6 Digit Passcode

  6 Digit Passcode

  Abigail Collins

  Copyright © 2015 Abigail Collins

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1511609036

  ISBN-13: 978-1511609036

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to everyone who ever thought they weren’t important. Now you have a book dedicated to you, so you must be pretty important.

  Chapter one

  I awake with my hands covered in blood and my mother’s half-gutted corpse rotting beside me.

  I have no idea why they have spared me. Never before have these people – these monsters – shown any semblance of sympathy, not even for themselves. If it could guarantee their survival, they would gladly tear the heads off of every single member of their division without a second thought.

  And the humans in their charge… They are no better than dogs to them. And if a dog bites its owner, the only solution is to euthanize it.

  My mother bit back. We all know that the way we’re living is unjust, cruel and pitiless. But most of us just sit back and take what we can get, because we know the cost of trying to speak up for ourselves. They outnumber us, and their level of strength is greater by dozens. My mother was an example, a warning.

  They don’t kill all of us, just enough to keep the rest of us in line.

  From my hiding place underneath the bed I can just see the outline of my mother’s body. There is blood everywhere, soaking into her clothing and running along the floor like a stream. It has almost reached me, and if I were to stretch my arm out just a little I would be able to touch it. Her long, beautiful black hair is stained and clotted, but from my vantage point I cannot see her face. The smell is unbearable, like a mixture of rotten meat and rust, and I quickly pinch my nose and swallow down a rush of bile in my throat.

  My father’s corpse is in the living room, one floor down. When the Digits came into our house to collect my mother, my father stood in front of them and protected her. Usually, the Digits don’t shoot innocent humans – mainly because we’re too useful for them to waste – but when they have a target, nothing can get between it and them.

  The blood on my hands is my own. I didn’t watch my father die, because my mother rushed us up the stairs before they killed him, but I could hear everything from my hiding place. When the Digits – there were two of them, which is basically equivalent to five or six of us – broke down the door and attacked my mother, a piece of metal ricocheted from one of their weapons and embedded itself into my shoulder. It’s still there, because I don’t dare remove it just yet, but when I reach up with my left hand to feel it I can tell that it’s at least an inch deep into my skin.

  The Digits are a species that looks almost human, enough to pass for one of us if we don’t look at them too closely. But the ones who broke into our house were wearing masks to hide their faces. It is a rare occurrence for one of them to kill one of us without going through the process of a trial and execution, but it happens, and when it does they wear plastic masks over their faces so that any surviving witnesses cannot identify them later.

  This is important, because we have to work alongside the Digits nearly every day – at least, those of us who live in the cities. If we know which one of them murdered our friend, or family member, or even just someone we’ve met once on the street, we could riot against them or turn them in to the Council. Though all of the members of the Council are Digits, they know that it is unwise to fuel a rebellion among the people. If we all die, then they’re out of workers, soldiers, and slaves. That’s the last thing they want.

  “Everly? I’m scared…”

  My little brother is lying next to me under the bed; from where he is, he cannot see my mother’s splayed out carcass, but the small retching noises he makes every few breaths means that he can smell it just as strongly as I can. He takes my hand, and the size of his fingers around mine reminds me of just how young and fragile he is.

  He’s six years old. He’s just a little boy, and already he is an orphan.

  “I know, Fray. Me too.”

  I look down at our hands. His are at least half the size of mine, and now they are also slick with my blood. Our parents always told us that we look like twins, both of us bearing a strong resemblance to our mother. We have her wavy black hair, her dark skin, and her soft brown eyes. My father’s features are rougher and sharper, while my mother is small and graceful. They make an odd couple, but they love each other immensely.

  Or at least, they did.

  I do not know what my mother did to upset the Digits. Usually, when a human is misbehaving, they are just beaten on the back a couple of times, or perhaps locked up for a day or two without food or water. The only crimes, as far as I know, that are punishable by death are resistance and treason – anything that shows that you are not willing to comply with the rules that the Digits have created. But my mother was not a rule breaker. She was a meek woman who kept her head down and her hands in her pockets.

  If anything, I am the most likely of my family members to act out and get in trouble with the Council. I have stolen a handful of times – never more than I need in order to feed and clothe my family – and once I tried to stop a Digit from taking my brother to work in the fields, but I didn’t succeed. I was given five lashings for my impudence, but never have I been threatened with my own death.

  “We’ve got to get out of here. We can go to Crissy’s, okay? We’ll just stay with her family for a little while,” I say to my brother. At first I do not recognize the hoarse rasp that comes out of my throat as my own voice.

  Crissy is a friend of mine, mostly because our parents work – worked – together in the fields. Most of the men in the cities go to work at industrial sites, building houses, and those with the highest rank and skills are allowed to work in the place where the Digits are created. My father – and Crissy’s as well – worked in a field, planting and picking crops that feed the rest of the city. It is not an honorable job for a man, but my father always said he did it so that he could be with my mother every moment of the day. I think Crissy’s father does it for different reasons, but I’m not bold enough to ask.

