CHAPTER ONE

The soft cheers of fans in the bleachers floated around me, as I stood planted in right field, waiting for the next batter. My brain was elsewhere. Actually, my eyes were fixed on my watch latched onto my wrist, resting just above my softball glove. Green glowing letters read: sixty-five years, three months, five days, eight hours, ten minutes and 13, 12, 11 seconds; the time I had until I died. With a slow breath, I tried not to think too deeply about how long or short that truly was, otherwise the stress might subtract a few days.

Instead, I gained comfort in its steady ticking, second by second. There was the promise I’d live a long life and hopefully see wonderful new advances in Brighton, marry for love, and have a few kids. The thought made me smile. Then suddenly, the time flashed red numerals zipping down to ten minutes.

“Abby, heads up!”

With a squeal, I glanced up and raised my glove to catch a pop fly mid-air, stopping the ball from pummeling into my skull.

Holy baseballs!

Above my head, like magic, my wrist glowed sixty-five years again, minus a few months. With a deep exhale and a pounding pulse, I chucked the ball toward Yara, who jumped up and down like she had to pee.

She tagged the runner out at second and the team cheered, praising our double play. But all I could do was blink. I’d almost died. Right there. In right field. Died.

Out of the corner of my eye, Elle, my best friend, gave me the look—the one that said, “What the heck?”

I shrugged and smiled, then returned to my dented footprints in the grass and tried to shake off the dread pulsing in my veins.

It had been a while since I’d had a near death experience—a year to the day actually—and if I didn’t pull my head out of the clouds and back into the game, I might not experience what was really bothering me.

Being the youngest, I was the last on the team to attend the acclaimed Brighton ritual for all eighteen-year-olds. Through the brilliant invention of a wrinkle in time, everyone had one opportunity to glean wisdom from the future and sit before their 38-year-old self and partake in ten minutes of their knowledge.

My older teammates had said the meeting was no big deal, really. But whatever their future self, or Compliment, had said to them, which they couldn’t share, had subtly changed them. Like Trinity, for example, who’d become so thin I worried she’d blow over on a windy day and Addison had become totally OCD about sunscreen. I don’t even want to mention Reagan, who cried for a month. And Elle, who I thought would tell me everything, turned broody and sarcastic—well, more so than she already was. All she’d leaked was that her future self was just like she was now—just old and boring. I knew different. Something horrible had transpired, and no matter how much I’d prodded, she wouldn’t budge. So, the thought of the meeting terrified me.

Of course, all conversation between Compliment and youth was typed and monitored via computer before the knowledge was shared for fear the time continuum would warp like it had when Jimmy Valentine told himself the winner of the Brighton World Series. The Elected Agency (or the EA as we all called them) now had safe guards. Computer programs compared statements and guessed how history would alter from the knowledge, and approved or declined the information. If they found something improper slipped through anyway, the recipient was given mind-erasing drugs so they wouldn’t know anything different.

But what could my Compliment possibly say so I’d be a better civilian? Ever since I could read, I’d memorized Brighton’s Civilian Handbook and followed every rule faithfully. I’d also watched my DOD (date of death) watch like a hawk, careful to learn from what altered my time and vowed not to repeat stuff that gave bad consequences. Eat healthy. Go to bed at a decent hour. Avoid stress. Obey my parents. If the EA needed someone to depict as Brighton’s finest, I could be their poster child. So why was I even going?

Yara hadn’t. Her parents were part of the Emancipated Society, rebels of sorts who lived life absent of knowing their date of death and championed people to no-show their Advice Meeting. They’d also blacked out the faces of their EA required watches with special paint. The notion sent my nerves on edge. How could they trust fate like that? What if a bad decision killed them? Like just now… in right field.

Maybe all my fear stemmed from finding out who I’d marry. Sure, everyone married a recommended approved DNA mate and had their limit of two kids, but then what? I didn’t particularly like any of my approved mates and if Toby Fisher was the one I was supposed to live happily ever after with, I’d die.

I decided not to bother Elle with my suspicions. Since her meeting, she’d completely stopped talking about the guys in our approved circle all together. Did she not marry? Or had she married someone icky like Toby? Whatever it was, a part of her had died inside and what killed me was she wouldn’t tell me.

On the third out, Elle ran over from center field, meeting up with me so we could head to the dugout together

“What gives?” she said with the fake, I’m totally fine so don’t ask, look on her face.

“Nothing,” I sighed, checking my watch again. The two months deducted from my adrenaline rush of the near death experience hadn’t returned. “Dang it.”

Elle smirked, following my gaze. “I swear if you check that one more time, I’ll sneak over tonight while you’re sleeping and paint over the face, then I’ll drug you and keep you home. Tomorrow will be no big deal.”

She looked away from my prying gaze, took off her hat, and ran her hand through her dark, short hair.

