You’ve heard this story. Only this time she didn’t meet a wolf in the woods. There were no woods, no wolves.
Besides, everyone knows men are worse than wolves. Sharper teeth too.
The only thing that was the same was the redness: the suit she wore was scarlet.
The knife she wielded was sharp.
Her name was Poppy.
Poppy was fifteen years old and had never seen rain. The drought began six years before her birth. The longest on record.
She was born in Sydney, that city of fewer than fifty thousand souls existing in protective suits underground, beneath precarious shielding, on islands that had once, before the seas rose, been part of the mainland. The city had had seasons once. Now it was drought for years and years, or floods and then years of drought again.
So many years that Poppy didn’t quite believe in rain.
Her Grandma Lily refused to live in the city. She was one of the folk who lived in sealed homes outside the city. She contributed to the city and in turn the city supported her. Every year there were fewer like her.
Grandma refused to move from the home that had been the family’s since the 1880s, when trees could live outside, and sun and wind and rain didn’t kill everything.
Killed almost everything, but not hard-shelled insects, not bacteria.
Her grandmother said she could fix what needed fixing. She was an engineer. The shielding had mostly failed, the neighbourhood been abandoned; Grandma’s house, even with all her fixes, would be uninhabitable soon.
Grandma Lily hadn’t replied to Poppy’s last message. But Grandma often skipped mail for days, saving electricity to reduce the heat.
Poppy knew she was alive, but her mum had decided Grandma was gone. Poppy closed her eyes, breathed deep, let a tear roll down her cheek, before the moisture was reabsorbed into her suit with only a trace of salt left.
Poppy’s mum didn’t understand Grandma Lily; she wasn’t an engineer. But Poppy and her grandmother were the same kind: she was going to be an engineer too.
She messaged Grandma Lily again.
Poppy was desperate to see her, desperate, too, to get out of the city, where she lived pressed too close to people whose faces she’d tired of. Poppy wanted to walk without being jostled, propositioned or pawed – it was always the same creeps, the unassailable doctors, teachers, lordly engineers – or admonished, or given work she didn’t want to do, or lectures on how they had to pull together if she showed any reluctance to do that random work.
She was sick of the two-metre-by-two-metre room she shared with her mother, where it was hard not to think of the tonnes of earth, and concrete, and other people’s homes pressing down on her. Where the walls were so thin that signing was the only way to communicate privately.
She wanted to see the moon and the stars through less than six or seven layers.
If Poppy couldn’t escape – even for a day – she’d explode.
There was no prison in the city. If you ran amok you were put outside, without a suit. Two weeks ago an engineer had tried to force himself on an apprentice, not caring that there were dozens of witnesses. The city put him outside.
No one left the city alone on foot unless it was punishment. Or suicide. There were rumours of people living out there wild. Poppy didn’t believe it.
She would have to walk to her grandmother’s. They couldn’t afford to hire a car, and public transport only ran during the day. All battery-stored energy was saved for hospitals and lowering the temperature at night.
Solar and wind power was all there was.
There and back was only a two-hour journey. She had done it before with her mum.
This time her mum would not join her.
They fought.
Her mother tried to reason with her, tried blackmail, threats. She didn’t raise her voice. No one ever did; eventually the ones who yelled walked out of the city without a suit.
Her Uncle Jon wished to see her. Poppy shook her head.
We owe him, her mother signed.
No, you owe him, Poppy didn’t sign.
Her mother’s best friend, Ana, nodded. It’s politic to see him.
Poppy felt the weight of their disapproval.
Their suits hung from pegs on the wall. Ana’s was yellow. The new suits were yellow or white or silver, to reflect light, not absorb it. Imported from India. Everything good came from there or the Americas.
Poppy went to see him. He wasn’t her real uncle. Her mother and he had been friends when they were little. Then he became an engineer; she didn’t. Her mother owed him and owed him until now he owned her.
But he doesn’t own me, Poppy also didn’t sign. No one was ever going to own her.
She agreed to meet him in Whitlam Square with her suit on and hundreds jostling them. The shielding there was good – eight layers – the air mostly breathable.
He was on the Council. A respected man. A popular, handsome man. Everyone said so. Everyone nodded and smiled at him as they went by.
Poppy and Uncle Jon unsealed their visors so they could speak unmonitored. Signing wasn’t private in public. Uncle Jon’s suit was silver; the most expensive kind.
‘There are monsters out there,’ he said. She could barely hear him over the crowd. She did not lean closer.
‘I’ll be careful,’ Poppy said, not believing him. Nothing could live out there, not without a suit, not without support from the city.
‘You might not come back,’ he said, sealing his visor, walking away.
She wondered why anyone thought him handsome.
Even Poppy’s best friend, Umami, thought she was an idiot.
