The song ends and there is a short discussion about what next to sing. At least five suggestions – they must have dozens in their repertoire – are quickly made before they settle on a song titled “Up High”. It begins slowly. At first, it’s only Sissy’s voice, undulating with the peaks and troughs of the melody.
The ground beneath your feet
hums with the heat of the day’s sun
all alone, the heat trapped within your heartbeat
until the night falls and the sun is done.
The other voices join in the chorus, harmonising perfectly. They’re so fluid and flawless, it’s evident they’ve sung this song hundreds of times before. Imprisoned by glass and distance, they probably have nothing else to do to while away the endless days but sing. Singing gives them what they most need: an illusion of hope, a transportation to other places.
Sailing through the bluest sky
above the hawks that sigh
above the clouds that cry.
The song, though haunting in places, has an undeniable catchiness about it. At first, I just mouth the words. Then, almost unwittingly, I find myself pushing air through my larynx, formulating sounds. But it’s not easy. It’s all croaks coming out of my mouth.
Then something happens: it’s as if a giant ball of phlegm in my throat is dislodged. For one verse, I hit the notes. For just those few moments, I’m completely lost in the rhythm of the song. I ride it, a kite flung in the air, catching the sweetest of winds.
The song ends, and there is laughter coming from inside. They burst out seconds later, Ben leading.
“I thought I heard an asthmatic dog wheezing to death out here,” Jacob says, friendly laughter dancing in his eyes.
“Dog, whatever,” David says, smiling. “That was more like an elephant.”
“More like a herd of elephants,” Ben says, so beside himself, he’s hopping from one foot to the next. They’re all laughing now, the sun playing off their hair, adding dots of light to their eyes. Sunshine glimmers off the hairs on their arms, little puffs of dust kick up at their feet, their carefree voices ring into the bright air.
“C’mon, it’s funny, you have to admit it,” Sissy says to me. Her face is all abandon and nakedness as she looks at me. There is a smile in her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her cheekbones, her forehead, all of it spilling so infectiously outward to me, past me, filling the world like the sun. She busts out with sweet laughter, her eyes closing in sheer delight.
And just like that, something trickles out of me I thought was long ago irretrievably lost. A laugh shakes out, guttural and coarse through disuse, bursting through my constricted vocal cords. And my face – there’s no other way to describe this – rips apart like a cracked hard-boiled eggshell. A smile crinkles across my mouth, spreading along my face. I feel pieces of the mask falling off, like crusts of dried paint flaking off a wall. I laugh louder.
“What the heck was that?” Jacob says. “Did a gorilla just fart through its mouth?”
And they crack up even more, their laughter lifting into the air, joined only moments later by the sound of my own laughter, guttural and coarse, free and thoughtless.
I leave the Dome not because I want to but because I have to. Not that the Dome will be closing anytime soon – after yesterday’s close call, I’m not taking any chances and I have at least fifteen minutes to spare. I have to get back for some serious shut-eye. All two hours of what’s left of the day, anyway. I’ve been running on fumes the last few nights, and there’s a real danger, not so much of dozing off during tonight’s Gala, but of getting careless in front of all the guests and cameras: a yawn, a frown, an unsuppressed cough. I can’t get sloppy at such a crucial time. Just a couple more nights to hang on; then, as long as I can pull off my broken-leg stunt, I’ll be home free.
With food and water in me, the walk back to the library seems so much shorter. What before was a significant hike is now nothing more than a short stroll. Even with the added weight of three full bottles of water, I’m halfway there before—
Hello, what’s this?
In the distance, a dot, moving. Directly in front of the Institute building – no, not a dot, but a dark smear running. Towards me.
I freeze. There’s nowhere to hide. Not a boulder to crouch behind, not even a depression in the ground into which to slink. It’s got to be an animal lost out in the Vast. But then again, it’s rare to see wildlife out here; most animals have learned not to stray too close.
A horse, I think to myself, it’s got to be a horse, escaped out of the stable. Then I remember what my escort previously told me: there are no horses at the Institute out of fear the hepers might use them to escape. On rare occasions, like tonight’s Gala event, when guests arrive by horseback and carriages, the horses are kept under tight lock in the stable.
It runs closer, and I realise what it is. Not wildlife, not a horse. This is a person.
I don’t think I’ve been spotted. Yet. I quickly prostrate myself, my chin jutting into the crusty desert soil.
It’s one of the hunters, it has to be, testing out one of the accessories. Donning the SunCloak or the SunBlock Lotion. Judging from the bulbous hooded shape around the head, probably the Sun-Cloak.
And then I realise its intent.
The hepers. It’s making a break for the hepers, trying to get at them before the protective Dome emerges. And now, just minutes from the Dome’s closing and with the sun rays less potent, is its chance.
Just then, a door on the ground floor of the Institute building swings open. And something – someone – shoots out like a racing horse out of the blocks. It moves with wicked speed, a blur. Moving straight towards the heper village. Or me. I’m lying in a direct line.
The cloaked figure is at a full sprint now -I can see arms pumping hard, legs pounding the ground. But it’s the second figure that’s just emerged that is far quicker. Already, it’s covered half the distance between them. Within no more than ten seconds, both are close enough for me to recognise.
The cloaked figure is Ashley June, her pointed chin unmistakable under the hood. There’s something off about her. But my attention is quickly diverted to the sprinting figure almost caught up to her now – Beefy. His appearance is bizarre and frightening. He’s smeared over completely with the SunBlock Lotion, the rich yellow white cream lathered thickly over his torso like icing on cake. He’s completely naked (for speed?) except for a pair of black goggles pulled tight over his eyes.
I leap up, dropping the bottles of water, and sprint. Not to the library – it’s too far away. But to the Dome. I’ll pretend to be joining the Hunt, make them think I’m running with the pack. That’s the only way I can explain being outside. True, I have neither Sun-Cloak nor SunBlock Lotion, but I’m hoping that detail will be forgotten in the excitement.
It works. Ashley June runs past me, labouring – the SunCloak is not working, the sunlight is getting to her. Seconds later, Beefy flashes by, the smell of the lotion overpowering. Nobody says anything: we’re competition to one another; it’s survival of the fittest, not friendliest.