working tirelessly to uncover and eradicate its source. While we still believe the virus and its Carriers to be contained, there is the potential for more Carriers to be identified.”

Panic blossoms around me. First in small pockets, but then growing into a wave that undulates across the promenade like a storm at sea. Suspicion and accusation rise above the crowd as everyone voices their concern, disapproval, and outrage. Somewhere behind me, a man begins to shout at the screen. I’m too lost in my own thoughts to discern about what.

“As Archon of this great city, my highest priority remains, and shall always be, the safety and well being of its people. Therefore, under federal decree, all citizens of Enoch will present themselves to their precinct’s ReGen center for mandatory medical evaluation.” Hysteria breeds like wildfire as shouts break out against the Archon’s announcement. The Corvants standing beneath the monitor, once forming a tight line, begin to break formation. Their assault rifles drop into a ready position. This action alone subdues some of the outbursts.

As if perfectly timed, Krull’s speech continues in tandem with the slight chaos that’s ensued. “To oversee the efficacy of these evaluations, law enforcement has been dispatched to each precinct to maintain and instill order. Insubordination will not be tolerated. Anyone resisting assessment will be dealt with accordingly.

I urge you to remember that it is your duty as a rightful, law-abiding citizen to make known any threats to our great nation during this trying time. Our future as a species remains a collective effort, one from which no one shall be exempt. I thank you for your compliance, and as always, may knowledge protect the strong.”

The broadcast cuts out. However, instead of returning to its previous inactive state, the monitor is fixed with the red of the city’s emblem. Once somber and calming, I now see it as nothing less than the color of blood. A tingling sensation works through my joints, a numbness born from my own fear. Like a match to flame, it hits me. I have to get out of here.

I don’t wait for the people to move, most of them still immobilized in the aftermath of Krull’s announcement. Moving as quickly as I can, I duck and weave through the field of bodies, trying to find the clearest path possible. My mind isn’t on the unrest that ripples through the crowd or the growing presence of law enforcement sent here to maintain order. Right now, there is only one thing on my mind, and he—the one person I have in this world—is laying fast asleep miles away unaware that there’s an entire city on the hunt to find him.