Not that I don’t long to be somewhere else. But there is nowhere else. Until we’re engineers. It’s the only here we’ve got.
Umami was an apprentice too. It was what anyone smart did.
Leaving the city alone on foot, even in a suit, was not.
They sat on top of the craft hall, in their suits – Umami’s was green, old, but not so old as Poppy’s – looking east at what had been Sydney. Most of it under water, except these few islands. Her grandmother on one of the closer ones.
They weren’t alone – they were never alone – but there were fewer people on this roof. Unbreathable air.
Is that a crack? Umami pointed to a fissure forming in the shielding.
Poppy nodded. There were too many cracks. Umami signed that she was reporting it. It would be added to the list.
They might not let you go.
I’m fifteen. They have to.
We’ll get to the Americas, or India, Umami signed.
The only places you could walk outside at night without a suit.
You and me. We’ll sit their exams and they’ll whisk us away.
It had been years since anyone from Sydney had managed it. Uncle Jon had failed five times.
I’ll be a chemical engineer and you mechanical.
In the city, engineers didn’t specialise. They had to do everything; so nothing was done well. Grandma Lily’s words, but Poppy knew it was true.
Did you hear some of the engineers have been getting exiled on purpose? They’re building a secret city.
I roll my eyes, Poppy signed, without actually rolling them. Those rumours had been around for years. Umami believed the most unlikely tales. Can you imagine? All those nasties building a hidden city? They’d kill each other in a week.
I guess, Umami signed. Be careful.
Everyone knew everyone’s business. They flicked their hands in disapproval when Poppy passed them in the halls. She stopped taking calls. She was fifteen; she didn’t need permission.
Out loud her mother said, ‘You are reckless. You are wrong.’
They always signed. Poppy could hear the neighbours agreeing. They, too, wanted everyone to hear.
Her mother’s words made her stomach tight.
Then her mother turned her back, did not sign, or say, another word.
Three days of silence.
Poppy felt cold.
She left without her mother’s approval.
Poppy stepped through the final seal of the city, as the last traces of sun disappeared, leaving behind disapproving looks, people pressed too close. She crossed the cleared perimeter quickly – it felt too exposed – much better to be in the remains of the old city, amidst semi-fossilised trees, crumbling buildings, and piles of rubble.
She walked along with her arms stretched out, not touching anyone. She couldn’t see anyone. Poppy smiled.
Once it had been a tree-lined street. She’d never seen it that way, nor had her grandmother, yet Poppy knew how it had been. Everyone did. The city was dedicated to keeping memories of the old city alive.
These trees had been purple in the spring, green throughout the summer, shading the street, the footpath, the rows of terrace houses.
Now they were dead, what had been footpath was dirt and gravel, indistinguishable from the street, and most of the houses were gone. At the coolest time of year, in the dark, the city sent out teams to shore up the buildings marked for preservation.
Poppy felt a curious scratching between her shoulder-blades as if someone were watching her. She turned. All she saw were scattered lights from the city’s hospitals.
A beetle scuttled over her suited foot. She lit up her right palm: black and red shell, yellow body. Plague beetle. They ate everything: plants, other insects, anything decomposing.
Some tried to eat the fossilised trees.
Long ago it had been bad luck to see a plague beetle. Now they were everywhere, a few even made it into the city. Poppy figured that meant they were all doomed: living mostly underground, in an inadequately shielded city, on strict rations and never enough water, far from India, from the Americas, from the places that were more than merely surviving.
Poppy quickened her pace, saw another beetle, crunched it underfoot. She smiled. Plague beetles were why so many greenhouses had been abandoned. She felt good killing them.
Her mother said every life was sacred; Poppy didn’t agree.
Her shoulderblades still prickled. She turned. Saw nothing. If her suit were newer her screen would show her behind, above too.
What if there was a secret dwelling of survivors? They’d prey on anyone foolish enough to leave the city alone, wouldn’t they?
She heard what sounded like a howl. Couldn’t be the wind; there was no wind. She turned slowly. The moon was bright enough to produce shadows, but the shadows were of dead trees, dilapidated buildings. Something flickered in the distance.
The sky broke open with a thousand jagged shards of light. Something boomed. Poppy raised her suited hands to her suited ears. It sounded like an explosion. But she saw no fire.
Thunder. Lightning. An electrical storm.
There’d been no warning. Even now as the thunder crashed, her suit gave no weather warnings.
A call pinged. Her mother. Poppy was half-tempted not to take it.
‘Hello,’ Poppy said at last.
‘The lightning is too close. Come home.’
‘I thought you weren’t talking to me.’ Poppy could hear the whine in her own voice and wished she could take her words back.
‘An electrical storm is dangerous.’
