Rehabilitation: Romantic Dystopian (Unbelief Series Book 1) (8 page)

I never liked being in this part of the city, but Jacob used to always want to come here.

“This is where we’ll find it,” he always declared, tone adamant, eyes lit with hope and determination. “If there’s anything they’d want gone, completely eradicated, it would have been
that
. And they tried to get rid of
everything
around here.”

Whether he was right or wrong, we never found what he was looking for and after a while he finally agreed the place was creepy and promised he’d stop making me come back here.

“Guess you broke your promise,” I mutter into the creepy too still air.

Because he
is
making me come out here, whether he meant to or not this time. My boots clop over the blackened cement as I keep a sharp eye out. I’ve come here for something specific, something that will guarantee attention.

Last night, I didn’t sleep. Not even a wink. Every time my eyes tried to slide shut, I had this image of Rehabilitation flash in front of them. Like it was burned into my eyelids. I pictured Jacob there, horrible things happening to him... and then Miriam would be standing beside him, limp and just sort of staring with those wide gray eyes. She would watch, horrified as he was hurt, hurt badly even, but she wouldn’t
do
anything. And then there was the body.

I always tried not to look at the body lying on the ground near Miriam’s feet, but I didn’t have to to know instinctively who it was. My dad. Dresden Reardon, his light brown hair matted down to his face and his hazel eyes just staring out at nothing... I shove the picture hastily from my mind, refusing to give it a foothold. That’s what kept me from sleeping last night. The idea people I care about are trapped there in Rehabilitation, being tortured just because they believe in something the Elite doesn’t like.

At this point, I can’t help Miriam or my father. Miriam has come and gone from Rehabilitation and whatever damage they did is already done. I can’t stop it or change it, and my Dad is dead. Jacob is there in that camp
now
. And I can still do something to help him. I’m determined to do something.

The problem is, I don’t quite know what that something is. I don’t know how to help him. Miriam told me last night as we sat in front of the fire if I wanted Jacob back—and I do, I desperately do—then I’m going to have to bring him back myself.

But she didn’t tell me just how I’m supposed to do that. So I stayed up, trying not to think or dream, and came up with an idea during the night. It’s a stupid plan. It’s a plan that’s going to get me into more trouble than I know how to get out of, I’m certain. But what do I have to lose? Jacob is gone. My best friend, the only person in this world I still care about is
stuck
in some glorified concentration camp. He’s basically a prisoner.
 

No one will let me see his sister, so I can’t take care of her. I can’t keep her safe or be of any comfort to her, and that would be the
only
thing that would stop me from trying the unthinkable. So... I came up with a plan.

I’m going to break into Rehabilitation.

“Yeah, brilliant plan,” I say to the cold, trying not to focus too hard on the other part of my big plan.

I try not to touch anything in the blackened area, still worried there’s something not quite right about the region and it’s going to make me sick if I touch any of it. Instead, I use the toes of my boots to kick at things, moving them around as I search the barren ruins.

I have to find something provocative. Something forbidden. That’s the
other
part of my big plan. Once I realized I would have to get into Rehabilitation, I also realized there was only one way I could do that: fail at Trial. Except that’s the kicker. I’ve had only one Trial the last few years, compared to most people who have anywhere between two and ten Trials in a single year. I
never
get Selected for Trial. Why? Because everyone knows I’m not a Believer. There’s no point in testing me, it’s always been a wasted effort. After my mother’s death, I’m surprised they test me at all anymore.

Most of the time, I would consider that a good thing. I always knew I didn’t want to go to the Hall of Science and sit in a white room for hours while they tried to decide if there is something in my head they didn’t like. Except now I know I
need
to get there, so things are much more complicated.

First, there’s the problem that Selections are random. Random time, random place, random person. Selection might be at the Gate this month, or up at one of the other sectors instead. They might take only one person or they might take twenty. It’s impossible to predict, which is deliberate. They don’t want to give us any time to prepare for our Trials. They like to catch us off guard so they can discover the truth about what we think.

That’s not a huge problem though. Random Selections don’t affect me in this case seeing as how I
want
to go to Trial. I just have to be patient and wait. Not my strongest virtue, but what choice do I have?

The second problem is a tiny bit trickier though. When Selection
does
occur, how will I make sure they Select
me?
I’m the least likely person to get Selected. No one’s going to be suspicious of my beliefs. Absolutely no one. I sigh, incredulous that
unbelief
is a bigger problem for me right now than Believing. That’s why I’m out here, kicking around the charcoal of the Old World. I kind of hope me being out here at all is enough for them to look my way, but I don’t think it is. They never noticed my frequent trips into the Old World before, so why would they start now? No, I’ve got to give them a bigger reason. A reason they can’t ignore and I’ve decided what that reason will be. I’m going to find something banned and get caught with it.

Unfortunately, it’s not enough to just get caught with a book or clothing or something they know is from the ruins. Instead, I’ve got to come back with something
bad
... something from a church for instance. The ghost of a grin crosses my face, and I can’t help feeling quite pleased with myself in spite of the direness of the situation. So that’s what I’m looking for, a church. I hope Jacob was right and this charcoal landscape is where the old churches used to stand. Even more so, I hope amidst all the rubble I can find something truly incriminating.

