Rehabilitation: Romantic Dystopian (Unbelief Series Book 1) (5 page)

The courtyard, where Selection is held, is only a few blocks from here. I know the way so well I don’t worry about getting lost. I travel the distance quickly despite the snow. All the while, I can’t keep my mind from wondering what the heck is going on.

Why does Jacob want to meet at midnight? It’s risky to go to the ruins, but not
this
risky. No one expects people to run off into the destruction of the Old World—why would they? But there are patrols to keep watch for people at night here in the Gate. I’ve been lucky enough not to see any and I think most of them no doubt are shacked up in their guard huts, huddled around a coal fire to keep warm instead of out looking for the unlikely wanderer. Even so, this is more danger than either of us have put ourselves in before.

Why would he risk it?

I continue to ponder as I plow on, the effort of getting through the deep snow at least helping to keep me warm. I reach the courtyard in record time. Although the official use is for the Selection process, the courtyard also serves as our market place. Since it’s winter, there aren’t all that many people who set up booths right now, since the smart thing to do is stay inside out of the cold, and most have already stocked up for the hardest months. Even so, I know come morning several people will still set up their little booths and try to sell what they can before people stop going out altogether.

It’s because they can’t afford to stay inside, I know, but then not many of us can. Even stockpiling for winter isn’t a guarantee.

I stomp through the snow, my boots completely buried in it as I walk half a block past the courtyard. Staring out into the darkness, I can just make out the sharp points of the black gates and the spindly dead trees that mark the Gravestones.

After a few more long, cold minutes of walking, I finally reach my destination. In front of me a long row of black iron gates rise up in stark contrast to the powder white surrounding them. The iron is rusted now but they’ve been here since before the After World.

My dad used to tell me stories about why the gates were here, why they were important. I did myself the favor of pushing those stories out of my head so I never had problems with the Elite—like Jacob—but standing in front of the gates now, I can’t help but remember.

Before the After World, people were buried beneath the earth with stones erected to honor their memory. These places were considered hallowed ground then, where the bodies of good people were placed to rest, so their souls could reach the next world. They don’t mean much of anything nowadays though. Here, just like everywhere else in the country, when someone dies, their body is burned. And of course, everyone knows there’s no such thing as a next world.

The idea of hallowed ground is merely an old superstition and being superstitious today is against the law.

Besides, what’s so special about a place where a bunch of bodies laid to rot in the ground? I shove a macabre vision rotting flesh out of my head, resisting the urge to shudder. Maybe it made sense back when there were Believers, but not anymore. There isn’t anything to believe anymore. And I’m not going to waste my time looking for something
to
believe in either.

A frown starts to pull at my lips. Jacob likes to say I’m a pessimist but I prefer realist. I think what you see is what you get and this is the lot we’re stuck with. This world is all we’ve got, and today is all that matters. Hoping and
believing
in anything else is a waste of time and effort—not to mention incredibly dangerous. But Jacob still remains ever hopeful. Which would be okay, if only his hopes weren’t so pinned and centered on things involving superstition. My frown deepens.

Since the After World, it’s against the law to Believe. At least to Believe in the sense of believing in a higher power, like God. We can believe someone is telling the truth, or lying of course. We can believe it’s going to rain tonight or might be sunny tomorrow. We can believe there will be more food tomorrow than there was today. As long as there is a concrete
reason
for us to believe something, belief is considered okay.

But to just
Believe
? Like Believe in something bigger than ourselves? Or in something invisible like God? That’s the worst kind of law breaking.
Do not Believe in that which is not there
. I can hear the lifeless intonation of the Elite law reader in my head.
Do not Believe in that which is not there
is a direct quote from one of the Elite law books. Every other Sunday, the laws are recited to us by the law readers. Three main ones mostly, and other minor ones, too. But the ‘do not Believe’ law? That’s a real big one.

We’ve all grown up governed by the Elite’s laws and I try to make a point of not questioning them too deeply. I know they’re in place to combat the disease of the mind we’re told destroyed things before the After World came into existence. The disease called God. Now we know better and know there
is
no God.

Regardless, it’s usually not difficult for me to follow most of the laws laid out by the Elite. Well, with going into the Old World to hunt being the exception I suppose. As far as the law for not Believing? It’s almost never a problem, despite memories of my father’s lectures and Jacob’s constant search for a church in the ruins of the Old World.

It’s only some days... some days, when things are worse than normal, when there’s no food and the Girl’s Home is freezing and I remember my mother going crazy before she died, my dad being taken away for Trials and never coming home... well, I suppose somewhere deep down I'd like to believe God exists then. Mostly because I’d really like to think He’d do something to help us.

But he doesn’t, not that I can tell. Not since the war at any rate. What sort of God allows places like Rehabilitation and a regime like the Elite to exist, to dictate our every move?

If God were so great, he’d do something. But he
hasn’t.
At best, we’re forgotten. The funny thing is, that’s the strongest evidence I have that He
doesn’t
exist. Because if He did, things just wouldn’t be like they are today.
 

Shaking my head, I try to dislodge my crazy musings and fervently hope Jacob comes to his senses before I lose him forever.

The gates aren’t locked, though at one point they must have been. These days, anyone can walk right through them. Most people don’t, though. They say it’s because it’s out of the way and no one comes over here, but secretly I think it’s some of that lingering superstition, and no one wants to admit it.

