Anomaly City Chapter Five

Ishra's finally made it to Anomaly City, just as long as he can keep from getting caught.

Aretta ~ The Train   

There is a train that runs through Anomaly City, on the outskirts. Every month it stops for the night at the station. And every month the whistle blows with a loud and inevitable screech that breaks through the skies and sends an alert to everyone.    

The train is early today. I’m still swimming, floating just above the subtle waves that name up Navy Peak and I turn to Casity and Bodie, who look just as stunned as I do. Every now and then Mother makes me watch my siblings when there is no school. But lately “every now and then” has turned into every other day. I wipe the water from my face and move the strands of hair sticking to my cheeks.    

The train usually comes at night. How long were we swimming? Bodie’s the first to speak. A smile breaks across his face and he starts back to the shore. “C’mon!” he waves us over and Casity and I follow.    

I grip the rocks that lead down into the water and climb onto land just as fast as I can. Bodie reaches the top and takes off down the grass field before I am even on dry land, not slowing a bit, and Casity is right behind him. “Guys!” I shout after them. They are supposed to stay within my sight, but clearly that is not happening. I race up the bank as quickly as I can, through the open field and under the white fence parting the filled with tree bark and up the small hill that carries the train tracks.   

The tracks crowd with a fleet of Anomalites. Sanitation Helpers carrying shovels and tools in tattered clothing; the key carriers are already at the front of the pack. Bodie squeezes his tiny body through tightly closed shoulders, his wild hair disappearing in the crowd. Murmurs and chatter fills the air. I squeeze through a few Sanitation Helpers and acrobats in tights and shorts - practice gear. It’s humid through all the bodies and the smell of sweat and hay sprout from the train cart.  I can feel Casity grip my shirt as I lead the way to the front of the group.    

Closest to the train I find Bodie already waiting there. Two key carriers perch on the edge of the train’s cart. They count to three and, gripping both doors, prying them open, the wooden carts sliding apart in unison. Dust flies from the opening and I can feel the Anomalites hold their breath behind me. The key carriers enter the cart and examine the place for a good long minute before one says, “Oh my god.”   

Bodie pushes up against the cart. Its opening comes up to his chest but like me, I’m sure he can’t see beyond the deep shadows. “What’s the hold up? Quit stallin’, I need my tools!” a couple of Anomilites agree with him.   

“Alright! Alright! Hold ya horses!” a Carrier says. The two men in leather boots and thick gloves retreat inside. I can hear the sound of something sliding against wood. The carriers appear back in the light, dragging something heavy between the two of them.    

“Any shovels in there?” a Sanitation Helper asks behind me.    

“No,” the muffled voice for a Carrier comes. “But there is something.” I stand on my toes to try and see but it quickly becomes clear. Lying limp, between the two of them, are the arms of a pale figure; the arms of a boy. He’s unconscious and groaning, his hair shaggy and peppered with strands of straw.      

One of the Instructors pushes himself through the crowd and shoos everyone who is not here to retrieve supplies away, so Bodie, Casity and I must go. It doesn’t matter; we’ve seen enough anyway.    

   

ISHRA ~ CLINIC    

I do not dare open my eyes until I know for sure she is gone. I can feel the pillow beneath my head, and the constant wave of wind blowing from the fan above but I can’t look. Not yet. Metal clangs against metal as someone walks around the bed. I assume it’s a nurse. Her feet patter against the floor as she walks. When she stops moving around, she rests a cold hand over my forehead, checks the thermometer in my mouth manually, removes it and closes the door behind her. Now, I open them. A ceiling fan swings overhead, swirling around the intoxicating aroma of the breakfast she brought me. Bacon, eggs, a bagel and juice. A single bed occupies the room and a chair faces a large window at my side.      

I reach over, snag a bagel and take a bite of it. Then I throw the blankets off of me and sit up in bed. Cool air sends goose bumps rippling down my arms. They’ve removed my shoes and shirt. How degrading. I search the room for covering. There is a new, clean shirt by the door. It doesn’t belong to me but I don’t care. I slip it on anyway and find my shoes under the bed. They’re muddied and still moist from last night’s rain, but they will have to do.    

