The Zero Birth Policy

CHAPTER ONE: Cory

I'm sixteen years old, but I've been alive for more than seventeen years. That's seventeen years and one month of breathing in this muck we call air. Seventeen years and one month of avoiding the Legalizers.

I don't like to think about time or age or Legalizers, but lately it's all I can think about. It's been two weeks since I last stepped foot outside. Four weeks since I found Lizzy. My heart hammers against my chest. Six seconds expire before I'm able to exhale.

Hazy beams of sunlight sift through the thick grayish brown ceiling of smog and dance across the rooftops, not quite reaching the glass storefronts or my skin. I once heard that Wisconsin was a state full of farms and cows and corn and pretty blue lakes, and I've even seen the pictures, but it's hard to wrap my mind around. Toxic dirt, tall steel buildings, murky brown water—that's the Wisconsin I know.

I left early this morning, when it was still dark outside, when Lizzy was still asleep on the shelter home's rickety floorboards. I draped my blanket over her bony shoulders and left a note next to her. I do that a lot—leave without notice. Writing a note was a step in the right direction. I may not be good at this whole big sister thing yet, but I'm working on it. Isn't the very fact that I'm outside right now proof of that?

I risk a glance across the street at a man in his mid-thirties. Anyone that old has to be Legal. Slick blond hair, black suit and shirt. He's been following me for the past six blocks. For three wonderful hours I thought I was in the clear. I grew more confident with each step, convinced myself I had been stupid to spend the last two weeks cooped up in shelter homes—then he showed up six blocks back. I suck in a sharp breath. Rub a hand over my throbbing forehead as a tiny hammer chisels away at my skull. He hasn't looked my way once and no Legalizer would wear a suit that nice—it's probably just a coincidence.

They all say I'm paranoid. The other kids at the shelters don't think I can hear them when they whisper, or maybe they just don't care, but I can hear them. Cracked. Crazy. Sad.

Even Lizzy thinks so.

She doesn't say it, but I can see it in her eyes. She tells me it's all in my head and I tell myself it's all in my head, that the Legalizers aren't following me, and she begs me to come outside with her.

But she's never felt the hum in her bones, the hum that tells you you're about to reverse. She's never felt that kind of pain. Sometimes, I don't feel attached to my body. To this name.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to go crazy. Let the paranoia gobble up my brain. Crazy people don't care about real things. Crazy people don't feel pain.

I lower my head and a curtain of dirty blonde hair, more dirty than blonde, covers my face from any prying eyes or drones hovering overhead. I'm starting to think Lizzy might be right—maybe I am paranoid. I've convinced myself that this man in a suit is following me, but that's not possible because today is Zero Day. The one day of the year it's against the law for Legalizers to hunt down Illegals. To hunt me down.

It's all in my head.

I can't feel the hum anymore.

I step over a puddle, swirling with streaks of purple and orange grease and squeeze past a family of four unfolding their lawn chairs on the edge of the crowded sidewalk. The race isn't until three, but people started lining the streets as soon as the sun came up to stake out a good spot. My fingers curl into fists. They're all just hoping to see a reversal. To see the life drain from a kid's eyes. The slower and bloodier the better. If you're unfortunate enough to be conscious during a reversal, they actually chant at you, cheer you on as you wonder whether you'll ever see the sun again.