Gods Under The Dome

16.1

《A New Day》

¤

The liquid boils until the pill dissolves, giving the Elysium it's trademark blue color. Steam whistles from the beaker, until, with a pair of metal tongs, I carefully take it off the burner, and pour the liquid into a funnel. Clear tubes wind outward from the funnel mouth like sprawling tentacles, each going to a different vial.

When they're three quarters full, I stop pouring, turn the crank which will seal the funnel and prevent the vials from overflowing. Each pinkie-length vial was worth over a hundred dollars and the last time I'd spilled some of Della's precious 'liquid money,' she almost busted my lip.

Slow and steady wins you the race, or in my case, prevents fists from colliding with your face.

"You're getting good at this."

Nol sits on a barstool along the far wall, glasses slipped over his eyes as he counts the right amount of Monday Blues out to make the rest of this week's supply. A smile forms on my face, not at Nol's praise, but at the way he purses his lips when he's that deep in concentration, his brow cut in half by a myriad of wrinkles.

Though it could hardly be said that we have any in-depth conversations, I've learned a few things about Nol, correction - about Jackson, from our months sequestered away in his basement laboratory. When he was Culled, it had been two weeks before his ninth birthday. He'd been taken from his father's arms while his other father openly wept. His sister, the one who he'd dreamt of visiting the aviaries with, was a decade older than him and had been absent from the house that night.

We all had similar stories: the Militia, their gas masks, and guns, the way their hands, large, imposing, thickly gloved ripped us out of his parents' arms. The way they screamed and cried and then stilled when the guns were trained on them. The only difference between our stories was how Jackson's ended without that trademark Liar tragedy.

When my mother refused to let them take me, she'd clawed at one of the Militia's gas masks and tore the strap. She'd wanted to rend that mask and the subsequent flesh under it off the man's body. She'd screamed at them, called them thieves, demanded my return. She hadn't stopped when they trained their guns on her.

She'd clawed at the sink, dragging the rack of cleaned dishes along with her. She never got up from that spot. Corpse Removal wouldn't have been sent for her. Instead, she'd be left to any animals fortunate to stumble across her corpse. A traitor's funeral.

Her death was the first Council-approved lesson I ever learned: the world only worked if you were willing to kill or die for what you believed in.

Nol's low and off-key humming tears me away from my thoughts. I tap the glass of the nearest vial, watching as it expels the last of the steam. Once the bubbles disappear, I'd be able to start stoppering and get them packaged for transit.

"These'll be ready in thirty." I look over my shoulder at Nol, where he spins to meet my gaze.

"Thirty? That was fast." He glances up at the clock projected overhead. "Didn't it take you forty-five on the last batch?"

I grin, and begin to remove my powder blue gloves, one finger at a time. "Like you said, I'm getting better."

He smiles. Lately, he's begun to spoil me with his lopsided smile, showering me with its full-force after we've exchanged words, while we eat, or when we happen to make eye contact from across the room. Sometimes, he flashes me his crooked whites right before bed which helps fend off the nightmares.