I haven’t had a lot of luck as of yet and it’s starting to worry me. What if I can’t find anything? What if there’s nothing
to
find? There’s every possibility Jacob’s searching all these years has all been for nothing. Maybe—probably—the churches of the Old World are nothing more than rubble, destroyed completely by the people we now call the Elite. I bite off a sigh of frustration, but still refusing to abandon my big plan.
 

To my right I notice a building half caved in. It’s smaller than the others. It’s hard to tell, but I’m willing to bet it likely wasn’t one of those buildings that disappeared into the skies. Its bricks are blackened and what may have once been a door is little more than a pile of sticks on the ground near an opening. But there
is
an opening. I go to it and step carefully over the cracked wooden remains of the door. Inside, it’s stuffy and the air is stale. There obviously hasn’t been anyone in here since it was burned down.

Once inside, I’m not sure what kind of building it is. The inside of it is different from most of the Old World buildings I’ve seen or been inside of. Definitely wasn’t one of those sky scraper buildings, that’s for sure. Moving deeper inside, I continue to study my surroundings.
 

There’s a long middle aisle that covers the entire length of the large, single room. Wooden beams from the ceiling have collapsed on top of it, making it difficult for me to reach the other side. Gray light filters in through the non-existent roof, making the room appear ghostly. The quiet certainly doesn’t help. It’s not even the same quiet from outside. The quiet that fills the west side of the ruins is all about instant destruction. It’s about the feeling people didn’t even get a chance to take a breath before the end was upon them.
This
silence is different. I don’t know why though, all I know is it feels... more peaceful somehow?
Weird
. I shrug to myself and continue exploring.

Along either side of the middle aisle are rows and rows of benches. Many of them are charred completely black and are chipped so bad they’ve collapsed in the middle. Some have just been moved out of alignment, skewed so that they’re running into each other, and some even on top of others.

At the other end of the room it looks like there’s some sort of platform or dais, but the roof has caved down on it, covering it completely so I can’t see for sure what used to be there.

There’s little more than piles of dust and debris from the roof all along the floor. I jump over it and sidestep as best I can. It’s so quiet here I can hear my feet echo where they touch solid floor and creak where they hit wood. When I come to the wooden beams that block the aisle, I gingerly try to climb over them. Bracing myself with my hands, wrinkling my nose and hoping I’m not touching anything toxic, I dig my foot in and heave myself over the huge beam. I think I’ve made it and crawl over other pieces of wood to the other side, when I hear an ominous snapping sound.

I let out a cry just as the beams crack beneath me and I fall, landing hard on the ground with a grunt pain. My breath whooshes from my lungs on impact. A cloud of dust drifts up into the air, with light coming in through the roof making the individual specs of dust visible as they float on the air. I lay on my back, gasping for air and coughing, taking a moment to make sure I don’t have any serious injuries. I grimace, knowing I’m going to be sore later regardless.
 

I think I’m mostly okay, so I roll onto my side, ready to get to my hands and knees before pushing up to stand. Before I do though, I pause, my eyes caught on something I’d never have noticed had I not taken a spill of the beams. There on the floor, hidden under one of the long wooden rows, is a small book. It’s old and barely larger than my two hands put together. My eyes widen with surprise. I can’t believe I’ve found a book in this place. The only time I’ve ever come across books with Jacob was when we scouted schools and libraries, and most of those books hadn’t survived the brutality of time very well.

I worry this one hasn’t either.

With trembling hands, still shaken from my fall, I reach out for it, half afraid it might disintegrate the moment I touch it. But it doesn’t. I breathe a minute sigh of relief and gently slide it across the floor toward me. It’s covered in dust. I run a finger along the top of it and wrinkle my nose, coming away with a thick layer of the stuff. I wipe my finger on my pants, and taking a deep breath, I blow hard, blowing the dust off it, and making myself cough in the process amidst the cloud that rises in my face. I wave a hand and wipe my nose, struggling not to sneeze and pile on insult to injury.

When the dust clears, I can finally see the cover. I squint, but I’m only able to make out one word on it.
 

Prayer
.

My lips tilt in a small smile.
Jacob, here I come.

I
thought they would have come for me in the night by now, like they did for Jacob, but they haven’t. I’m still here, thrusting my hands into lukewarm water to wash the grease off used dishes. It’s my turn to help in the kitchen today. I don’t mind though. At least not much.

All the girls in the Home rotate chores. Some have to cook, some clean, some have to babysit the younger girls. Whatever needs doing around here, we mostly do ourselves. There are only five other women besides the Matron here who are adults and here by choice (we think), but the Home is their job and they have other tasks to perform besides chores.

Mostly tasks that involve keeping us all in line. Sometimes keeping girls from running away. I’ve never really understood that one myself. I hate this place as much as the next girl—it’s cold in the winters, sweltering in the summers; there’s very little food and what food we do have is terrible; we work ourselves into the ground for little more than a roof over our heads—but honestly, where would we run to?

Running away suggests there is somewhere out there better than here and I just don’t buy that. I’ve seen what’s out there, and it’s no better than anywhere else from what I can tell. Instead I scrub, even though the water I boiled when I started is barely warm anymore and a film of grease floats on the surface.
 

Miriam’s in the kitchen today, too. Her job is to dry the plates when I’m done with them. She’s been doing so for the last twenty minutes with a silence that feels deafening. We haven’t discussed Rehabilitation, Jacob, or much of anything since the night she told me what I would have to do to get my best friend back.