Life First: (Dystopian series, book 1) Read online

  Chapter 3: LMS

  If I could bounce off the walls, I would. The wait is getting to me. It’s hard knowing what you want is within reach, but untouchable at the moment. I urge my students to be patient daily, yet here I am unable to take my own advice. I temporarily calm myself by reading a novel about space adventures. It is trite and silly, but I enjoy it because it’s a gift from Luke. And anything from Luke makes me happy.

  I sit “crisscross applesauce,” as we kindergarten teachers love to say, with my back against the wall. The room feels too warm, so I roll up my sleeves and fan myself with the book. I glide the book through the air slowly, but consistently, bringing a weak, but steady, breeze. Then it occurs to me that maybe it isn’t hot. Maybe it’s just nerves. Maybe fleeing has put me on edge.

  I look at my arm, midway between wrist and elbow, at the slightly raised square of flesh that used to give me such comfort. Just under the skin is my life monitoring system (LMS): a tiny computer chip that tracks the body’s major systems to make sure they’re functioning correctly. Each LMS is linked wirelessly to a government database. If my blood pressure were to dip dramatically due to a stab wound, the LMS would signal the government for help. Because all LMS chips emit a low-level tracking beacon, the government can easily find anyone and send aid.

  I’ve always felt comforted knowing my LMS would bring help. It was like the ultimate safety blanket. But tonight, I feel the opposite. The LMS means I can be tracked, and that is the last thing I want. If the rumors are true, authorities are monitoring my LMS data. If I leave, the LMS will lead them to me within minutes.

  Under normal circumstances, that is. But, a few well-placed dollars allowed Luke and I to change the circumstances. A source inside the LMS monitoring group promised to alter my identity data temporarily. For a period overnight, the source will switch Haleema’s LMS data with mine. When I leave, it will look like Haleema is leaving. No reason for anyone to get alarmed. I feel guilty about involving Haleema. There weren’t a lot of choices about whom to switch ID with, and I’ve convinced myself that she’ll be OK with it. Hopefully, this is not wishful thinking.

  Once I leave here, I’ll travel about a mile to the safe house, where Dr. Grant will remove my LMS and place it in Buddy, our five-year-old Black Russian Terrier. Normally, removing an LMS causes the device’s alarm to go off. However, Dr. Grant knows a way to stop the alarm from sounding long enough to reinsert the LMS into Buddy. A regulator chip will make sure Buddy’s data looks enough like a person’s that techs shouldn’t notice any difference.

  Unfortunately, the chip can only regulate data, not forge it, so the LMS must be implanted into another mammal in order for the regulator to work. Mainly it will control for minor differences in heart rate and temperature between dogs and humans. It would be better if we could simply take my chip out, slap the regulator on it and leave it in my room. But, this is the best we can do. The tech will switch Haleema’s and my data back in the morning. When I don’t show for surgery, authorities will track my LMS and find only Buddy. I’ll be long gone.

  That’s the plan at least. All I need now is Susan’s call — at 10:15 — to say my LMS data has been switched with Haleema’s.

  The mobile phone in my pocket is set to vibrate, so Haleema won’t hear. I don’t want to involve Susan in my escape. She’s already had more trouble than anyone deserves in life. Yet, she wants to be a part of this. She wants to help set me free.

  Given all she’s been through, I feel I owe it to her. Owe her the opportunity to help me. We’re uneven in our relationship. Not in any tangible way, but in a more ethereal way. Susan thinks about it like Yin and Yang or tit-for-tat or basic Karma. She believes things need to be balanced, equal. In reality, things are, but she doesn’t see it that way. She is hung up on Camp Picklewick. That was the summer I saved Susan’s life.

  Even back then, Susan was an overachiever. She wanted to be the best at everything. And that summer, being the best meant winning the camp triathlon. She had everything down, except for swimming, so she dragged me out to the lake to watch her practice. She told me the only way to improve was to “push yourself to the brink, then go one step more.” She couldn’t go one step more that day, though. From the shore, 50 yards away, I saw her go under.

