Break Glass

by Sabina Trojanova

The bell is inside a red box with the words “emergency break glass” neatly inscribed on the cover. I stare at it from across the room, huddled beneath a military-issue blanket, my feet numb with cold. No matter what happens tonight I cannot ring the bell. Mother made me swear I wouldn’t do it on my first night in the forest.

I had thought the woods would be silent at night. Away from the drones patrolling our neighbourhood, the crackling generators and curfew announcements, I had expected stillness. But the forest seems to be wide awake and watching. Outside my window, the dark branches reach toward the cold glass with their gnarled limbs. Shadows creep across the room whenever a moonbeam fights its way through the thick canopy and my only source of light is a dwindling flame I built inside the fireplace. Worst of all is the noise.

At first, I thought they were screams. But during our preparation classes, Mrs Cartwright explained the cabins were so spread out that we would never run into another human being, not unless we rang the bell. That means, these sounds must be coming from wild animals. I don’t know which part of the country they have taken us to this year, which makes it hard to guess which creatures lurk in the darkness. Wolves, bobcats, foxes, pumas, black bears. I tried to memorise their growls before my Rite, listening to the recordings we’d been given in class over and over. But I only recognise one animal amidst this midnight requiem, an owl screeching in a nearby tree. Identifying the source of the ghastly sound doesn’t make me feel any better.

A nurse once told me taking deep breaths would calm my anxiety, but I don’t dare. The air isn’t safe outside the Cities, not since the Women’s Crusades. You can’t stay in the wilderness for more than a month without permanent damage to your lungs. Mrs Cartwright told us there have been cases of girls hallucinating during the first few days of exposure. Even so, she instructed us to breathe normally, advice I’ve been struggling to obey. The air burns my nostrils with an unfamiliar cloying odour that must come from some chemical banned in the City of Adam. Combined with the black fireplace smoke, it’s the kind of smell that seeps into your clothes and your hair and only comes out after a long scalding shower.

But I can’t sit around dwelling on my fears if I am to last out here. Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop. I get out of bed, gathering the grey woollen blanket around my shoulders, and walk toward the fire. I’d built it soon after I woke up inside the cabin this afternoon, several hours ago, but it is dying now. As I squat down to arrange fresh logs on top of the glowing embers, I notice a dull ache in my temples. It is not the air, I remind myself. It must be the sleeping pills we were given before we boarded the helicopters wearing off.

With the fire restored, I look around for a new diversion. The cabin is a single room with bare walls constructed from polished logs, finished with an oppressively low ceiling. Aside from the bed and fireplace, there is a dining table with one chair, a small pile of logs and kindling, a gas stove, an iron pot and some cutlery. Next to the cabin is a wooden outhouse with a compost toilet and a metal bucket. That is all. There is absolutely nothing to distract myself with other than chores and - as Mrs Cartwright frequently reminded the class - prayer.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,” I begin, kneeling close to the fireplace for warmth. I pray for the Commander first, then for Father and Mother and, only then, for my future husband. Once I am married, he will precede my parents. I take my time, carefully choosing the right words and only thinking pure thoughts. Mrs Cartwright stressed that the Rite is an opportunity to cleanse our minds of sin. A chance to repent so we may be worthy of the sanctity of marriage, despite all the destruction our grandmothers and great-grandmothers and great-great-grandmothers caused during the Women’s Crusades. When I was younger, all I felt toward those women was anger. Their war was definitive proof why God does not permit a woman to assume authority over a man. But the more I learn, the more pity I feel for them. Living without a husband’s guidance is an awful fate, and I dread to think what would become of me without the Rite. All I have to do now is prove I am worthy of a strong man.

“Only the weakest, most pathetic boys rescue girls who give up that early,” Mother told me before I left for my Rite. She had waited to speak with me until Father had gone to bed, because she was talking about him. Mother had been only the second girl to ring in her year, after her dress accidentally caught on fire. “I could have lasted the full month,” she insisted in a forceful whisper. “I could have outlasted them all.” But she had not and now she is stuck with my Father - she never calls him by his name - in our tiny damp house, all because of that one small mistake. “All my hopes went up in flames along with that dress.” I don’t share Mother’s dislike of Father. He hasn’t given us an easy life but he has also never been unkind. But I do share Mother’s resolve. I have gone to bed hungry too many times not to want a better future for my family.