Poppy couldn’t argue with that. She walked closer to the buildings while quickening her pace so her mother could see on her screen that Poppy wasn’t turning around. She took a sip from her suit, just back from its check-up, cleaner, and recycling water and air better than it had in months. The water tasted almost sweet. That would change.
The thunder crashed again, so close, so loud, the ground beneath her feet shifted, she tripped, landed heavily in the loose dirt. Her feet sliding on gravel, the weight of her pack pulling her backwards.
Poppy heard something rip.
Felt heat, burning. Her suit, her back, at the lower ribs, just below her pack, exposed to air.
She leapt up, ignoring pain, walking faster, groping for her pack. She had to fix the tear. She had to keep moving. If she stopped, the beetles, and who knew what nasty bacteria, would get in through the tear, into where her skin was burning.
‘What is it, Poppy?’
Poppy wished she hadn’t taken the call. ‘Nothing. Tripped. Distracted by talking to you. I’ll call again when I get to Grandma’s.’
She clicked off before her mother could respond.
Poppy opened her pack, pulled out tape, patches, twisting to place a patch on her back, to tape it in place. The tape twisted, stuck to itself. There wasn’t much left. She pried it apart, slowly, patiently, while still walking, while her back burned, while she ignored her mother calling. She sipped more water trying to stay calm.
She kept moving, eyes on the tape in her suited hands, shifting her gaze occasionally, to glance at the ground.
Tape separated, she twisted to run it along the edge of the patch leaving no gaps, to make sure it was in place over where it burned. Her sweat ran salt into the burning. She didn’t scream. She hadn’t since she was three years old.
The patch in place, pressing hard along the tape, forcing it to adhere. Miracle tape. She’d made condensation traps out of it. Grandma said you could build a spaceship from it.
Another crash of thunder, shaking the ground. Poppy tripped but did not fall. Her shoulderblades still itched. Someone couldn’t be following her. She would’ve seen them. She was almost at the end of the island, if she turned back now … Poppy could hear her mother’s told-you-sos. Dry storms always passed quickly.
It felt like the patch was in place. It had to be. If she’d had a better suit …
Poppy didn’t know how many layers of skin she’d lost. Wouldn’t know till she returned, pointless thinking about it.
She passed the Yellow House. Seven stories tall. No one knew now what it had been. Or why it was called that. If it had ever been yellow it was a long time ago.
The ground started to slope. The water wasn’t far now.
Poppy heard howling.
Not her imagination.
It couldn’t be a wolf. Though that’s what it sounded like. She’d seen vids of them. Yellow eyes, strong jaws. There’d never been any here. Dingoes, long ago. Even longer ago, marsupial lions. Those were the only things that had howled here. No mammals, no reptiles, very few species could survive on this scorched earth, under this hot sun, with these poisons in the air and in the soil. Only humans found ways to eke out a kind of survival.
The howl had to be a recording.
Poppy walked faster.
I can help you with that.
Poppy spun around. There was no one.
The voice was inside her suit.
She felt chilled. She hadn’t heard a ping, hadn’t accepted a call. The caller had no ID. Someone had hacked her suit.
She shut off the call.
I can make sure your suit is patched securely.
She blocked the call.
I can get you to your grandmother’s house.
Nothing worked.
‘Who is this?’
Someone who can help you.
She was sure she’d heard that voice before.
The howling again. A human wolf.
I can get you to your grandma’s house.
Shut up, she didn’t say.
More thunder, more lightning.
Jagged lights across the water. The sea. Calm and low tide.
Two boats left. Both marked as seaworthy. People were careful to wipe those marks off when a boat started to take in water and they didn’t have time to repair it. The few who lived out here depended on the boats being well maintained.
Poppy set the oars in place, looked around one more time. Whoever the mysterious caller was they were not in sight. They were probably back in the city. Playing games.
She rowed towards her grandma’s island, ignoring the pain of her back, the feeling of being watched.
Hard and fast, she rowed, finding her rhythm. She would get to Grandma Lily.
Her mother called again.
Poppy ignored her.
I can fix your suit, the voice said. Get you to her quickly, safely. Then home. No charge. No debt.
She tried to shut the call off.
I’d like to help you. I like you.
The voice buzzed in her ears, making her wish she could wash. When she reached her grandma she’d scrape herself clean.
As she approached the shore she heard the howling again.
She sipped at her suit. Only the barest trickle. That wasn’t right. She sipped again. Mere drops.
She’d fallen once. Surely that couldn’t have damaged the recycling function? Her suit was old but solid. She’d fallen a million times, been banged into even more. The suit had just been repaired.
She was almost there now. In an emergency she could always call a courier. Or Emergency Services.
A real emergency. Not a bit of lightning and thunder, and some creepy prankster hacking her suit’s communications.
She splashed through the shallow waters, pulling the boat high onto the shore. Laying the oars inside. Her back burned but she didn’t think it was worse. Patch was holding.