My backpack rests on a chair by the window. I check to make sure all of its contents, hoping they did not check it. There are some things in this bag that would give me away as Industrian for sure and others that could send me to prison. But no one has gone through it, not that I can tell, so I hoist it over my shoulder and wince. I had forgotten about the bruises I’ve gathered from the train last night. I message the spot with my fingers and grind my teeth. It could be worse, I could’ve missed the train completely. Cautiously, I poke my head out of the door frame.     

Of the medical facilities I’ve had the unfortunate experience of visiting; this is most definitely the smallest. And the least guarded. The rooms are housed closely together and the wooden floors give away the building’s age; old. Historic even. I glance up and down the broad hallway for life. A few nurses mingle amongst themselves at what appears to be the commuting desk a few yards away. They are far to engaged to acknowledge me. Quickly, I leave the door post and walk-run down the hall.   

It ends abruptly. There is no elevator. There is another hallway that leads to more patients’ rooms, and I think to enter there when I pause. A door with a hand-made sign marked EXIT stands before me. Oh. Or not.     

I glance over my shoulder to the occupied nurses, snickering and cackling collectively thinking that was far too easy, and push through the door. The security in Anomaly is, as I hoped, lacking. As soon as the door opens the sun warms my face and I take in a deep breath. The air is so much clearer here. The sight is nothing short of shocking.    

Outside, I walk right into a city of color. No Anomalite is bland, you can count on that. The streets are filled with laughter and disorder as people talking and walk in every direction; cars honking, crowds talking, dogs barking. A bright red old-timey car with headlights light two giant flashlights sticking from its hood honks its horn as the driver tries to part through the crowd at a snail’s pace. I wonder too close and he warns me I will pay thoroughly if I get a scratch on his car but just as he does kids race up beside him and throw balloons full of paint. It’s too late for that.    

A group of women in elaborate regal dresses pass by; the gold and glitter on their gowns enough to power a lighthouse, and enough sparkles on their faces to create a second gown. A bald man in tattered garb and face paint shuffles by with muscles like boulders stuffed into his skin. He glances at me as he walks by but saunters on as though I were just another member of this freak fest.     

Anomaly is a kaleidoscope of color; but strange, stranger than I could have ever imagined. A teen girl in overalls and black tights passes and just as she begins to look normal, she stands on her hands and starts up the steps of an open trailer. Another girl in a flashy bra winks at me as she passes her long skirt shifting as she walks.    

Lights hang above the city, vintage style. Everything in Anomaly looks as though it were made five decades ago. From dress to decorum, nothing is modern, nothing is new. It’s as though I’ve just stepped into a time machine set for the 1950s French circus.    

My schooling has prepared me for this, though. I knew the Anomalite’s culture wouldn’t accept any new technology the way Industria does. We thrive on it back home but here people are simpler, living is simpler. Perhaps that’s what Mother wanted; the simple life. But when I find her I have to convince her it was only a phase she was going through. Industria is our home, she must know.       

I turn in a circle, taking in all the sights I couldn’t see last night. An upbeat tune comes from somewhere far off. The smells of sweet treats follow the breeze in a sudden gust of wind. A man on stilts with a white-painted face and black tear drops smeared over his cheeks steps carefully over heads. I’m so distracted I bump into a woman as she passes. She glares back at me, her purple ponytail whipping behind her back as she turns, her eyelashes long and exaggerated. ‘Watch it!” she says, her ponytail springing with the crane of her neck   

“S-Sorry,” I say holding up a hand. “Sorry.”    

Even as she leaves, I keep staring. The designs on her face, the color of her hair, her dress. Everything is so shocking about her I can’t look away. Even without the color, it’s odd to see a female with such long hair. My mother used to keep her hair long, so I’m told. And yet, everyone in Anomaly is like her. Everyone is trying to out-exaggerate the other.     

