Taken (Erin Bowman)

droop, tired. It makes my stomach uneasy but in an exhilarating way.
    We pass more buildings, pausing near an open center where men, dressed in the same black uniform that Marco and his partner wear, stand on a raised platform. There is a golden statue at their backs, shaped like the emblem atop their chests, and an incredibly lengthy line of civilians filling the square before them. Several of the black-suited men hold the same slender objects Marco and his partner carried, only these men point theirs at the crowd. I know the form. They are aiming. At people. The objects they hold are weapons. Behind the statue, a smooth section of an aged building is illuminated with words: Water distribution today. Segments 13 & 14 only. Must present ration card.
    With a lurch, we are moving again and the square slips from view. The next street seems to be the city’s main artery. I have never seen so many people in my life. I think of the struggling community we’d passed earlier and wonder why they couldn’t live here as well, in these immaculate buildings, under this glowing dome. Maybe the city has no more room. Or no more water. The thought is terrifying; Claysoot always seemed to have enough rain, and our lake and rivers never ran dry. Then again, we were only a few hundred people.
    The road squeezes between two towering buildings, both of which are plastered with a repeating piece of paper, climbing up, up, up toward the city’s domed ceiling. A man’s face fills each sheet, staring at us. Resting on his ears and the bridge of his nose is some sort of protective eye gear, its frames thick and black. He wears an odd ribbon about his neck that dangles down the front of his shirt. The visuals cut off at midchest, but the man’s shoulders slouch forward within the frame. He looks delicate and brittle, as though his entire body might crumple from even the slightest breeze.
    “How do you think someone drew those?” Emma asks, pointing at the man. “They are identical. And they look so real.”
    “Maybe it’s not a drawing.”
    We both look back at the maybe-drawings. The words Harvey Maldoon appear beneath each picture. There are several smaller words beneath those, but I can only make them out when Marco brings the car to a standstill and lets people cross the street. “Wanted alive for crimes against AmEast, including sedition, espionage, and high treason; crimes against humanity, including torture, murder, and unethical practices of a scientific nature.”
    Most of the words are foreign to me, but I know enough to be disturbed. We had little crime in Claysoot, thanks to laws set up and enforced by the Council, and our scrolls documented only one attempted murder, a failed one at that.
    I look over Harvey again, trying to fathom one person doing all these terrible things and more. At first I thought he looked weak. Now, after reading the description, something in his eyes appears sick and twisted. I don’t like the way they follow me as the car moves down the street. Emma shudders, and I do the same.
    When we break free of the crowded corridor, we travel a few more minutes before arriving at a building more grand than the rest. It sits atop a manicured plot of grass, each blade cut with precision so that their tips seem to match up seamlessly in height. The entire place is surrounded by an intricate fence, made of metal and sculpted with such care and embellishment that I know it would have taken Blaine a lifetime to forge in Claysoot. The building itself is immaculate. It bends and sweeps in odd areas, giving way to arched windows and whimsical coves. The roofline varies in height, creating stepping-stones into the sky. The shapes are all wrong and yet mesmerizing. I can make out the words “Union Central” above a massive front doorway.
    A man in black nods at Marco as we head through the front gates. Marco takes the car around the side of the building and then we sink underground, moving into a space filled with idle cars. When ours ceases to rumble, Marco climbs out, opens the back door, and squats beside us.
    “I’m Marco. This is Pete.” He jerks his head backward to where his partner now stands. “I apologize for not introducing ourselves sooner, but it wasn’t safe.”
    “It doesn’t really seem safe here either,” I think aloud, images of a wanted man and rationed water and men pointing weapons at their own people still clear in my mind.
    Marco snorts. “Sure, don’t bother thanking us. We only