Donor 23 by Cate Beatty Read Free Book Online

stood before a rundown apartment building. Odors of cooking food wafted out of the open windows. The names of each tenant were posted to front door. Every month an empty space appeared where a name had been. The residents had moved out—no mention of them, no aromas carried on the breeze from the shuttered windows. Inevitably, a new name appeared, and the cycle continued.
    She knocked on the door. A woman in a wheelchair answered. Dolly’s face brightened.
    “Oh, Joan. Come in. Come in.”
    Joan entered and walked to the kitchen, setting one of the bags on the counter.
    “Sorry I can’t stay and chat today, Dolly.”
    Dolly took the bag and began pulling the groceries. “Oh, what would I do without you? You are a blessing.”
    Joan flashed to the sight of Dolly’s husband Frank, hidden in her apartment wall.
What would Dolly do without me?
Joan thought. She could be talking to her husband right now, cooking those groceries for him…
    “Hey, a special surprise,” Joan smiled broadly and unpacked a few peaches. “These are fresh. Shipped from the South.”
    Holding a large peach to her nose to savor the smell, Dolly said, “How do you get these things? Mmm. I was just talking to someone about you the other day, telling them how you tried to save Frank—”
    Joan interrupted her sternly, “Dolly.”
    “It was a friend.”
    “Friends report on friends,” Joan warned, repeating a motto of the ghetto.
    It was not that donors had no loyalty to each other, but they were not ashamed to betray a fellow donor. In its wisdom the Alliance promulgated the moral rules—the main one being one’s duty to the Alliance. The Alliance was sacred—all else secondary. But not all donors—or citizens—bought into that. Many knew in their hearts there was more to life.
    But for now in the marketplace of the ghettos, betrayal was a commodity—each transaction bringing the seller more food, better living arrangements, and maybe, just maybe, ever so closer to the elusive citizenship.
    Of course, even for those not inclined to report on fellow donors, there was ample motivation. The snatchers usedsomething called “the machine.” No one knew the real name for the machine. Killing off donors for information was not acceptable to the System. That’s where the ingenuity of the machine came into play. The machine was normally utilized once on any given subject. The pain it created was intense and enduring—like a passionate and powerful sunset, the memories of which never fade. Yet it causes no permanent physical damage. But it wasn’t just the pain. The machine invaded a person’s thoughts—his or her mind. It ascertained and assaulted a person’s innermost fears.
    By using the machine, the snatchers strapped what they referred jokingly to as “the invitee” into what resembled a rather comfortable bed. Many invitees expressed astonishment at first, never having slept in such a comfortable bed. The satin-like cloth of the cot impressed them. They were unaware the fabric was a unique blend, designed to absorb bodily fluids that would soon leave the donor’s body: sweat, urine, and vomit. The invitee’s notice of the machine next to them, however, obliterated that wonder. Then the begging would begin, “Please. No. I’ve told you everything I know.” And sometimes they had.
    “Oh, pish posh,” Dolly uttered. “Besides, everyone in this quarter knows anyways; they just don’t talk about it.”
    “There’s a reason for that.”
    “You’re a very brave—”
    Joan brushed her off, “I’m not brave. I have to go.”
    As she opened the door, she felt regretful—felt she rushed the visit. Guilt. She turned, “So, been out today?”
    Dolly shook her head.
    “You should get out, Dolly. The weather’s warming up. I can come by tomorrow. I don’t have to go to the Center. We could go for a walk—”
    “I’ll get out and enjoy the sun. Don’t worry,” Dolly smiled with an understanding gaze. She squeezed Joan’s