  Survival statistics had taught me well. If I called for help and waited, she would die. If I saved her myself, she had a chance at life. So, I jumped in and swam to her, reminding myself that the average swimmer had an 87 percent chance of pulling this off. Thank God Susan’s hair is as bright and fiery red as her personality. It was the only thing that helped me find her. She’d been sinking and resurfacing, so I could keep track of her, and execute my sorry attempt at a rescue. As I got close enough to almost grab her, she sank and didn’t bob back to the top. I managed to duck my head under and see that dazzling red plume of hair in the murky water. Reaching her, grabbing hold and pulling her head above water was the most satisfying moment of my life. I had saved my best friend from certain death.

  That rescue threw us out-of-whack. Susan feels she owes me for that day, owes me something more than she owes the rest of society. Frankly, any average swimmer would have done for her what I did. Only, it was me who saved her, so she wants to repay me. She thinks helping me now will somehow even the slate.

  Truth is, the slate’s always been even. I was a shy child, and having a friend like Susan, an outgoing, dynamic, full-force personality, helped me immeasurably in making new friends and fitting in. But, she’s never seen it that way. So, tonight, she’s my signal that it’s time to go, that I don’t have to worry about my LMS betraying me. After tonight, we’ll be even in her mind.

  Chapter 4: Go

  The buzzing on my thigh startles me. Realizing it’s my phone, I pull it from my pocket and glance at the screen. Susan’s number. I press “answer” and put the phone to my ear. “Hello,” I say softly.

  “Hey former roomy,” Susan says.

  “Don’t start,” I retort, full of mock indignation. “I’m coming back to our apartment — after I recover.”

  She chuckles. “I know. I miss you,” she says. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “No, no. I wasn’t quite ready for sleep yet. I’m glad you called.”

  This has all been rehearsed, in the event my line is being recorded. There are rumors that once you’ve been marked, nothing is private. That everything is monitored to make sure no one does precisely what I am attempting to do. It’s not clear if this rumor is true, so we don’t want to chance it.

  Susan and I came up with plausible patter. It’s all true. I’m glad she called; I would go back to our apartment, if I were really going through with the surgery. I miss her. I miss our apartment. I wish I could be there. Sadly, the escape plan requires me to leave from here.

  “Are you worried?” Susan asks me, following the script to a tee.

  “A little,” I lie. I’m incredibly worried. “It’s normal to be a little nervous before surgery, right?”

  “Yeah, it is, but don’t worry. Everything will be fine. You’re all set to go.”

  That’s it. That’s the signal. Simple and clear: You’re all set to go. My entire body relaxes. At least a hundred muscles I hadn’t realized were tight unfurl all at once. I know Susan will hear the relief in my voice. “Yeah, you’re right Susan. I shouldn’t worry.”

  Her tone changes subtly, and I know she has picked up on the fact that I am no longer a heap of tangled nerves. She continues her part. “It’s late, Kelsey. You ought to get some sleep.”

  “Yeah, I think I will,” I say, just as we rehearsed. “Good night.”

  She responds in kind, and with that, I press “end call,” tuck the phone under my pillow and climb out of bed. This is it. Do or die. Now or never.

  My stomach churns as I grab my shoulder bag. It has cash, the wig, contact lenses and a fake ID. I’m not sure how helpful the fake ID will be. If someone’s asking for my ID, I’m alr
eady in trouble.

  Securing the satchel over my shoulder, I stop at my dresser and pull out two envelopes: a letter for my father and another for Haleema. It’s the best I can do at good-bye, since I can’t say it personally. I set the letters on the dresser, quickly feeling my father’s to make sure the chip with the video recording is sealed inside.

  * * *

  Skulking out of the house with Buddy is simpler than I expected. I don’t run into Haleema or anyone else. I simply creep down the stairs, secure my wig, grab Buddy, slide open the door and cross the yard. I look back at the stately brick house and mouth a final good-bye. This place will always hold a special place in my heart because I lived here with my mother. But, I can’t stay any longer.

  After a few quick paces, I am in the forest and out of sight.

