Locket

A forgotten city, long from now; could be any month, any day, almost any time between sunrise and sunset. Clouds the colour of faded renaissance paintings blotted out the sun, leaving only a faint shadowy disc. A sense of pressure hung in the air, humidity threatening to worsen and turn into rain. The sound of restless crowds, of Militia boots falling in step, heralding another patrol, another raid, another skirmish. Trash lined the sidewalks and crumbled underfoot, blooming horrid, previously undiscovered odours.

Miserable.

Sparrow strolled down The Avenue, eyeing the checkpoint queue across the street. Gate 47, that was the one. A lot of people. A lot of strained, raised voices. A lot of frustration and anxiety. A lot of semi-organised, so-called peace-keeping troops. A lot to potentially go wrong, fast. He scanned the line as he continued to walk, and then the street beyond it, eyes sharp. There, a block and bit down from the end of the queue, was a woman standing next to a lamp post, alone. That had to be her. He slowly headed in her direction.

Casual.

They had a system in place so Sparrow would recognise her – not that he needed it; he’d picked her almost immediately. She wasn’t dressed in loud clothing, or behaving in a way that drew attention to herself, not enough to warrant the Militia’s attention, at least. It was that she wasn’t giving off quite the same air of desperation as everyone else. He felt like he wouldn’t even need to look for the locket he was told to expect around her neck. An unassuming silver locket, in the shape of half of a heart. Something unique, to be sure, but unnecessary – if he was right, and he knew he was, this was her. He caught himself wondering if she stood out to anyone else.

Curious.

The people of the city, like those lined up, theirs was a genuine desperation. They flocked to checkpoints like this all around the city each day. If luck was in their favour, they’d be one of the very, very few who won the daily lottery and were allowed to proceed to inoculation, then to leave. Theirs was a futile vigil, waiting for the opportunity, a potential to bribe, to bargain, to appeal to the empathy of an uncaring Militia – that would likely not come. They were wasting their time, getting hopes they did not possess up higher than they had any right to be. They were just people, desperate and terrified. Sparrow pitied them.

Sad.

Their fear was justified, though; the virus was highly contagious, it was lethal, unpredictable, and there was an entire city at risk. Sure, the infected were in quarantine, but people were people, nothing was perfect, and the odd case had been known to slip through the cracks. And it was apparently like this everywhere. As far as everyone knew, almost all of the major cities across the globe were in the same state as this one, ground zeros to a global catastrophe. Once grand metropolises had now become the new frontiers, the new wild wests, full of miserable millions hoping to get out, and the Militia trying to impose their will on them. Trying, under the guise of providing order, providing safety, providing peace. Trying, if necessary, by force; emphasis on the word force.

Fascists.

Anyway. Time to go.

Sparrow moved to cross the road. An APC roared across his path just as he began to step off the kerb.

SHIT!

A dull sweat started to seep from the hairline at the base of his neck, and he barely registered the muffled laughter from inside the vehicle as it trailed off down the road.

Close, too close.

Sparrow dug his fingernails into his palms, took a deep breath, looked both ways, crossed the street. As he closed in on her position, he slid his hand down his trench coat into his right pocket. His palm was starting to clam ever so slightly, and as his fist closed, the metal it held felt damp. He had done this kind of thing countless times before, the fear of the first time, of being caught, of blowing it - all a distant memory for him. He was a professional now, this was muscle memory, it would all be over in a matter of minutes, and then he’d be on to the next job.

So why the trepidation?

He was half a block from her now, keeping his pace even, trying to remain as unremarkable as possible. She began to turn to face him, and he could just make out the locket around her neck. It peeked out from under an off-white buttoned shirt, which was under a grey padded vest, which was under a charcoal trench coat, covering black pants and sturdy-looking boots.

Her hair was a common brown with light streaks of grey, shoulder length, worn out, framing her face. She had rich brown compassionate eyes, a warmth and a glow about her. She was pretty, and not just superficially; the deeper Sparrow looked, the more he could see that she radiated something beautiful, something...else.

She had hope.

Oh no.

Sparrow got a strange flutter in his heart, his gut turning slightly.

Shit.

Was he getting cold feet?

He’d not had this feeling before.

Too late, they were barely feet from each other now. Sparrow felt his palm begin to actively sweat. She was looking right at him. He had no choice. It was now or never.

Sparrow pulled his hand out of his coat pocket.

“Sophia...you...you forgot this!”

Her eyes froze open, her optimism replaced with a ripple of fear.

He thrust his hand out in front of him for her to see. She hesitated for a second, then tore her eyes from his to see what was in his hand.

