The Whispers

Chapter 1

April 5, 2019                      3:16 P.M.
     Mom is not going to be pleased, I thought as I quickened my pace. I was short four bucks and, according to my watch, sixteen minutes late.
     My feet quickened.
     The sky was light gray and the winds strong. A sudden gust sent my hair into a frenzy. Sighing, I brought my hand carrying the water jug up to my face in an attempt to reign in the loose strands. The loaf of bread resting in the crook of my other arm shifted.
     An unwelcome face flashed before me. He was small, no older than six, but his eyes held a profound vacancy that only came with growing up here. He had looked at the bread in my arm as if it were the key to salvation; remembering his lanky arms and gaunt face, it probably was.
     I don't regret giving him the bread. He obviously needed it, and the way his face lit up, revealing a sliver of the child he should've been, it sent a warm feeling through me. I do regret the time it took me to make that decision, as well as the minutes wasted in tracing my steps back into town to the bakery to purchase another loaf of bread.
     It was risky. I shouldn't have done it.
     It was a miracle that the baker hadn't spared me a second glance, that the city patrol men were late to their shifts.
     Jesus, Esperanza, I chastised myself, you're supposed to be invisible. Just another face in the crowd. A ghost.
     My parents had made that point very clear. It took two years after I'd survived the Flame for them to even let me leave the house. When they did, they established three simple rules:

1. Avoid all human interaction whenever possible. It's better for people not to remember me, to not even know me in the first place.
2. Don't speak unless spoken too - keep conversations short and give only my first name.
3. Do not, under any circumstances, be spotted by the City Patrolmen.
    
     I was to fulfill my errands quickly and proficiently without delay. I was supposed to be a normal girl helping out her family, nothing more. As far as the town was concerned, the Ramirez family lost both of their daughters in the Fiery Dawn.
      The number of buildings began to dwindle as i reached the outskirts of town, and the sidewalk grew cracked and weed infested. I allowed myself a small feeling of relief. Almost home.
     It shattered as I was abruptly brought to a stop by a mans hard body. I took a step back and fought to conceal the immediate fear that clogged my throat. I'd walked right into a patrolman. He towered over me and I could see his brain-scanner protruding from his back pocket. My panic spiked.
     No one said a word. His dark brown eyes looked at me bewildered, unsure of what to do. Something's off, I thought. Looking closer, I could make out the wrinkles in his shirt, his rumpled hair poorly concealed under his lopsided hat, and a smudge of deep red lipstick along the end of his jaw.
     I turned my attention towards the alley he'd just emerged from. It was cloaked in shadow, but it did nothing to hide the figure leaning against the deteriorating wall. She looked to be in her twenties with long legs and tempting curves. She wore tight-fitting short shorts and a button up shirt, currently unbuttoned to the point where it was exposing most of her cleavage rather than hiding it. She had red lipstick and a mischievous smile.
     She winked as I quickly looked away and back towards the patrolman.
     His back straightened as he tried to regain his aura of authority. "Afternoon citizen," he stammered as he hurriedly brushed past me heading into town.
     "Afternoon," I weakly mumbled back, but he was already gone.
     I raced home with new vigor surging through my legs, angry at myself for not paying better attention. That little altercation could have cost me my life.
     My shoulders happily slumped as the cinder block walls of the house came into view. I marched in through the backdoor, placed the items on the counter, and stole a quick glance at my watch - 3:41. Crap.
     Sensing the anger rolling off my mother, I turned to face her. She was exactly where I'd known she'd be; sitting at the head of the dining room table with her arms crossed and her brown eyes staring daggers at me. A few wisps of her chestnut hair escaped her usual impeccable bun.
     My arms slackened with the weight of the oncoming conversation. I took slow, deliberate movements in facing her, "Ok, now look, bef-"
     "Where have you been?" she asked icily, cutting me off. Her tone harboring the calm before a storm.
     "I'm sorry," I said, casting my gaze down to the floor. I'd already lost and arguing wasn't going to make it any easier. I took a deep breath, "It's just, there was this little boy, you should've seen him, really -" I paused, gauging her expression. She still looked mad. "He was all skin and bones so of course, I gave him the bread. So then I had to go back into to town to buy another loaf and-" There was a sharp intake of breath. I froze, anticipating her sharp words. When none came I continued, "So then I ran into this patrolman, which let me tell you, was pretty crazy -"
     "A patrolman!" she shrieked and I flinched.
     "She home?" a new voice chimed in. Glancing up I saw my fathers mess of curls poking out from the hall. Huh, I completely missed his truck on the way in.
     "Yes," my mother hissed, whirling towards him. "And she's late because she ran into a patrolman!" she said, exaggerating the last word.
     My fathers eyes widened and looked to me as if asking, is this true?
     I had no good answer. I lifted my hands, gesturing at my perfectly unharmed body, "I'm ok?"
     My mother let out a sarcastic laugh, "Yeah." Dad shook his head, looking disappointed.
     I shrunk in on myself. "Look, I'm sorry," I said, taking a tentative step closer to them. "It was stupid and dangerous and I won't do it again. Promise."
     They shared a look, some unvoiced dialogue passing between them. Judging by the grimaces on their faces, the outcome didn't seem promising for me. They nodded solemnly.
     My mother spoke first, "I know you meant well mija, but maybe it's best if you don't go out for a while." Her voice faded out towards the end, losing some of its previous malice.
     My heart seized. No. I was barely let out enough as it was. Being stuck inside the stone walls was maddening and being free to wander the abandoned houses and desolate fields surrounding the neighborhood didn't count. I needed to go out, to be around people. Even if I was prohibited from forming attachments, just being in their presence, walking amongst them, almost one of them - this one small semblance of normalcy in my life, it was everything. They couldn't take it away.
     "No, please," I begged, racing to their side. "Please don't keep me in here."
     They shared another pained glance, fully aware of the torment their imprisonment caused me, but standing firm in their belief that it was best for my safety. A necessary evil. I could read the answer on their faces plain as day, what little hope I had began to wither away.
     "Mija," my mother started, softly, knowing the how hard the blow she was about to land on me was. She never got a chance to finish her sentence.
     Just then, the TV in the living room, which up until this point had been providing random background noise, now showed a flustered anchorman. He had a wild look in his eyes, as if still coming down from shock. "Sorry for the interruption ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice shaking, "but we bring you live footage from an emergency press conference here in Washington D.C." He nodded and then stared blankly into the camera, waiting for the moment his face would be off air.
     When he disappeared, the screen shifted to a white room. Reporters sat patiently awaiting whatever had brought about the press conference and up on stage rested a lone podium, an American flag placed beside it. Lining the walls stood secret service men dressed in black staring at nothing, still as statues. It was silent.
     Along the bottom of the screen, bold red script began to scroll:

