Rose By The Road

Forty-Eight lanes of traffic all flowing together, like blood through veins. And the heart? The centre of it all, the thing that kept it beating? Most people would tell you that it was MidTown. Literally, the town in the middle of all of the divisions, where the brains of the planet resided, thinking of ways to keep the blood flowing.

People who give you that answer are guaranteed to live in a division closer to MidTown than those beyond the roads. Because anyone else would tell you the truth. The people who live by the roads are the ones who keep everything moving because we grow the crops, we prepare them for baking or weaving or grinding and then we bake, we weave, we grind. Boy, do we grind.

My name is Rose and I live by the road.

I walk my dog in a field everyday. It just so happens that by that field is a narrow strip of woodland. And by that woodland is one of the veins. A thousand trucks a second all speeding by to get to The Division their cargo is meant for. Every few miles a small outpost building houses 'security'. Two workers with that label meant to instil confidence and a sense of safety amongst the outer divisions. They're protecting us. Sure.

What really happens is they spend hours gossiping about Mid-Town and how shitty their shifts are this week or pissing up a tree, aptly showing their clear respect for those of us that have spent the last 40 years growing those trees and not to mention mother nature herself. I like to think that's why it rains so often.

But the other job the 'security' have is scraping up any wildlife that have run out of food to forage in the dying woodlands by the road. Once upon a time that would be my neighbour. Or my friend. Or my dad. Some people think they can make it across those lanes if they just timed it right and ran fast enough. The rusty heart locket hanging around my neck with a picture of a man, all too young for it to be his last "say cheese" says otherwise.

I wasn't there when they scraped him off the 5th lane. I was 8 months old. At home. Crying. My mom thinks I knew somehow because I was a quiet baby and that night I'd yowled like a coyote caught in a bear trap and my mother just knew. She spent her last coffee beans on that locket. I tried my best to keep it shining but the rain we get and the bastard salesman that scammed her with it doesn't leave cheap metal looking too nice.

So I keep him in that locket and pretend he would've liked it better all rusty and worn. I'm sure he would have said it was just like him in that regard. But I'll never know.

Since the world ran out of resources, the population dropped immensely and so we did what freezing penguins do and huddled for warmth on a melting slab of ice and pretended we couldn't see the orcas circling. The majority of people now live on 3 islands, each roughly equal in size and population but lately, the security by the road has been loose-lipped and let slip that the others have been dwindling. "Suffering worker loss" they said. A rough translation means the poorer aren't making it and the poorer live beyond the roads. When I heard that it was the first time I heard a security worker's voice shake. It was slight. But it was there.

Needless to say, I got paid just fine for that titbit and I ate for a week. People see my job as heartless and cold, but necessary. When you're born with the best hearing this side of any road, it would be disagreeable not to use it. And maybe I have friends that can stick a screwdriver in just the right place to make some earphones pick up noise up to a quarter mile away and maybe that helps but maybe folks don't need to know they could be doing what they pay me to do for free.

But maybe they do know. And maybe they also know that my job comes with immense risk. If I was spotted and the security working that shift weren't as dumb as they seem, they would put two and two together and I wouldn't get to appreciate how pretty headlights look streaming toward you before they were scraping me off that road too. But I'll always say that I wouldn't necessarily mind because that would be the closest I get to my father.

That thought gets shaken from my head when I realise I've been walking home for 10 minutes on auto-pilot.

I can see my house now and I can guarantee I did not leave that light on, so why is it lighting up the street and costing me money I don't have.

Taking the back alley, I make it to my gate and see the back door is slightly ajar. No signs of forced entry to the lock or glass panels newly broken can mean only one thing. The fucker has a key.

I lead my dog, Bear, the softest Rottweiler I've ever met, into the back shed where his cage is covered with a fleece and lined with the softest fabrics eavesdropping information can buy (which is better than the beds of some MidTown apartments, I've heard) and close the door on my way out. He knows not to make noise. Whether it's the result of good training or just his personality, I've never shamed him for his lack of vocals because going unnoticed is the best thing you can do anywhere nowadays.

So I aim to do the same and enter through the back door as quietly as I can and put my earphones back in, having taken them out instinctively after leaving the field. Clear as day, I hear muttering and rustling upstairs, most likely in my bedroom. Whoever it is knows where to look for the goodies. Or they think they do.

