The Law and the Codas

Chapter Four

I'm taken aback by the brightness and the color. Our walls are stark white, clinical and clean, blinding like freshly fallen snow basking in the sunlight. But here, the walls are a rich taupe, the color of beach sand, warm and inviting. The lights have none of the harshnesses of our fluorescents. They've got a softening effect and even Marava's face looks a little less angular.

"I think they're leading us this way on purpose," I say.

Jonathan's brow furrows and he shoves his hands in his pockets."Why do you think that?"

I point to my right. "Because the windows here don't have bars."

His head snaps to attention, eager to follow my finger. And though his eyes initially house doubt, as soon as his gaze finds the first window, then flits to the three beside it, each flanked by long, pale blue curtains, that feeling is extinguished.

The glass is frosted, so it's a bit hard to make out what's beyond, but there's an outline of trees behind some kind wall, where towers, similar to those eagle nests along the track, shoot up at evenly spaced intervals. Some kind of light streams in through the window, diffused but strong enough to highlight dust particles as they dance through the air.

"See?" I say, gently pushing his shoulder. Marava hisses."No pinholes on the sill to house the laser bars. And that glass doesn't look too thick. The sunlight never pours through the windows in our neck of the woods." He nods, though the sight of such normal windows has made him silent. "I think this part of the Facility was designed with lessened security measures."

I motion toward the guards, toward their vests. "They've got enough grenades to blast this entire ward to smithereens." I nod at the windows. "They might be shatterproof, but they sure as hell aren't grenade-proof."

...

"No dallying!" one of the guards' yell. "Fall behind, get left behind." The edge to the voice and the directness of the command makes me think it's the woman speaking to us.

Sam chuckles. "Dallying," he says as he picks up Rima's hand and starts moving. "What is it about guards--"

"Or imposter guards," I contribute.

He nods. "That has them spouting aged slang?"

I shrug. "Maybe they've left modern idioms in their other Kevlar vests."

Sam's large hand briefly leaves Rima's embrace to smack me on the back. I stumble forward, almost face-planting into a nearby dinette set. "Good one, Ten," he says, grinning.

I manage to recover my footing in time for most not to notice. "Hey," Rima whispers. She nudges Sam's arm and points to a running faucet. Water sloshes over the sink's sides and cascades down to the floor like a waterfall. "Where do you think everyone's gone?"

I poke my head between them. "I imagine they've got Panic Rooms. That's probably where all those people were headed to."

Rima runs her hands along her arms and squeezes. "I don't like it. Everything looks weird."

Sam wraps an arm around her slumping shoulders. "Just pretend, Rima. Remember that movie we were shown in class?" He scrunches his nose. "The one about the zombies?"

She stares at him before recognition alights in her eyes. "They showed us that film to demonstrate the old regime's frivolity, how talent was wasted on entertainment when it could have been used to bolster the image of a strong, united America."

Sam's brow creased. "You remember way too much," he mumbles, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "but yeah, that one. Pretend like this is a set piece for that movie. Nothing's real. It's all make-believe."