He held up a locket of his own, the other half of the heart.

Her face relaxed, and Sparrow almost felt her pulse return to normal from where he stood.

She laughed with relief.

“Thank you...Graham...I’m glad you caught me!”

Sparrow stepped up to her, placed the locket in her outstretched palm, and then stepped in to hug her as if they were old friends. He dug his face into her hair, and whispered quickly in her ear: “We’re all good. Follow my lead, play along, and above all, relax. If it all goes south, we go our separate ways, and try another gate another day, okay?”

He felt her nod into his shoulder as she returned the hug. After a couple of seconds, they pulled away from each other. He gestured toward the queue of people, and they headed toward the Gate, the rabble of the queue growing louder with each step they took.

“So, you’ve done this plenty of times, right?”

More of that hope in her eyes. He held out his hands, palms facing the ground in a manner of reassurance.

“Look, I know my price was hefty, but I wouldn’t charge that much if I wasn’t any good at what I do”, Sparrow replied.

“Oh, the money wasn’t an issue...my uh...my mother is quite sick.”

She almost left it at that, until she realised how the comment sounded outside her head.

“Not the virus! Not the virus. She got out...got into the Green Zone, I mean. But she’s old, unwell. I need to be with her before...”, she trailed off.

Sparrow nodded.

They joined the back of the queue, began to move through the crowd toward the steel barricades the Militia had sandbagged to the pavement. The barricades led to a large black gate on the side of a portable building the size of a two-storey suburban home, if that home was a cold, sterile laboratory. It looked gaudy, too clean for the filthy street it was wedged into. And it had Militia crawling all over it, like ants on a dropped ice cream.

The mood of the crowd was in tune with the weather, slowly simmering, rising, with the potential to go boil over, violently. Good for cover, sure, but not without creating its own set of problems. Sparrow checked around him, before leaning in to talk quietly to her.

“They're going to start the draw, and we'll head to the gate. I have a code scrambler that will make sure that they call our numbers, and once we’re in the inoculation centre, we slip away and leave through their loading bay. You go into the Green Zone, and I make my way back here.”

Her face paled some.

“Won’t they notice us in an area we're not supposed to be in?”

“I know it looks pretty full-on from this side, but the Militia presence in the processing centre and on the Green Zone side is nowhere near as heavy as it is here; it’s fine. The only way this could go south would be if their bio-scanners picked something up. We’re good, just follow my lead. Trust me.”

She nodded, her lips drawing tight.

The crowd surged as a Militia man stepped out of a doorway on the second floor of the laboratory, and raised a bullhorn to his lips. Sparrow and the Woman were caught up as if they were in rough surf.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will now begin today’s draw for Gate 47. Five numbers only will be called, and five people only will be cleared to pass through to inoculation. Have your lottery cards ready, and please proceed in a calm and orderly fashion. Unsuccessful candidates are to disperse peacefully. I repeat...”

Sparrow and the Woman were jostled and pressed in, a tsunami of bodies threatening to drown them, and he reached out and grabbed her hand to make sure they weren’t separated. The man with the bullhorn finished repeating himself, then began calling numbers. At the second and third ones, Sparrow turned to the Woman.

“That’s us!”

Rifle-bearing Militia men near the barricades began pushing the crowd apart in order to help shepherd the lucky few through the throng. The more desperate members of the crowd tried to mug the lottery winners for their numbers, but the Militia were on top of it, slamming the butts of their rifles into the jaws of any offenders, sending blood and teeth flying, and the rest of the rabble back a few steps.

Sparrow pulled the Woman along, forcing both of them through the bodies. Finally, they made it to the front of the line, and Sparrow pulled two slips of paper the size of index cards from inside his coat. He held them out in front of him like a crucifix warding off a vampire. One of the Militia men scanned the papers with a hand-held device, and then waved Sparrow and the Woman through.

They power-walked toward the gate, and Sparrow felt an ease begin to come over him.

“See”, he said over his shoulder, “nothing to worry about!”

Then the klaxons began to scream, strobing red lights blared down on Sparrow, and his instincts failed him. He froze. All he could do was turn to her.

“What?!”

The woman looked at him, her eyes pleading, all traces of hope vanished, replaced with guilt, shame, and sadness. Defeat.

“I’m sorry, I had to get out...”

The sound of boots running, of rounds being chambered into weapons. Sparrow’s heart broke, and he screamed, but he could not hear it over the bark of the Militia’s rifles.

She fell motionless to the chequer-plate decking of the gate’s ramp, and something shiny, slicked with blood, slipped from her fist as she died.

It was Sparrow’s locket.