“Then why won’t you tell me about your meeting, then?”

Elle let out a gust of air, feigning jocularity, but the pain radiated deep from within her brown eyes once more. “My future self is a big downer, okay? I get old and wrinkled, and reform into Brighton’s finest citizen. Blah, blah, blah.”

I grabbed her arm. “We’ve been friends since we were in Kindergarten, Eleanor, and I know when you’re lying.”

Her glare hit me hard. “Don’t call me that, Abigail.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Well?”

“Fine, I’ll tell you, okay? After your meeting, just don’t call me that.”

Guilt for using my best ammo—her formal name—twisted slightly in my gut, but I was overcome with relief. I almost pulled her into a bear hug when Coach yelled at us to hustle.

Arriving last to the dugout, we squeezed by Coach as she tapped her toe against the dirt. Had she completely forgotten my assist in the double play? Or should I have allowed the ball to drill into my skull and leave her with one less player? Fellow teammates gave me high-fives anyway and Coach congratulated me so she could get on with her pep talk. I half listened, but already knew we needed at least three runs to win and this win meant the championships.

Yara, Trinity, and Addison were up first to bat, all hitting singles and loading the bases. Then Reagan struck out, putting extra pressure on Elle.

“Get ‘em, tiger,” I said playfully as I grabbed my batting glove and headed to the warm-up area.

I kept my eye on the pitcher, swinging in time with her pitch. She’d struck me out last inning and I wasn’t about to let that happen again. After three pitches, Elle returned to the dugout. She didn’t look up as she walked past and I wanted to say something, but I was up next.

“It’s all yours,” Coach said. “Send ‘em home.”

My heart pounded. Two outs and bases loaded—all on the eve of my Advice Meeting—talk about the pressure. No matter how much I ached to see how the stress affected my time watch, I wouldn’t look.

Rule 23.1: Good civilians exercise and play team sports.

I tugged the batting glove tight to my wrist and gave myself a pep talk. Stepping into the batter’s box, I tapped home plate with my bat. The pitcher studied me before she wound her arm and hurled the ball. Practically invisible, the thing zipped across the plate. The thump in the catcher’s mitt rocked my chest.

“Strike!” the ump called.

My ears stung with his words, bursting goose bumps over my skin.

“Now you know what they look like,” Coach yelled from the dugout.

Of course I knew what a strike looked like. I wasn’t a moron. I acknowledged Coach with a nod and glared at the pitcher, as if that could falter her confidence. I wouldn’t allow her to beat me this time. I would hit the ball.

Behind her, something flickered from the trees lining the field—bright and shiny.

“Strike two!”

I jumped out of the batter’s box, unaware I’d zoned out and caught the smug look on the catcher’s face.

“You’ve got her like last time,” the first baseman yelled. “Three up, three down!”

I grit my teeth. Oh, no she didn’t. Glaring at the pitcher again and clearing the noise of the hecklers, onlookers in the stands, the players, and the coaches from my mind, I stepped into the batter’s box. The light flickered again, but this time, I didn’t look. The ball was all I cared about and how I was going to send it out of the park. On instinct, I became one with the game and swung the bat.

Crack.

In the silent pause after my hit, time slowed. The exhilarating vibration tingled down my arms as I dropped the bat. High into the cloudless sky, the ball soared over the trees, and disappeared. A crash of glass and metal followed. Then a spray of sparks flew up from the nearby wall.

The crowd gasped, then roared, as my legs took off. I rounded first base, second, then third, expecting a fanfare as I crossed home, but no one watched me. Everyone just stood, mouths agape, staring off in the distance.

Smoke rose from the tree line, and I blinked at the odd sight, out of breath, then heard Elle. She ran up to me, congratulatory and smiling.

“You must have hit a camera, or a gun,” Elle said with a triumphant smile, the first I’d seen in weeks.

With the amount of smoke wafting in the air, I expected sirens at any minute. When no one came to investigate, I wondered if the EA even cared.

“You think so?”

She clapped my back. “Nice work.”

The only thing I could think of was, Rule 28.3: Good citizens don’t vandalize EA property. They couldn’t hold me accountable, considering it was an accident. To think of it, I’d never heard the guns fire and assumed them to be inactive and rusting on their perches. The idea that I’d destroyed one felt unsettling. They needed to be there. If the undead wandered to the wall, the guns were our first defense.

“I saw something,” I said under my breath to Elle, once the hoopla settled down and the game resumed. “Before I hit my grand slam. Did you see it?”

“No. What?”

“A mirror or something. It was shiny and reflecting the sunlight, like someone was trying to distract me.”

“A zombie?” Elle raised her hands and moaned, then laughed, knowing my irrational phobia of them.

