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Nine : Snow

Freaking hell, I just stabbed someone.

In the privacy of the elevator, my breath quickens, in-and-out, in-and-out, manically short bursts like an excited dog. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. It's all I can do to stay upright. When the doors spring open I rush through main reception towards the wall of sliding glass doors opposite. Ignoring the small congregation of waiting patients, making eye contact with no one (they are nothing but coloured blurs in my peripheral vision) my heavy winter-soled boots march straight outside. I prop myself against the cladding to keep steady. Breathe. Force my lungs full as they can go, until they are straining at the edges. Release. The sharp winter air slaps my cheeks, chilling the beads of sweat tickling the edges of my forehead, cold as iced water. I take another deep breath.

I freaking stabbed someone.

Already, this feels like it's gone too far. I should have done as I was told. Would it really kill me to do as my father says without complaint for once? Well, maybe. That's why I'm out here after all.

I rest my head against the smooth, impenetrable white cladding of the Medical Institute. Ahead of me spreads a few neat rows of gleaming, icy vehicles. All parked exactly the same distance apart, with the precision only a computer system could achieve. Now that I've stabbed someone, stealing a car shouldn't pose too much of a moral challenge. Problem is, the car won't start without authorised fingerprints.

I finally decide I had better connect to Corin, stretch my mind however far it needs to go. It's as easy as tapping a name in my notepad, now. I find myself hopping on the spot, foot to foot, jiggling to either keep warm or keep my nerves under control. I don't know. My body is doing its own thing.

"I just freaking stabbed someone!"

What? He replies immediately, as though he had never left my mind at all. Who? Why?

"Dr Frenchwood. It just sort of happened. But I'm out - I'm out of the Medical Institute!" Along with the jiggling, now I'm wrapping my plait around a fist. Making mittens out of silver hair.

Holy shit. Are you okay? It only strikes me for a second that he isn't interested in the details of my violent outburst. I unwrap and rewrap my hair.

"I'm fine. Probably about to be pursued, though."

With a spasm of regret, I realise I left the door open. When I sped from the exam room, Dr Frenchwood was alive, whimpering in a heap on the floor. It won't be long before someone discovers her, and she will be perfectly capable –and willing- to reveal the culprit.

"I'm not sure what to do," I admit, scanning the small, rather deserted car park in front of me. Since the introduction of the annual immunisations the Medical Institute isn't as busy as it used to be, now mostly treating quick cases of accidental injury. There's barely a tyre track in the snow today.

I open my bag and yank out my duck-down coat. Shrugged on and zipped up, there is no indication of the stolen property sitting cold and flat upon my stomach. I do look like I eat three chocolate cakes every day for breakfast, though.

I've been thinking about this, Corin says. You're going to need to stow away. On a cargo train.

"The only route out of the city," I reply. All at once, the sick feeling comes back. A crippling, churning, pain in my gut. I have never left my city. It's venturing into unfamiliar territory. Who knows what could be out there, beyond the Rings? I don't even know the distance of our closest neighbouring city. My father doesn't think I need to know things like that until I'm older, closer to taking up his role. I don't think he trusts me not to spill all his secrets to the kids at school, who would in turn tell their parents. Not that any of those kids talk to me anyway, but he doesn't know that. I wouldn't bother to tell him. He wouldn't care.

Find a train marked LT. Corin interrupts my thoughts. I push off the wall, waddling in my two coats, and sidle around the building. It's huge and white and intimidating, what I imagine skulking round at the base of an iceberg would be like. My shoes crunch at the ground, packing down the thin layer of grubby snow flecked with dirt. It's not signposted, but I know the way.

Once before, I've visited the cargo area around the back. They – the scientists - import and export medicines and produce and who knows what else. I was here with my father for a photo opportunity, sporting a pretty floral ruffled dress, and the sun beamed brightly. Now, the pitiful rays of weak sunshine filtering through the clouds are doing a poor job of warming me, so I start to jog. Through the mist of my breath, tangible in the icy air, I can see the rear of the building approaching.

Ahead, beneath a vast panel of roofing held aloft by fat steel columns, is a massive conglomeration of hulking grey trains parked up along rows of tracks. All the tracks, coming from different directions, lead to a huge turntable at the rear of the row of Institutes. There, one train at a time can be angled towards the appropriate Institute for its cargo and then rotated around, sent on its way. It's like a giant sun, each protruding track a ray cutting through the rings of fields into the horizon. Large shutter doors gape like mouths along the back of the Institutes. 

My boots batter the pavement as I round the corner, bag bouncing on my back. A few men are milling around unloading boxes of cargo from a train parked up on the turntable, directed at the Agricultural Institute. They are down the far end of the station, and haven't appeared to notice me yet, busy with their mini cargo haulers buzzing along what must be a little autogrid. They are close enough for me to catch the echo of their laughter, though. Skirting the circumference of the enormous turntable, I reach the queues of waiting trains, tails of carriages snaking behind them. Each train is marked with a double letter code on its rounded nose. HG, FL, PR. No LT that I can spot. I wonder vaguely if this is where the idea for the autogrid came from. Forced to navigate predetermined routes, deviations near impossible. I can see why they made the only trace of the autogrid a thin white line painted on the road. Train tracks are so brutal, scarring the farmland and wilderness they cut through.

A hoarse shout jars me out of my thoughts. 

"I saw something – over there!" 

I glance over my shoulder, towards the noise. Behind me, a trio of security in their black outfits round the corner of the Medical Institute at speed. And I mean, they are fast. I swear their legs almost blur. Snow flies from their feet as they shoot towards me. 

Gripping the straps of my backpack, I run.