Either way, I slip between the gates easily and enter the Gravestones, trying hard not to feel creeped out.

I move as quick as I can between the rows of marble stones, keeping my eyes resolutely focused on the snow beneath my feet. I hate looking at their blank slates, knowing there are dead bodies buried beneath them. There used to be inscriptions written on them I think, but whatever may have been there has long since worn away. Yet another reminder that nothing lasts forever and hallowed things are only myths.

When I reach the large tree rising up in the middle of the Gravestones, I pause, eyes probing into the darkness around me. If Jacob’s going to meet me here,
this
is where he would be. The tree marks the exact middle of this place and has been here even longer than the Gravestones.

Moving to stand right beneath the tree, I wait, staring off into the dark night. I fold my arms across my chest, both to hold in as much warmth as I can and because, if I admit it, I’m actually a little scared of being here by myself.
 

Suppressing yet another shiver, I remind myself there’s nothing to be afraid of and that Jacob will be here soon.

I wait anxiously for several more minutes, glancing around and jumping every time I hear something move or wriggle in the brush. It’s never Jacob though, just the rustle of some animal. After a while, I check my watch, my heart sinking lower and lower as seconds and minutes tick by. It’s already fifteen after and I begin to realize he isn’t coming.

Frowning, my stomach feels like it’s in knots as I start getting nervous. Why isn’t he here? How come he didn’t make it? Did something happen to him? Did he get caught trying to get out or did he just fall asleep and forget he asked me to meet him here?

Impatient, I curb my wayward thoughts. I highly doubt that last one. If Jacob isn’t here, it’s because something has happened. He would never just not show up unless he literally
can’t
show up.

Wary now of my surroundings, I come to a decision and start making my way back toward the front gate of the Gravestones again, unconsciously chewing my bottom lip as I trudge through the darkness, trying my best to keep my imagination under control. Every shadow suddenly looks like a patrol guard about to nab me for being out past curfew.

No one stops me, though.

I make it to the courtyard before I see it. A white van that marks the Elite idles outside a small shack all but falling apart, not unlike its neighbors. In fact, it looks just like every other building in the area. This one is important to me though. I suck in a breath, eyes widening.

Instantly, I duck behind the wall of a nearby building. Cautiously, I peek around the corner to look at the van. Gasping, I bring a hand up, covering my mouth. I see two men dragging a tall male figure out of the house. Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head hard and then open them again, certain I’m seeing things.

“No,” I whisper.

I hope I’m wrong. It’s a different house, it’s along the wrong street, it’s... but I know I’m not wrong. Leaping into action before I can reconsider, I dart out from behind the corner of the building and start running toward the van, snow flying out beneath my feet with every step.

They’ve got Jacob. I
know
they’ve got Jacob!

By the time I reach the house, skidding and sliding to a stop in the street, the van is already gone, nothing but tail lights getting smaller and smaller in the dark. I watch until they disappear into nothing, breathing hard, eyes wet with unshed tears. I rush toward the house and burst through the door, a sob caught in my throat as all my worst fears for Jacob crystallize in my mind.

“Jacob!” I call out, as loud as I dare. “Samantha?”

But the small house is empty, the silence palpable.
 

A
fter finding the house empty, there’s little choice but to go home. I manage to sneak back in and make it to my bed without being discovered. Miriam is sound asleep in her bed by now, but I don’t sleep well tonight. I don’t sleep
at all
. Instead, my mind keeps churning, unable to stop dispel images of a white van and empty house.

Where is Jacob? And where is his sister, little Sammy?

I hope I’m wrong about what happened. I keep trying to tell myself I was wrong about what I saw, and keep thinking up alternate scenarios. Like maybe they left the house
before
the Elite got there—because I
know
it was the Elite in that white van—and were just hiding out somewhere. But then the image of that man being dragged out and shoved in the van flashes...

No. It was Jacob. I’m positive.
I think
. I continue tossing, feeling restless, my heart heavy with worry, eyes dry from lack of sleep.

When the sun finally comes up, I get up and dress as quickly as I can. I’m not sure who I’ll ask about last night—I guess I can’t ask
anyone
—but at least I can check the house again. Maybe it was a dream, and instead of getting up in the night to go meet Jacob, I never got up at all. Maybe I was asleep the whole time.

I know that’s not true, though, despite my hopes. I can feel the tiredness of a night without sleep making my movements heavy and clumsy, and when I look up from lacing my boots, I catch Miriam’s gray, bleary gaze. As the other girls go down for breakfast—what little there is—she lingers behind until I pass by her bed.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asks as she follows me out the door.

It takes everything I have not to freeze up right there. Worse, to round on her and demand to know what she knows. Instead, I turn to face her and answer simply, “No.”

She studies my face and looks sympathetic, though that’s uncharacteristic of the Gates. After a moment she shakes her head, something almost sad flickering in her eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Then she continues on down the hall and stairs toward the dining room on the lower levels. All the girls eat there, from all the different dormitories. The babies who are too young for solid food and still breastfeed stay with the nurses, but the rest of us eat in the dining room. I stare after Miriam a moment, trying to steady my suddenly uneven breath. When I think I’ve composed myself enough to pass muster, I make myself march down the stairs for breakfast.