  All night, I’ve been avoiding thinking about my fate, but here in the darkness, I can’t help feeling slightly bitter knowing that society hasn’t always been like this. That there was a time when things were different. A time before the pandemics that wiped out 80 percent of the world’s population. A time before society decided we owed our fellow man all that we could safely give, if it meant survival. A time before there were statistical charts that told you when you should sacrifice to save others and when it was too risky to save a life. A time before you had to give blood biennially during the month of your birth to maintain an efficient, healthy blood supply. A time before everyone got DNA-typed, with the info stuck in a database to use if someone got really sick and needed a donation.

  It’s been 100 years since the pandemics hit, and 50 years since the era of Life First swept in. It was only three weeks ago that I learned I was likely the best match for a man in Virginia with failing kidneys. Two weeks ago, after the results of extra testing returned, that it was determined I was the best match. I was officially marked for donation. And once you’re marked, there is no turning back.

  So, I won’t. I can’t. Instead, I look ahead, into the pit of darkness before me and take heart knowing that not everyone fell in love with Life First. Jerry Maylee didn’t. He took his band of people opposed to Life First laws and set up shop in what used to be called Florida. The joke at the time was that the strip of land would erode away in a few hundred years, and the world would finally be rid of those who refused to preserve life.

  When he was no longer part of the nation, Maylee and his band of followers decided to name their new country Peoria after Maylee’s hometown. The original Peoria, the one Mr. Maylee was from, was in Illinois. There was an ancient entertainment slogan that evolved among performers who tested their shows in small towns before taking them to big cities: “If it won’t play in Peoria, it won’t play anywhere.” Well, for Mr. Maylee, “Life First” didn’t play in Peoria, and it never would.

  So that’s where I am headed tonight: Peoria. I will take the midnight train to Georgia. It’s some odd historical thing that runs twice a month. Luckily, tonight is one of the runs. Once I get to Georgia, I’ll get a one-way rental car, saying that I am going to visit family, and drive to the border town of Valdosta. Then I will sneak across the border, using a hidden crossing. And at last I’ll be safe.

  Chapter 5: Trouble

  Crossing the forest is a process that requires the bulk of my concentration. Not because it is particularly arduous, but because it is so pitch black. There is cloud cover so the moon—and it’s beautiful, guiding light — is hidden. I can’t use a flashlight for fear someone will see me. Maybe that’s an irrational fear. Who in their right mind is in the woods in the middle of the night?

  So, I march ahead, Buddy padding along almost noiselessly at my side. He’s a good dog that way. I wish he didn’t have to be part of this. I’m dragging everyone — Haleema, Buddy, Susan — into my escape. I must not get distracted by those thoughts. I must focus on moving forward.

  I count off seconds in my head, trying to approximate the ticking of a clock. My test walk through the forest the other day took 18 minutes, 1080 seconds. When I get to that magic number, I should be at the clearing and almost at the church.

  That’s the place Dr. Grant picked to meet. He’s used it before, he said, though I don’t know the reason. I haven’t asked, nor will I. Dr. Grant’s services require secrecy, and I have no interest in violating that mandate. Fittingly, the church was a stop on the Underground Railroad hundreds of years ago and its secret cellar still exists.

  I stop just short of the edge of the woods that separate my family’s home from St. Ignatius. I need to go it alone for the moment, so I tie Buddy to a tree, a few yards into the woods, tell him to stay and that I’ll be back soon. He seems hesitant, but remains still as I walk to the tree line adjacent to the church’s lawn.

  Like the woods, the church rests at an elevation higher than the street. The grounds are dimly lit, as are all things. Light pollution is bad for the earth, and therefore people, so all lights remain dim, unless a person is nearby. The grounds won’t illuminate until I get close enough to be picked up by the motion sensors.

  I scan the area. Down the hill, parked on the street is a tan sedan that will serve as my escape car. Once Dr. Grant has removed my LMS, I will drive that unmemorable vehicle to the train station.

  I take a deep breath, close my eyes, whisper a quick prayer, and step out of the woods. When I am halfway across the field separating the woods from the church, headlights appear on the road. I contemplate dashing to the building, but see red strobes illuminate the night like a disco ball. A police car. Shit.

