Do people become savages just because they’re desperate? To live with the engineered scarcity of something as basic as water is inhumane. I don’t understand this dome and I don’t want to start feeling comfortable here.
James sighs. “This batch isn’t as good as the last one. It’s going to be hard to trade this with Boris.”
“It happens, kid. All the time. Beggars can’t be choosers. I’ll take a look at the pumps tonight.” Frank pauses. “But we might need to find another source.”
“Already? This one didn’t last nearly as long as—”
“I said I’d take a look. No use worrying until then. Boris will take what we have like he always does.”
“He’d probably wouldn’t be as picky if you didn’t demand luxury goods all the time.”
Frank shakes his head. “Watch yourself, kid. A world without beer ain’t worth living.”
I creep forward until Frank notices my presence. The man chuckles and takes another sip from his drink.
“Petra.” James looks over and twists the tap into the off position. “How are you settling in?”
I’m not. “Fine, I think.”
Frank shrugs. “She says she wants to go outside.”
Everyone is looking at me like I am some circus attraction in a cage—adorable and entertaining, but naïve. They don’t understand that this isn’t how people are supposed to live; homes should not be cages. I want to comprehend what is happening and I can't do that here behind closed doors.
“But it isn’t safe.” James speaks in a condescending tone, though I don’t think he means to.
I take a deep breath. “Kyra says you go out for supplies all the time—”
“Only because I have to.”
Thunder booms in the distance, and all three of us are silent. Steady footsteps clack behind me as Kyra makes her way through the doorway towards the sink. Her focus is set as she sighs and starts scrubbing her forearms. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. We’ve never had to convince people to stay safe before.”
I turn towards the nearest window. “I’m not ungrateful, it's just… this is your home, not mine. I want to make my way back to it. I have to try.”
I need to find answers.
A large crash erupts from the front. I’m the only one who jumps at the sound.
Frank slams his beer onto the counter and pulls the gun from his belt. “I’ve just about had it with those zombies out there.”
“It’ll pass, Frank.” James leans against the counter. “Let it go.”
“I don’t think so. Not this time.” Frank glances over to me before turning his attention to the front door. “You wanted to go outside, right? Well, that’s where I’m going right now. This is your chance to see something you won’t ever forget.”
One step becomes two, and then I freeze. Frank walks to the front door and starts turning the locks frantically. Each one twists and turns in a different direction. The final one requires a key, which Frank fishes from his pocket and inserts.
“I thought he said it wasn’t safe.” I turn to Kyra. “What is he—”
She shakes her head. “Don’t. It’s best if you don't ask those kinds of questions.”
James shrugs. “When Frank gets like this, it’s best to stay out of his way.”
Two muted gunshots ring out.
Kyra nods. “He’s a brute who doesn’t like people messing with his house.”
The smell of vinegar carries through the air. Another gunshot rings out, this time farther away from the front door. I calm myself and muster the courage to continue walking forward. Frank is outside shouting incoherent words, and as I make it to the entranceway, I realize that he isn’t the only one shooting bullets. Across the street is another man standing on a balcony taking aim from the rifle on his shoulder. He is calm as he pulls the trigger. This is a sport to him.
Outside the front yard is what looks like a tattered barrier. A section of it is in pieces all over the driveway; that must have been the crash from earlier. The gunshots echo, but I quickly realize that there aren't any bullets flying.
“Jeez, now the whole town is getting riled up.” James comes up beside me and is careful to wedge himself between me and the outside world. He could pull me back if I made a break for it.
A middle-aged man slowly floats through the air. “Are they—”
James nods. “Yes. Helium bullets. The ammunition is cheap—injector capsules. It’s better, so the savages don’t hurt anyone. The effects are disorienting.”
All around, are people being lifted into the air. Their groans carry on in the distance. I take a deep breath. “Will they fall?”
James nods. “Eventually. Depends on the oxygen in their system.”
“I don’t know what would be worse, dying from a bullet or from falling an endless distance to the ground.”
“Sometimes, though…” James clears his throat. “…They keep rising and never come back down. The atmosphere gets them.”
I start to take a step outside, but James holds me back. “I’m not your prisoner.”
His grip is firm.
Frank yells, only a few feet from the broken barrier, and drops his gun to the ground. A little girl is latched onto his arm. Another gunshot rings out, and for a brief moment there is silence. The girl becomes weightless and begins her gentle liftoff whilst still clawing at Frank. She remains tethered as her charcoal dress flows in the breeze.
One more shot hits her in the shoulder and she loses her grip on Frank. The man on the balcony lowers his rifle and I stiffen instantly. James pulls me back inside as I start to shake. It’s Bullock. I’m sure of it.
“Petra?” James pauses. “What’s going on?”
I take a deep breath and then pull away in one swift jerk forward. “Let go of me.”
For a moment I am caught in the inability to do anything else. Bullock sets the rifle against the house and then takes a seat on a foldable lawn chair. Within seconds Frank picks up his gun and hurries inside. The door slams shut and I lose sight of the balcony. James quickly moves past me and begins to reset the locks.
“One of those assholes bit me.” Frank motions to the shallow smear of blood on his arm and then to the gun in his hand. “See, it’s not safe out there. Not without one of these, anyway.”
There are more words, but I don’t hear them. My attention is scattered. I don’t look out the window because I’m not sure what I’ll see outside. That man is Bullock. At least, it looked like him—it must have been him. It had to be.
But why does it have to be him?
A gentle hand touches my shoulder. I turn and am met with cold green eyes—Kyra. She doesn’t say anything as she leads me away from the scene. I want to go out there; I need to go out, but I can’t do it. I can't. The opportunity was there, but I didn’t take it.
Just breathe, Petra. Just… breathe.
I keep returning to the window to catch glimpses of the man on the balcony. I reach into my pocket, pull out the lighter, and roll the flint. The sparks are warm; the flame is beautiful. It is constant, and I have no doubt of its existence.
“Petra?” James says my name, but I don’t stir. The lighter starts to get hot.
Carpeted footsteps are muffled, but very present. He doesn’t say anything else as he stands with me. The streets are splattered a thick dried red and my only thought besides Bullock is that Kyra was right.
This is the circle of life.
I turn away from the window and walk towards the kitchen. James follows a few paces behind. Frank holds another beer, and Kyra stands with a glass of water inches from her lips. She stops as I enter and offers me a glass of my own. I accept.
“James?” She pauses. “You want one too?”
He nods. “Yes, please.”
Four drinks are consumed inside a home shielded from the outside world. Is this what this dome is supposed to explore? How the wealthy treat the poor? I don’t know, none of it makes sense to me. This experiment can’t have any merit. Nelson and Bullock have nothing to gain here, do they? I don’t know. I just don’t.
I look down at the bandage on my arm and allow the water to slide down my throat. It’s lukewarm, disgusting, and exactly how I imagined it would be.
“Boris’ caravan is coming. We should get ready to trade.” Frank smiles and turns to James. “Don’t forget the beer, kid. I’m running low.”
James nods. “I know, Frank. You remind me every time.”
Kyra sets down her glass and motions for me to hand her mine. That is when I see it: a set of wires poking out from beneath one of the metal panels on the wall.
It’s out of place. They don’t belong there.
“Petra?”
I pause, look up and then hand her the glass. “I’m sorry, of course.”