  “Fray?” I ask, when my brother gets too quiet. “Can you move? Do you think you can walk if I help you?”

  “Yeah. I think… I’m okay.”

  To get out from underneath the bed, we both need to push ourselves towards our mother’s body, along a path that runs straight through the stream of her blood. I wriggle out slowly, squeezing my eyes shut to avoid letting them stray to something I want very badly not to see.

  The smell gets stronger the closer I get to it. I hold my breath, tugging the collar of my sweater up over my mouth as far as I can. I feel my way out with my hands, and try not to think about what each texture I touch belongs to. I can feel wet, sticky blood between my fingers, the squishy carpet under my palms, and bits of oily, rubbery things that I know are a part of my mother’s body, although I do not know which part.

  “Keep your eyes closed, Fray,” I instruct my brother. His hand is still clasped in mine, and I hold onto it tightly and pull him along behind me.

  “It smells,” Fray says weakly. His voice is so small and wavering that I can tell, even with my eyes shut, that he is crying. “Is Mommy dead? And Papa?”

  I want so badly to lie to him, but I can’t. The truth is two feet away from him, and on the floor downstairs, and sooner or later he will learn this. The world is a dangerous, cruel place, and I can’t shelter him from that like our parents could.

  “Yes.” My throat feels tight. “Don’t look. Try not to breathe in through your nose, okay? Just follow my voice.”

  I cough, and a gag comes up with it. Fray is breathing heavily, each exhale coming out like a wh
eeze. My hand is sweating, and maybe his is too, so I have to hold on tighter to keep our hands together. I fear that if I let him go, I will lose him too.

  My fingers find my mother’s hair, and the sudden change in texture is enough to shock me into opening my eyes. I close them as soon as I am able to gather myself, but by then it is too late. I know that what I have seen is enough to give me nightmares for the rest of my life.

  Fray makes a small whimpering noise in the back of his throat. Why did the Digits spare us? We’re just children. We aren’t much help in the fields, and we cannot work in labor or industry until we are much older. And if my mother did something that warranted her death, then we are all guilty by association. Fray and I should be dead by now. Does this mean they are going to come back for us?

  I tug Fray’s body the last few inches until both of us are out in the open and he falls roughly into me. His arms are so short they can’t even reach all the way around my waist, but he holds them there and I can feel his nose pressing into my chest. I ruffle his hair, just like our mother used to do, and wrap my arms around his shoulders. His sobs echo in my ears, and tears sting in the corners of my own eyes, but I try my best to hold them back.

  I am Fray’s guardian now. It’s my responsibility to be strong and brave, and protect him like our parents did. Like they died doing. If they could see me now, would they be proud or ashamed?

  “Fray,” I whisper, even though I’m pretty sure the Digits are gone by now. “I’m going to stand up now, alright? I want you to keep your eyes closed. Just hold my hand and go where I go. I’ll tell you when you can look, but not now.”

  “Okay,” he says, pulling himself off of me and holding out his hand. I take it and stand up, feeling a wave of dizziness wash over me as I do so.

  I retch and a thick clot of bile rises in my throat. I lean over, careful not to let go of Fray’s hand, and my stomach heaves up everything I have eaten since yesterday. The noise as it hits the ground is enough to make me retch again, but nothing comes up this time. Mixed with the smell of blood and death, it makes me feel like I can’t breathe, and even when I cover my nose and mouth with my shirt the vertigo does not go away.

  “Everly? Are you okay?”

  I shake my head and straighten myself back up. “I’m fine,” I say. I don’t even believe myself. “My stomach hurts a bit, that’s all. I’ll feel better once we’re outside in the fresh air. And so will you.”

  He coughs, and I am surprised that he doesn’t throw up. Maybe I’m not the strongest member of our family right now. What does that say about me, that my little brother is braver than I am?

  I open my eyes just a crack and feel my way to the door. I can see smears of red in the corners of my vision, but they’re blurry enough that I can’t make out any definite shapes. I look down and see that Fray has his eyes scrunched shut so tightly that they look sunken, surrounded by creases and chalky skin. I wonder how much he saw, and what it is going to do to him.

  I lead us out of the room and into the hallway. The stench is less condensed here, but still strong enough to choke me. I map out the rest of the house in my head, trying to find a route that will take us outside without passing my father’s body. I didn’t see what the Digits did to him, but I heard his screams and the sound of firearms, so I know he is dead. I would rather not see what the weapons those monsters carry did to him.

  “You can open your eyes now, Fray. There’s nobody here.” My brother does as I tell him, blinking his eyes open and looking around. I do the same, but I try hard not to let myself look at anything.

  There is blood all over both of us – on our clothing, in our hair, painted across the skin of our hands and faces. The shard of metal is still embedded in my shoulder, and I will leave it there until I can find someone who is able to stitch it up; I don’t want to risk bleeding until I pass out before I’ve gotten Fray to safety.

  Our rooms are next to our parents’ room, and I tell Fray to go to his and pack his suitcase with as many things as he can. We won’t be coming back, so we need to bring whatever we might need along with us. I don’t tell him this, but I think he understands.