A howl surrounded her as she moved up the beach. As if the animal – it couldn’t be an animal – was right there. She spun. Nothing.
More sweat. Fear sweat.
She took an involuntary sip. Almost nothing. But all that sweat? Should be a steady flow of water. Was the suit clogged?
I can help you anytime, darling.
She almost told him where to go.
Instead she called ES. ‘I’d like to report a hack. Someone’s talking to me without permission, without ID.’
The operator put Poppy on hold, which meant she was low priority. She wasn’t an engineer yet. Her mother wasn’t important. She’d voluntarily left the city. It was only a hack.
Poppy called her mother to tell her what was happening so her mum didn’t hear it from someone else. The speed of gossip was faster than the speed of light.
‘Just a prank,’ she told her. ‘No need to worry. Almost at grandma’s.’ She cut her off before she could I-told-you-so Poppy to death.
They won’t help, the voice told her. They can’t track me. You won’t get to your grandma before I do.
She was still on hold. Maybe the operator was already monitoring these calls.
That howl. Again.
Poppy barely kept her scream inside.
She ran. She didn’t care if whoever it was could see her speeding up. That they knew they’d rattled her. She would get to Grandma.
Her mother called. She ignored it.
You can’t hide. Your suit is red. It pops. Like blood on snow.
Poppy had never seen snow. No one she knew had.
A lightning strike too close by. More thunder. In the same direction as her grandma’s.
Sky’s on fire. Is that your grandma’s house?
Poppy ran faster, dirt kicking up. Old streetlights protruding from what had been the road, offering no light, plastic and wires long since stripped away. More dead trees. Power poles with no wires, connecting nothing to nothing.
Then, at the top of the hill, her grandma’s house. The only house not in ruins.
She almost shouted, Yes!
But lightning flashed. The front of the house momentarily visible as day. Then back to moonlight.
It was enough.
Poppy had seen her grandma. Grandma Lily wouldn’t be coming back to the city. She wouldn’t be saying goodbye.
The house’s seal was broken.
Grandma Lily was on the remains of the porch, leaning on the railing.
Without her suit.
Dried-out eyes open, skin turned leather, hair gone.
Grandma Lily had long white hair she wore in a bun. She never wore her suit inside, only out. No matter how hot it got. That’s how Poppy knew the colour and texture and smell of her grandma’s hair. The hair that was gone.
Every window was broken. The porch glittered with shards of glass.
The seal wasn’t just broken; it was shredded.
Should’ve told you it was too late, shouldn’t I?
Poppy ran into the house, grabbed everything that wasn’t destroyed. Books had disintegrated, most of the plastics melted, but some of Grandma’s hardware was locked away. Poppy put as much as she could into her pack. Grandma’s knife too. She’d designed it herself, could cut through any-thing. Totally illegal.
No tears for Grandma Lily, only burning eyes.
Poppy sipped again. No water at all.
She checked her grandma’s condensation traps, the ones she’d helped her build. Poppy attached her suit, extracted all the H2O she could.
The sky cracked open. Thunder, lightning, at the same time. Her ears echoed with it. The afterimage played across her eyes.
Time to leave.
She paused on the steps, looking at Grandma Lily, wishing she could touch her. Skin to skin. One last time.
A howl filled the air.
Water fell from the sky. Giant drops bounced back from the unshielded steps.
Rain.
It fell loud and fast.
Rain.
It’s rain, the voice told her helpfully, you’re too young to have seen it before.
Poppy called ES and told them about Grandma Lily.
‘Your situation is being monitored,’ a different operator said. ‘Are you requesting extraction?’
It would cost too much.
In her suit she heard laughter. Only children laughed; by the time you were ten you’d learned to turn laughter off, or transform it into a smile.
‘Are you requesting extraction?’
‘No.’
Her mother called.
‘On my way,’ Poppy told her. ‘Grandma’s dead.’
Poppy felt her throat tighten. She clicked off before her mother could say anything.
Let me take you home, Poppy. In your little red suit.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re not even here.’
She was afraid. Her mouth was dry. She didn’t sip, wanting to make the water last.
The rain unceasing. If she could take off her visor, drink it in.
I am here.
Poppy spun around. Something was moving in the house.
She slid her hand into her pack, found the razor-sharp knife, unsheathed it, keeping her eyes on whatever was in Grandma Lily’s. She tried to get through to ES. ‘I’m being attacked,’ she told their message bank.
Someone grabbed her from behind. She slashed with her knife. Twisting to get away.
She felt something tear. Her knife through a suit, tearing through as she leaned away, almost losing her grip.
The person let go, tumbled down the steps. Howled.
Not a wolf. A man in a suit.
She held her grandmother’s knife out to the rain, watched the blood wash away, headed back to the city.