After listening to the voice for a minute, I stand up to my full height and walk to the bottom of the stairs leading to the first floor. As I pass through the sitting room, I look to the loose brick in the wall under the desk and see no disturbance so carry on without my initial fear.

When I reach the stairs I listen again. Still muttering. Good, means they haven't heard me yet.

I take out my earphones and bury them under the pile of moth-eaten winter coats by the door. Leaning against the remainder of the banister, I reach behind me and open the front door. The light upstairs flickers, they must have touched the switch but not fully flicked it. Smart enough to realise I would've noticed it before entering then. I close the door with a bang, swinging it on its hinges and slowly, from the left corridor (definitely my bedroom then) comes a tall, long limbed, thin man in a maroon coat, long enough to reach his knees but sleeves an inch or two too short. The coat trim collar matches the dark grey of his slacks and holey top hat. Black dress shoes make the top step squeak as he comes to stand on the landing. Fingerless-gloved hands spread wide and a toothy, lopsided smile indicated a sugar-coated mask of false friendliness. Not that anyone would mistake the uniform as one belonging to someone with any kind bone in their body.

"Evening, Rosie. Waited ages for you out front. Didn't see no sign so took it upon myself to do a little house check. You know how it is, folks been sick as of late and couldn't risk a friend of mine being all alone without no one to help her."

Bastard.

A reply on the tip of tongue riddled with scorn and I'm-too-tired-for-this-shit-ness gets swallowed. Got to play nice. This fucker will take any excuse to remove me.

So instead: "Sweet of you, Marty. Always keeps me sane knowing I can rely on good, neighbourly Watchers like yourself."

As he begins the descent to the ground floor, I step aside, allowing him into the sitting room first. He doesn't get that far.

I realise all too late as his eyes fall on to the glinting metal around my neck that I didn't zip my jacket high enough today and this magpie has spotted a treasure worth more than the coffee it cost. A heart shaped locket, that looks like someone tried all ways to clean it, means one thing. I care about something other than myself. And that is a weakness.

Of course, Martin's eyes light up, maybe enough to light the street better than my bedroom light moments ago and this time, his smile is genuine glee.

"You got a boyfriend, little Rosie?"

"No."

"But you got someone?"

My neutral expression must slip into anger slightly because now his gums are practically on display as he continues his interrogation.

"Had someone then."

He rounds on me. I take a step back as far as I can without being pressed against the wall, I'm not stupid. I can fight, God knows. But he's got 2 feet on me and fighting a Watcher won't exactly land me in good favour with Mid-Town authority. So I grit my teeth as Marty continues.

"Who knew little Rosie had a heart. A heart worth a few to those who want it I suspect. So tell me, sweetheart. You gonna hand it over? Or you finally gonna give me reason to take you to the road?"

He's leaning closer and I can smell the anchovies on his breath, I've seen him scarfing down cans of shit a few times. His hand is getting close to the locket and I can't do anything but try and make the few centimetres behind me into a mile as I lean into them.

It doesn't work.

His weedy little fingers wrap around the locket and just as quick as he tugs at it, breaking the clasp and yanking it free, he's screaming in pain. But I didn't do anything.

Turns out Bear still knows how to open doors, the little shit. He figured out the shed door a few months ago and I hadn't got round to fixing the lock. I guess that makes it my fault that he's got his teeth dug deep into Martin's leg, blood is already everywhere and no matter how many times Martin kicks at him, Bear isn't called kitten for good reason. And Bear has the strength to rival a Grizzly cub. So when Bear moves on to Martin's neck, I can do nothing but watch. No point trying to disarm a bear trap if you don't have the will to be bothered about the rat that's caught in it.

Martin grows quiet. He was the only noise after all, because even when killing a man, Bear never makes a sound.

He releases Martin eventually and simply heads upstairs to curl up on my bed no doubt. God knows why, I can't have the luxury bedding his cage does because fuckers like Martin like to snoop. 'Liked' to snoop. Past tense now.

I crouch down beside him and his eyes flicker up to me for a second. I reach for my necklace, making sure not to touch him myself.

Hiding his body won't be hard, no one goes looking in the fields we work in and I certainly won't be on my own digging his grave.

I'm not the only one unhappy with how things are.

I'm not the only one wanting change.

And I am not the only Rose by The Road.