Divided: Book One in the Divided series

Marcos had lived his entire life inside the three-quarters of a mile circumference of the Havana area of Queenstown. He’d never talked to someone from one of the three other areas inside his hometown.

Marcos sprinted, pushing himself until the buzz from the wall separating Havana from Obsidian faded into the background. Then he pushed himself harder.

Beside him, the concrete block wall topped with barbed wire and glass, gave off a slight tingle from its sonic shield. That made him angry.

So he pushed himself faster.

The strings from his hoodie rebounded into his face, and Marcos ignored them.

A delivery vehicle approached on the road, and Marcos edged closer to the wall to avoid the puddle from the earlier spring downpour. He lifted his hand in greeting at the friendly honk, though he couldn’t see through the truck’s darkly-tinted windshields. One day, Marcos would know who drove which truck on which route. But not yet. He was only a driver recruit.

The wall’s tingle became a buzz, forcing Marcos to return to the middle of the sidewalk. He approached the gate into Obsidian and slowed to a walk. Marcos punched the air, fast one-two-three-four, jab-cross-uppercut-hook patterns, his breathing fitting into the rhythm of the punch drill.

“At it again?” the Havana gate guard said. The man fingered his patrol-issued rifle slung across his chest. A few strands of his gray hair peeked out of the back of his cap.

Every time Marcos had passed this gate today, the guy fingered his rifle. Was he on some power trip or did he think Marcos would bust through the closed gate and into Obsidian? As if. Marcos didn’t have a death wish. At least not today.

“Of course, señor,“ Marcos said. “I have a big match tomorrow.”

The biggest of his school career, in fact. He would face his nemesis in the boxing ring, and hope for a fair referee.

“The luck of Martin be on you!” the gate guard said with his left fist clutched to his chest. His partner echoed the greeting from inside the gatehouse.

Marcos sped up to a jog to clear the gate area, wondering if the guards on the other side also conversed with their citizens. Maybe they knew the Obsidian populace like the Havana patrol officers on duty tonight knew the Havana citizens. Or maybe they were stoic or suspicious of ordinary people. Some of their Havana patrol officers would fit that description, for sure.

Did Obsidian athletes run laps inside the wall on the other side like he did? Aside from the track around the fútbol pitch, worn from too many feet and not enough gravel, Marcos had nowhere else to run. No place to escape foot traffic and watching eyes and giggling girls. Marcos wished their rec center had an indoor track. That would be perfect. Alone. No weather to worry about.

Marcos broke into a sprint again. The cold humidity condensed on his cheeks before becoming a light drizzle.

He doubted the other areas had the same administrative inattention as Havana. Potholes in the roads going unfilled for months and months. Peeling paint on nearly every house except in the Estates, where Havana’s power brokers and important families lived. Drafty windows in the escuela and rec center. None of these were difficult to fix. But yet, year after year, nothing changed.

He had to be the only one who ever wondered what the other areas looked like. Who longed to escape the confines of this prison.

But he’d never find out, would he? Such thoughts were treasonous.

He dropped back to a moderate jog, intent on finishing his workout before the drizzle became a downpour. And before curfew. Or else he could kiss any luck of Martin in tomorrow’s boxing match goodbye.