PRESIDENT KENNETH MORGAN HAS PASSED AWAY. LOST TO THE FLAME.

     Everything stilled as the sentences continued to repeat. The president was dead. A chill crept down my spine. Looking at my parents I saw mom's shock and dad's steely impassiveness. His face was set in stone as he leaned closer to the television, gravitating towards the broadcast. The tension from our previous discussion had evaporated, replaced with this new cloud of fear and anticipation that hovered around us.
     A collective murmur drew my attention back to the screen. A man had stepped up to the podium. He was young. His dark blonde hair was combed back and his forest green eyes looked tired. Besides the stubble lining his jaw, his chiseled features looked regal and clean cut. His suit was tailored perfectly to his body, a single black rose rested in his breast pocket, contrasting his alabaster skin. I knew this man, I'd seen his face somewhere before. I racked my brain trying to identify him. It hit me when he looked into the camera and flashed a smile, it gleamed like that of a well trained politician. It was a smile I hadn't seen since President Morgan was inaugurated three years ago; this was Darren Bryans, who up until yesterday, had been vice president of America. He stood on the podium oozing authority and respect.
     He spoke once the crowd had settled. His voice was strong and clear as he said, "It is a tragic day here in America as we have just lost a truly great and irreplaceable man." His jaw clenched. "In light of my dear friend Kenneth's passing -" he looked down, fighting a sadness I couldn't tell was forced or not. "- I, Darren Bryans, will officially assume the role of president tomorrow." He paused, as if waiting for someone to cry out in objection. When no such disruption came, he continued, "Together we will continue to rebuild and restore America to her former glory. I will serve this country well, I swear it to you. Now, as this is a time of mourning, we will not be taking any questions." He gave a curt nod as dismissal and exited the room, the procession of secret service men trailing behind him.
     The conference was over.
     My father clicked off the TV, plunging the room into silence. A dark fear slowly consumed us as the realization hit - Darren Bryans was going to be president.
     "He's too young," mother whispered, trying to convince herself. Trying to sway herself that this wasn't actually happening. That it couldn't be. She took a seat on the couch.
     "I don't think it matters at this point," dad replied gruffly. He had a point. I doubt anyone will deny him the position based solely on age. Principles such as those simply didn't matter anymore. Not much did since the Fiery Dawn. No one ever expected Bryans to be president anyway. Not at our most vulnerable point when President Morgan - strong and brave and admirable Kenneth Morgan - was there as a beacon of hope; but he's dead now, an icy part of my brain reminded. Taken by the Flame like so many others, I wasn't even aware he had the disease.
     Darren Bryans was going to be president. My stomach dropped.
     "Esperanza," my father said, turning to face me, "go to your room. We'll discuss your punishment later."
     I stared at him for a moment, unmoving and confused. When his gaze showed no intention of wavering, I complied. I wasn't in the mood to fight. I wanted to lay down and hide from the world. Curiosity got the better of me however; I closed the door behind me, waited a few seconds, and then pressed my ear up against the smooth wooden surface. Although they spoke in hushed whispers, I was still able to make out parts of their conversation.
     "What are we going to do?" That was mom. She sounded frantic and on the verge of tears. There was no answer. I pressed harder against the door.
     "You know exactly how that man feels about Flame survivors," she continued, a vicious bite in her words now.
     There was more. The low grumble of my fathers voice. I strained my ears to listen.
     "...measures such as those, if any, will take place in larger territories...nowhere near here," he said consolingly.
     A sob, and then, "But how can you be so sure? What will we do if you're wrong?"
     I imagined that he was holding her close at this point. "We'll do what we always do," he replied simply. His voice coming out muffled, as if being spoken into her hair, "Survive."