  My room is messy and cluttered, mostly with clothes and papers – books I have yet to finish reading, newspaper articles that interest me, notebook pages filled with things I’ve learned and things I am curious about. My walls are littered with photographs of my family and more papers held up by thumbtacks and tape. My bed is unmade and half of my dresser drawers are open, but I suppose my lack of cleanliness doesn’t really matter now that I no longer have a mother to scold me about it.

  And, in a few minutes, I won’t even have a room to clean anymore.

  I quickly sort through the contents of my closet, pulling out a few of my favorite outfits and unceremoniously shoving them into my small suitcase. I pack socks, underwear, and a couple of bras – though I’m so close to the edge of puberty that I really don’t need them right now. I pick two books up off of the floor and gently lay them in the suitcase, followed by a music box my mother gave me when I was five and a stuffed teddy bear that I will never admit I still find comfort in.

  Fray appears in my doorway, dragging a suitcase slightly smaller than my own by its handle. Its wheels stick in the carpet, and he struggles to pull it behind him as he enters my room.

  “Did you pack everything you think you’ll need?” I ask, nodding towards his suitcase and zipping my own closed. “We’re not coming back here, so bring as much as you can with you.”

  Fray wrings his hands in his lap and bows his head. “…not coming back?” he repeats quietly.

  My heart sinks. Maybe I should bend the truth, just a little, for his sake. He deserves to retain at least some of his innocence; it’s my responsibility to make sure that he does. The world is already full of too many cynical people for me to allow my six-year-old brother to become one of them.

  “Maybe we can,” I say softly, and he looks up at me, tears in his eyes. “Someday, I’ll bring you back. I promise. But for right now we need to leave. Do you understand?”

  He nods and hums his assent, and I exhale sharply. He is a smart boy. He understands more than he should, and that is not always a good thing.

  “Will they come looking for us too?” He doesn’t have to clarify his question any more. I know he’s talking about the Digits who killed our parents.

  “I don’t think so,” I answer honestly. “If they wanted us, they could have done something to us while they were here. I don’t think we’re in any danger. We’re safe, at least for now.”

  ‘Safe’ is a word that has a different meaning now than it used to. It doesn’t mean happy, or free, or even content. It means alive, if only for a moment. Nobody can predict what the future will hold. It’s been nearly a century since the Digits were created, and still we are unable to live in complete harmony with them. If our current way of life continues, I don’t believe that the archaic definition of ‘safety’ will ever re-emerge.

  I take one last look around my room before I leave it. Untouched, it will continue to look like it’s frozen in time – like the small girl who lives here will return at the end of the day, put her clothes in the closet, and sleep in the bed. Fray’s room is cleaner than mine, but I expect that it looks much the same. Lived in, worn, comfortable. Our two rooms remain protected from the horrors contained within the rest of the house. I wish I could say the same about the children who own them.

  There is a staircase branching off of the end of the hallway that leads to the kitchen. Fray latches onto my hand again and tugs me down until I’m stooping behind him, trying to walk with my back bent uncomfortably. We take the stairs two at a time, our suitcases bouncing along behind us. The air smells fresher the closer we get to the back door, and by the time we are at the bottom of the stairs I can breathe without holding my shirt to my mouth.

  The sunlight is warm on my face when we step outside. It was early in the day when our parents were murdered, so I assume it is close to midday
now. The breeze in the air chills me, and Fray shivers at my side. It feels colder outside now than it has in the past couple of weeks. I wonder why that is.

  There are only a few other people out in the open. It is a Tuesday, so all of the adults are at work, and many of the children, too. Today, I am supposed to be at school with the other kids who do not have work to do, but I don’t care that I’m skipping. Fray is in school, too, but we only go on our days off. When children are assigned jobs – such as picking crops, washing clothes, or cleaning shops – we are allowed a small amount of time away from school. Each of the classes takes turns working so that no one misses any important lessons when they’re working; younger children like Fray have to work less often, but my class has to do it at least twice a week. We still have to complete our homework, but the Digits are lenient about how much we learn. I think it’s because they are afraid that if we learn too much, we will become smarter than they are. I don’t know what they expect will happen after that, though.

  People give us odd looks as we pass, and it takes me a moment to realize why. We are both covered in blood, with tears in our eyes, pulling bloated suitcases behind us down the street. Some of them look horrified, but a few of them have sympathy in their faces. Those are the people who can read in our appearances what has happened to us. We have experienced death, and now we are orphans looking for a place to call home.

  We walk along in silence, the sound of the wheels bumping along the cement behind us echoing like drum beats. Fray’s hand is cold and impossibly heavy in my own, but I’m too afraid of the distance between us to let it go.

  Fray takes a deep breath that rattles when he exhales. “Why did they kill Mommy and Papa?” he asks.

  “I don’t know, Fray,” I tell him. It’s the truth, but it hurts like a lie. “They didn’t deserve it, no matter what anybody says. They were good people.”