I wonder how the other girls from my class are feeling inside their own cabins. It’s not unusual for someone to ring the bell on the first night, and I wonder who it might be. Perhaps Esther, who once burst into tears during Bible study when the priest recounted the story of Lot’s wife. It could be Hagar, whose voice quivers whenever she is asked a question in class and who never speaks to the rest of us girls during break time. Even Miriam might leave early, although I feel guilty for thinking it because she is my friend. I sit next to her at church and I have noticed she doesn’t know many of the passages by heart, even though we have been memorising them since we were five-years-old. The day before our departure, we were reciting Timothy 2:9-15, one of the Commander’s beloved passages, and Miriam didn’t open her mouth once. Such lack of dedication does not bode well for her success in the Rite. But, whoever rings the bell tonight, all I know is that it won’t be me.

My thoughts are interrupted by a new noise coming from the outside. Once again, I have to remind myself that the cabins are built far apart, because it sounds so much like a human scream. The Devil plays tricks on us to make us afraid. I’m lucky I’ve been taught to know better. I steal toward the window next to my bed, but the spindly branches obstruct my view. All I can hear is the sound drawing closer to my cabin and then, to my relief, changing direction and quickly fading into the night. The animal seems to be running fast. I lie down in bed and close my eyes. It takes me a long time to fall asleep but I keep my eyelids shut, to stop myself from looking at the red box on the wall.

I keep busy with chores all through my second day, finding a stream with clean water, boiling it on the gas stove, gathering firewood and looking for food. To my delight I find a fallen bird’s nest with two eggs in it and a shrub heavy with ripe blackberries. Breathing the air still fills me with unease but I’ve gotten used to the smell. As the sun goes down - which I can tell by the gradual disappearance of light rather than the colour of the sky, which is obscured by a thick canopy - I say my daily prayers. Then I change into my nightgown and climb into bed. The forest sounds less threatening tonight, the animals moving through the darkness more gently. The screaming creature I heard last night, I realised earlier, must have been a fox. I have seen them many times in the City of Adam, stalking through the streets after dusk and rummaging through our garbage. Their yelps scared me when I was younger because they sound so much like a woman crying for help. Tonight I know better than to succumb to my childish fears. Lulled by the fire’s gentle crackling I drift off.

An awful scream pierces the night. I bolt upright in bed and instinctively reach for my phone, but as the sleepy haze drains from my body, I remember I’m not at home. I’m in a cabin in the woods, all by myself, and unless I’m prepared to ruin all my future prospects by ringing the bell on my second night, no one is coming to save me. It’s just the fox, I remind myself. A fox. A harmless little fox. A second scream echoes through the forest, much deeper and angrier than the first. I don’t think it could possibly belong to the same animal. My suspicion is confirmed when I hear the fox cry out again, its voice panicked and shrill. Something is hunting it. The wails get louder, as though the animals are running towards my cabin. Twigs snap. Leaves rustle. Then I hear the breathing. Judging by its high-pitched wheezing the fox has managed to outrun its pursuer. I can hear the larger animal’s heavy footsteps in the distance, but it seems to have lost its trail for now.

Then, there’s a knock. I clasp both my hands over my mouth to stifle a scream. Foxes don’t knock on people’s doors. That must mean the sound wasn’t a knock, because the only other explanation is- “Let me in! Please, he’s going to kill me.” There’s an urgency in the voice but there’s something else, too, something familiar. I want to cover my ears and pretend I didn’t hear but, almost involuntarily, I find myself crossing the room and opening the door. A skinny girl darts inside and quickly shuts the door, blinking her eyes against the glare of the fire. When our eyes meet, her gaze widens. “Eve?” she says my name. Her body is so covered in mud and bloody scrapes that it’s not her face that gives her identity away, but her voice.

“Miriam!” My own voice comes out just as shrill as hers, and I realise I am digging my dirty fingernails into the skin on my forearm. “What is going on?”

“We need to keep our voices down,” Miriam whispers, still catching her breath. I point to the single chair inside my room and lean against the table across from her.

“I’ll be quiet,” I say, lowering my voice. “But I need an explanation. Mrs Cartwright said we would never see another person out here.”

Miriam nods. “I thought the same thing.”

“So who is out there? You said somebody’s trying to kill you?”

“I thought I got rid of him yesterday,” she looks down at her hands, caked in dirt and dried blood. “One of my rocks hit his glasses and I thought he couldn’t see where I went after that. But he found me again this evening and… Well, I’m just so relieved I found your cabin.”

“Who is he?”

There are dirty tear streaks beneath her eyes, which dart around the room. She twirls her dark curly hair around her fingers and pushes it behind her ears. It’s clear she is trying to listen for the man’s footsteps, but he seems to have gone in a different direction. For now. “I think it’s Cyrus.”