By apologizing to her, I bump into even more people. A fleshy man with a long beard guides his young daughter through the crowd. A man in his twenties holds a monkey over his shoulder, feeding it peanut butter and crackers. This place is crazy. I’m beginning to question my decision in coming here. I’ve already gathered a few strange looks from people ten times stranger looking than me.      

None of the clothes I’ve brought with me is enough to satisfy the taste of Anomaly, I’m sure of that now. Just walking down the street I’m making a spectacle of myself. They act as though if my face is plain then I’m streaking nude down city hall. Feeling awkward and out of place, I fix the strap of my backpack over my shoulder and keep walking. Shops bombard the sides of the dirt path, lit in flashing lights and boasting of food or jewelry. All around me people speak so loudly I can’t hear myself think. I need to get out of here. I need to blend in better. I’m causing a scene. I rack the shops for a good spot and then I find it. A consume store, for males none the less! Forking my way through the crowded bodies passing this way and that, all scattered as if they’ve never been taught to walk in a line, I make my way to the tiny tent’s entrance.    

I read somewhere that Anomalites don’t use the currency points system as we do in Industria. They use something called the frequency system, where Amps serve as currency. How it works, I have no idea. All I know is that I need to blend in and this store is my ticket to that. Foolishly, I brought along Industrial currency with me.   

I slip a couple of shirts off the rack and stuff them into my bag and quickly zip it up. If there were cameras, or motion senor hangers like the stores I am used to, looting wouldn’t be this easy. Nothing would be this easy.    

But I may have been a bit ambitious. My bag has suddenly swollen up like a bowling ball and the woman behind the counter wants to know why. She doesn’t get around to asking me, though. I spin around and exit as quickly as I can and slip out the door unseen and unnoticed. I make sure no one is following me before I continue following the dirt roads of Anomaly.    

I walk for quite some time before I feel it. It is an acute sensation developed to avoid my father’s sometimes belligerent moods. The sense of uneasiness in the air that smells of mal intent. I crane my neck over the crowds, scanning the people behind me and in front. Something is not right, even if my eyes don’t tell me so. I can feel it in my gut.   

And then I see it.    

The place from the photo. The place I came here for. The tent is huge. It overlooks everything in the city, its lights competing with the sun for first place. Tall rods stories high hold up an awning like a giant umbrella. The pattern of the cloth is striped red and white, ancient Anomaly patterns. This institution is for acting and flaunting one’s talents. I don’t need a textbook to tell me that.    

I move towards it when I freeze dead in my tracts.   

A man in sunglasses paces its doors, his fingers pressed to his ear as he listens intently. This gesture would only make since if he had an ear phone, which most Anomalites do not. His head skims the crowd as if he is searching for something. For someone. If nothing else his suit gives him away. No color. Grey. He is not an Anomalite. There’s no way. His attire is purely Industrialite and I recognize the black X over his chest. He is an officer for the Industrian police. I realize this as his eyes lock with mine and he comes this way, directly for me.    

I curse under my breath. This is Father’s doing. When my mother left, he had dozens of detectives looking for her. He sent Industrian detectives and officers to search every district. There was a point where he told one officer he no longer cared if he found her dead or alive, he only wanted to find her. He only wanted to know she was not content outside of his presence. He couldn’t let her go that easily. And he certainly won’t let me.    

Something else occurs to me too. I remember the signal my Birth-chip gives off in my wrist. My Signal Blocker cuff blinks red; low battery. I need to charge it. But my Birth-chip, it is embedded there, I can do nothing to disconnect it. I grab my wrist, hoping to disrupt the signal and turn to go.    

I fix my backpack on my back as I hurry. There are enough bodies here to fill a stadium and I use that to my advantage. As I back away, the crowd swallowing up my presence, I search for a way out. I shove my way through shoulders and try not to cause a scene. I can’t go that way, towards the performing tent. I need a different route.    

I veer off the main street, through a festival of markets and small shops, hastening until I’m far enough to slow down. There’s no sight of him now, and even if he did have a view of me just a second ago. There’s no way he has one now.     

