The In Between

Chapter 45

Justin

I lie completely still for hours on end, listening to the rotation of Enforcers patrolling the grounds. I wonder if one of them is Anton's buddy, Caleb. I've never been good at waiting.

Caleb might be my last chance, and I'm not even sure if I can find him. Or if he will help.

At long last, when the door to my hut begins to creak open and each lock slides open with that grating metallic whine, I sit at attention. In the open doorway I can see Damaris speaking with an Enforcer who is double her size in height and width.

"I have been ordered to take the boy back to Zerachiel," Damaris says, talking slowly, her usually light soprano weighted down with a grave sense of importance.

The Enforcer holds out his black gloved hand. "Passport."

Damaris reaches into her tunic. And reaches again. Her face takes on a worried cast and her skin pinkens.

"He's not going anywhere without a passport," the Enforcer warns her.

"Of course not. But it seems Zerachiel neglected to return it to me for this transfer. I do have this, though." Damaris pulls out a large piece of heavy parchment paper engraved with glossy black letters. I can see it as the Enforcer holds it up to study.

Summons

 

It is identical to the document that Damaris greeted me with when I was caught on Earth. I watch as the Enforcer studies the parchment carefully before finally handing it back to Damaris. He opens the door just enough to face me, motioning with his forefinger.

"Westcroft. You have been called back. You must go with your Guide."

I go to the door and nod in greeting to Damaris, but she won't meet my eyes. The seriousness of her expression, her total lack of acknowledgment, troubles me. She starts to walk without a word, her shining scarlet hair streaming out behind her.

"Damaris?" I call after her.

She turns partially around to face me, one finger to her delicate lips. "Not a word."

I have trouble breathing as I walk quickly to keep up, not knowing where we're going or what lies in store. We make our way down the narrow graveled path until we get to gates of the High Security Zone. We pause as an Enforcer in the highest watch tower picks up his radio transmitter, listens, then allows the gate to swing silently open. I scurry through, glad to be on the side.  

Still, Damaris will not look at me. 

Still, she will not speak to me.  She must have bad news to tell me, or she would meet my eyes.

I follow her as she turns left, away from the main road. The dilapidated buildings begin to grow closer together and people walk in groups or alone, their heads bent against the low-hanging clouds and the dank chill that is ever-present in the soupy air. Looming in the distance, getting closer, is the windowless steel structure of the Mission Registration Bureau.

Damaris hurries past a deserted playground. The swings, detached from their chains, lie on the cement ground in discarded heaps next to stubs of ancient chalk. We go past rows of tenements with broken windows and street signs lying dented on the ground. Destruction and desolation mark every falling building, every deserted store window. 

She pulls me behind a building and glances around nervously. "You must take out the tracking chip."

"What?"