We’re being tracked. Some say followed, others call it haunting, all ways to ensure ultimate dictatorship over humanity. Those who survived the war at least. At birth, everyone undergoes implantation of a numbered chip. #3859 for example. It monitors everything, conversations, thoughts, location, you name it. That was until people began gauging cavities in their necks to remove them. Though a dangerous and excruciating procedure, it rebelled against authority and gave some freedom. I say some because as soon as administration is notified of deactivation of a number, you become prey.
Sprinting through the dilapidated streets of New London, my brother and I had become prey. The noticeable gashes at the shallows of our skulls hidden by scarves, we raced the whirring drones splitting the sky above us into fractions. Each armoured with tranquiliser and enough ammunition to eradicate hundreds of thousands of citizens. If you were caught, you were dead.
We collapsed into a tunnel mouth, shadows swallowing our bodies. Jamie stumbled first, breath catching on every step, one hand pressing against the drenched fabric on his neck. “Keep moving,” I whimpered, pulling him forward. The drone’s light surveyed the street behind us; a hostile white glow scanned the uneven concrete. Inside the tunnel, the air was thick with ash and smoke. Metal churning above us, and the unwavering smell of burning hung on to the walls.
“We need to go lower,” a voice muttered. From the smog, a girl stepped forward. Older than us, about 17, a scarf tied the same way around her neck. Her eyes were empty.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Nat.” She held out a hand. With hesitation, we followed her. Down through drain openings and railway shafts. Past ancient terminals and static phone wires. James’s breaths grew shorter with every step. He coughed blood once. I didn’t say anything.
“We’re close,” Nat said. “Where the signal fails, the chips can’t be connected.”
I had to believe her; I had no choice. Then we saw it
“This is where it ends,” Lia said.
“You’re wrong,” Jamie rasped, voice cracking. “This, is where they were waiting this whole time.”
A high-pitched wail echoed through the tunnel.
“They found us,” I whispered. Drones. Inside the tunnels. The last place they should be able to access. Nat reversed toward me. “One of you, connect to the console on the wall.”
“What?” I turned to face her. “What are you on about?”
“Linkage. You transmit someone’s conscience to the feed. Your body dies, but soul remains. Administration can’t track ghosts.” Ezra looked at me. His eyes were already dimming.
“Do it,” he said. “Before they reach us.” The walls began to vibrate. I guided him to the console. Nat flicked a switch, entered a randomised code. Jamie stared straight ahead as I stuck the patch to his temple.
“I’ll hear you?” I asked. He managed a weak smile. The console surged forward. A pulse ran through him, through me. And then,
nothing.