I lost him. But he will not be the last of them. Night Patrol. They regulate the streets of Industria, which is why we have virtually no crime. It is also why there are a lot of runaways leaving the city as well. They want their freedom. But with that freedom is a tradeoff; your own safety. I am risking my life just coming here. Just walking these unpaved roads. Standing out like this isn’t going to work. I no longer care how hideously exaggerated the people are here, if I want to make any progress I need to befriend them. I need them to trust me. And I need to look like them.         

Glancing back in to where I saw him last, I’m too distracted to notice where I’m going and I slam into someone. A woman. I might’ve elbowed her in the face. I can’t tell, but she hunches over and grabs her nose in shock. “Sorry, so sorry,” I say.   

“It’s alright,” she says, her hand moving over her heart now as if it aches. “You scared me half to death,” she says, which is, like most of her, a complete exaggeration. Her eyelashes are abnormally thick and her face is painted ghostly white, a total contrast with her crayon orange hair. I take a step back at the mere sight of her. She is not unsightly; it is just her makeup that is shocking.        

“Oh my gosh! What happened to your forehead?” she asks. Reaching towards me, she runs her thumb over my bruise. It stings and I pull back, unwilling to let her touch me. It is extraordinarily rude to touch someone without their permission but she is all too comfortable with it.   

“Nothing. Nothing happened. I’m fine,” I say and I crane my neck back at the spot where the Industrialite officer stood. He is gone. My stomach sinks into a pit as my eyes rack the sea of heads for his chilling sunglasses.    

“Are you lost?” the woman asks and I can see her face contort in discomfort. My attire is apparently unsavory in her eyes. I don’t know what to tell her. I shake my head, still keeping an eye out for the officer. He could be anywhere. For all I know he could be getting closer. I grip my Birth-chip Blocker and hold it as though my fingers restrain some sort of poison that I’m blocking from spreading down my arm.     

“Lost? No. Why? Am I out of roaming grounds?” I say, remembering something I read in an Anomalite handbook which, by the way, was incredibly short. There are few rules here, one of which includes freedom of speech and travel restrictions. But I cannot remember which areas it said was off limits to the general public, not that I can remember much of what I’ve read now.    

“Ah,” she says, as though she completely understands my situation somehow.  She glances at my backpack and says, “Were you headed to the school?”   

My eyebrows rise. School. Of course. It is the most un-suspicious thing. I nod violently, perhaps to adamant in my actions. “Yes, the school. I was going to the school.”    

But this is not enough for her. And all I want now is for her to go away. To stop with the questions. “Are you a transfer student? I can’t recall you ever attending the school…” she says, mulling it over.   

“Yeah, yeah, transfer,” I say hoping that this will be the end of our conversation together. I begin to step back, easing myself back into the rush of people traveling this way and that. But she moves closer to keep within earshot of me, missing my nonverbal cues that this conversation is finished.   

“And you’re a Junior Elitist, right? You must be a Junior Elitist, you’re far too old to be a Hub.” I have no idea what she is talking about but I agree to whatever it is she is saying.    

“Yeah, but I’m going to be late so I have to go-” I say, turning to leave when I feel her grip my sleeve.   

“Well I was going there myself, I can show you!” she says, linking our arms together. “My name’s Mrs. Donatello,” she brags. Her pull is strong for a woman, but then again she is no stick. I can’t think of any lie to discount this one and I also want to get out of the perspective sight of the officer so I follow.    

“What is your name?” she asks and I hesitate.  I think back to the magazine Davis gave me and the article towards the back of a list of the top 10 best names for newborns in Anomaly city. Most of which I cannot, or do not care to, pronounce and others belong to girls. But I do remember one name. I had circled it for later, hoping that I may aid me in my later endeavors here if I ever needed it. I remember now. I came up with the perfect name. Ishra.   

Author's Note

This is sort of 2 chapters in one but the first one is short so why not. Any feedback on character, plot so far, flow and/or anything that just stands out as needing correction helps. I'm not really checking for grammar yet but if you want to, sure.