“Cyrus who?”

“Cyrus from school.”

“You mean Cyrus Price, the football captain?” I have only ever spoken to him once, when he accidentally stepped on my dress at Sunday Mass. I apologised to him and he told me not to worry about it. I remember he wore shiny leather shoes and horn-rimmed eyeglasses which looked just like the Commander’s. Without wanting to be cruel to Miriam, I doubt a boy like him even knows she exists.

But Miriam nods.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I shake my head in response. “Why would Cyrus be trying to kill you?”

“I think he was sent by them,” she says, emphasising the final word.

“What do you mean - them?”

“The Commander’s people.” She looks at me with watery eyes. They remind me of the lambs being led to slaughter at Spring Festival as an offering to God. “I’m running away.”

“Running away from Cyrus?”

“No, Eve. I’m running away from the City of Adam.” Her cheeks flush. “I thought if I could evade the drones for a few days, I might make it out. But they must have found out and sent their strongest boy after me.”

“Did you ring the bell?”

She sighs and meets my gaze straight on. “What do you think?”

“I think that if you are in any sort of trouble, you should have rung the bell.”

“You really still believe that stupid bell is there to rescue you?”

I back away. Her words sound like treason. “Stop talking,” I tell her and close my eyes, gathering my thoughts. I’m inside a cabin in the woods. The cabins are spread so far apart that we will never see another living soul unless we ring the bell; Mrs Cartwright made that very clear in our preparation classes. Miriam is inside my cabin, but she doesn’t sound anything like the friend I have known for years. Miriam sounds just like the women who fought in the Crusades, the same women who reigned so much ruin on our beautiful nation. Then it finally dawns on me. I have been breathing the toxic forest air for two days now, laced with potentially hallucinogenic chemicals. This is not reality. This is a test, a chance to prove I will not be deceived. My name may be Eve, but I can show the world I’m not a sinner.

“You need to get out,” I say.

She looks startled, as if I’ve struck her. “Eve, do you not know what’s going to happen if I’m caught? Do you really not understand what he’s going to do to me?”

“You’re not real; you’re just a hallucination.”

“What are you talking about? Eve, it’s me, Miriam. We’ve been friends since elementary school.” Her voice cracks as she says the words and I have to look away for a moment. I must not falter.

“My friend Miriam is no traitor.” With those words, I grab one of her muddy arms and drag her out of my room. She doesn’t resist. Before I shut the heavy wooden door behind her, she grabs the pale skin on my forearm and pinches me.

“It’s all a hallucination; why can’t you see that?”

I slam the door and rub my skin where she touched me. It stings. I hear her scurrying away through the shrubs but the sound soon disappears, as if it had never existed.

I climb back into bed and bury my head beneath the pillow. I’m not sure how long it takes me to fall asleep but it feels like hours. By the time I wake up, the hallucination is gone. I check my forearm, right where my skin was pinched, but there is no mark. Pride is a sinful emotion but I must admit, I’m pleased with myself for not falling into the Devil’s trap. I’m not sure the other girls would have been strong enough.

Things get easier from then on, dawn followed by dusk followed by dawn. The nights still fill me with trepidation but the visions never return. I wake up on the thirtieth day with a smile and whistle while I get dressed. There is no comb in the cabin but I carefully run my fingers through my matted hair, doing my best to look presentable. Today is the day I get to ring the bell. I delay until the late afternoon, until the last possible moment before the air irreversibly damages my lungs, hoping that means only the strongest boy remains. The red box looks even brighter than usual as I approach it. I ball my left fist and with one swing the glass shatters into large fragments. One of them cuts my knuckle and the colour of my blood matches the box, which makes me smile even wider. I don’t feel any pain. I wrap my fingers around the brass bell and it makes a beautiful silvery sound that makes my head tingle.

Moments later, I can hear footsteps approaching the cabin. I walk outside where the forest floor is dappled with a golden light, fading slowly as the day draws to a close. “It is not good for a man to be alone,” someone says and when I look up, I see it’s Cyrus Price, standing tall amongst the shrubs. The football captain. The strongest boy in our year. My future husband. He looks like an angel, his face bathed in the afternoon glow, his leather shoes shining like the sun. He crosses the small distance between us and wraps me in his arms. I look up at him and I can see how beautiful his eyes are up close for the very first time, because he isn’t wearing his glasses. He pushes my face down against his chest and I know I am finally safe.