  Do they know already? Did my father come back to check on me and find me missing? Are they here to take me back to him? Or worse, to take me to a holding facility? No, it’s early. Even if I am caught, I won’t be sent to a holding facility. I haven’t, technically, done anything wrong yet. It won’t be a crime until I don’t show up in the morning.

  I consider running back to the woods, but an officer would catch me. Not to mention, what if I am wrong? What if they haven’t realized I am running? What if they aren’t trying to bring me back home? What if this is coincidence? Then, I’ll definitely look suspicious.

  The police car parks on the road in front of the church. A stone path cuts downhill through the field connecting the road to the church’s front door. The officer gets out and begins climbing the path toward me.

  I quickly lift one hand to my head, and feel to make sure the wig remains in place. Although it seems fine, there is no way to know for sure without a mirror. I turn my head, then reach into my shoulder bag and put on a pair of glasses Dr. Grant gave me. The lenses have no magnification; but he felt they would make my real features less memorable. As I turn back, the officer is cresting the top step and heading my direction. I wait for him to come closer, then smile. “Good evening, officer,” I say.

  He looks me over as if I don’t belong, releases a long sigh, then forces a smile. “Evening, Ma’am,” he says, removing his cap. He inclines his head in the direction of the car parked on the street a few feet in front of his cruiser. “Is that your car?”

  I nod, trying to perfect a confused expression. I pretend to be the normal one. He is the weirdo for asking about a strange woman and a strange car at a church late at night.

  He looks back toward the car, then at me, fidgeting with the cap in his hands. “Are you alright?”

  Now, I genuinely am confused. I nod again.

  He puts his cap back on. “Can you speak your answers, so I can make sure you’re OK?”

  “Sure,” I say, nodding my head yet again for reinforcement. It feels like it’s becoming a nervous tic. I’ll have to stop nodding. “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

  He shifts his weight from his left foot to his right and shakes his head sheepishly. “Governor Wannabe is a do-gooder,” he says.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Which candidate?”

  “Reed. He has a house not far from here. He called to report a vehicle parked in front of the church. Said it had been here when he arrived three hours ago, and was still h
ere when he left. He thought the church was closed, and wanted an officer to come check out the area, make sure no one had been hurt.”

  I feign another puzzled look as I privately wish my father would mind his own business. “LMS would’ve reported someone hurt, right?”

  He chuckles. “Yeah, but you know how these bigwigs get. They want someone to check it out. How’d it look if he saw this, didn’t report it and we found someone dead due to a damaged sensor.”

  I touch my forearm. “Damaged? These things are great. Never had a moment of trouble with mine.”

  He briefly eyes the little square protrusion between his wrist and elbow, then me. “Yeah, me neither.”

  We share a moment of silence, as neither of us has much else to say. As I hear the crickets singing their night song, I pray Buddy will stay quiet. He isn’t much of a barker, but he also isn’t used to being left alone in the woods.

  I need to move this along. I tilt my head toward the church. “Well,” I say, as I begin walking. “If that’s it, I’m going to get back to church.”

  He follows me a second, then reaches out and grabs hold of my shoulder. “Wait,” he barks. I turn to face him, and he lets go of me. Clearly puzzled, he looks at the church and says, “It’s closed.”

  I start to shake my head, but stop, as I’m concerned about the wig. “No, it’s open,” I explain. “For prayer and candle lighting.”

  He looks toward the church, where light is emanating from one of the chapel’s stained-glass windows, then back to me. He pauses, asks. “So, you’ve been here, for several hours?”

  I wish this guy would leave. I want to bolt, but being too urgent will do me no good. I smile, as if he’s just said the silliest thing in the world. “No, of course not.” I lower my voice, cast my eyes down and pause through my words as if I’m choked up. “This was my mother’s favorite church. She died when I was six, in a crash at 11 o’clock. I wanted to light a candle at her exact time of death. I stopped in earlier to check with the chaplain that this was still a 24-hour church. I just came back a little while ago.”