I nudged her in the side as the game continued. I’d planned to go check out the damage later, but in pure daylight, of course. After the third out, Elle and I ran to the outfield for the last inning.

“Three up, three down,” Coach said.

Burnt plastic permeated the air. I glanced at the spot where the light had flickered in the thick tree line, finding nothing. Elle raised her hands again and moaned, before demanding I throw her practice grounders for warm-up.

“Knock it off!” I threw the ball extra hard.

Once the first batter appeared, I placed my palms against my knees and squatted in the ready position, nervous about keeping my back to the trees. Three quick outs was my secret wish. At this point, all I wanted was to get home. This day had already felt excruciatingly long.

But behind me, the trees rustled and my heart took off. My head whipped around and I expected something to stumble out at me, gross and undead. What if I’d destroyed the only thing that would stop a zombie from coming inside and attacking us? I studied the trees when the crack of the bat drew my attention away. I turned in time to see the ball coming for me.

I raised my glove and moved backward. “Got it!”

Keeping my eyes on the ball, I tripped on something hard and round. My ankle twisted, tipping me over, and I fell directly into the foliage. I half-expected to land on solid ground beneath my butt, but all that was there was air. Then I thudded onto the rocks and continued sliding down a sharp decline. Tumbling over, I slid head first into the dry creek bed with an oomph.

Once the momentum stopped my body and the racing of my brain lessened, pain ricocheted everywhere. I bit back a wail and tears trickled down my cheeks. Beyond the stars flickering over my vision, birds jostled the leaves of the trees, taking flight in the bright sky. With my head spinning, I lay still, afraid to get up. Thoughts of a trip to the hospital and a cast from ankle to thigh rocked through me. Just my luck to break something right before my Advice Meeting.

“You okay?”

I startled at the male’s voice and gasped, struggling to right myself. Something other than pain jolted down my side as cool, blue eyes under a shock of dark hair met mine. My breath caught and I forced down a swallow. Cute—so cute. I couldn’t form anything coherent for a second, other than zombies didn’t talk.

“I—I’m fine.”

He quirked his head, scanning the length of my body. “I doubt that.”

Warmth rushed through me while under the gaze of this mysterious guy and my brain filed through all the faces of my potential mates online. His was one I’d definitely remember, especially with those eyes, and yet this was the first time I’d seen him. How did he escape my stalking? Was he on the unapproved list because of his blue eyes? From another province perhaps? One thing was for sure: he most definitely wasn’t a zombie.

“Here.” He reached for me and clasped my hand. His grip was strong and warm as he pulled me to my feet. But there was something between our palms, something flat, yet stiff with pointed edges.

He squeezed my hand hard and leveled me with a convicted look. I felt a rush of blood hit my cheeks when he held on a little too long.

“What is this?” I peered into his anxious eyes. Did he expect that I should know him? What was between our hands?

“Shhh—” he said, cautiously. “I just—need to tell you—”

He looked around nervously, then dropped my hand when the shouts of my teammates called from the ridge.

“Abby?” I heard Elle scream above the rest. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I called while my heart revved to a sprint. I fingered the thing he’d given me, trapping the evidence inside my palm, as my chest filled with terror. My mouth opened and shut, then I scanned the trees for hidden cameras. If I was caught with what I’d suspected he’d given me, we’d be arrested, no questions asked.

The strange, cute guy moved backward into the trees, blending in with his grey and black clothing. I wanted to ask him where he was going. The only thing echoing in my head was the Civilian Handbook.

Rule 6.1: Paper is illegal. Do not make, manufacture, or use paper in any way. Report all violations of this law, or suffer a year in prison.

The sweat in my palm softened the pointed edges of the note. If I kept my hand closed, the EA wouldn’t see. But then how could I read what it said?

“Abby?” Elle screamed again. “Where are you?”

I moved away from the guy and back toward a trail leading up the side of the ravine to the field in a rush, panicked over the paper, panicked over everything.

“I’m coming.” I warred with a weird sense of being torn. My numb feet stumbled forward, knowing the correct response would be to run and report him. Another part of me wanted to help him. He wore vintage clothing from the pre-zombie era and black Converse shoes I’d kill for and had only seen in the museums. Where in the heck did he get his hands on paper? And why would he trust me with it? One quick glance at his wrist—no DOD watch. I wanted to ask him, but then I knew the EA was listening. Time ticked on slowly as we looked questioningly, into one another’s eyes.

When I looked up the trail once again, my teammates’ feet were rushing toward me, stirring up dirt everywhere. I turned back to the guy one last time, but the blue eyed stranger was gone.

His note, though, burned in my palm. And then, as the girls rushed down the trail toward me, terror flooded me. If I were caught, I’d be detained for who knows how long. I moved to the tall grass, stooped over to pick up my glove and stuffed the note under a shiny black rock, praying no one would notice.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 679