In the early hours of the day, a stack of papers is placed on my doorstep, each containing a name, an address, and a number. I hear it from the living room, a satisfying plop that tells me the day must begin. For a moment, I stare out at the city, just coming into view in the morning light. It looks best like this: buildings silhouetted against pinkened clouds, the streets invisible through the slight darkness. I can see a city asleep, a city of normalcy, a city where darkness is an exception rather than a rule. Although the view enchants me, I am not one to be careless with my time and energy. And so, the day must begin.
I got dressed long before my orders came through, but like always, I wait to gear up until right before I leave. I attach my utility belt, solid black to match the rest of my uniform. Next, I gather the handcuffs and keys, depositing them in their respective pockets, and set a holstered gun at my right hip and a baton at my left. Their weight completes me. Then I lace up my combat boots, cherishing their thick rubber soles in such a dreadful season, before finally attaching my breast-pocket badge—a dull silver piece with a lightning bolt across its face. I look into the mirror in the hall and find myself a figure in black, unobstructed and uncompromised. I nod at the image, satisfied with the effect, and slip on my winter coat.
Before reaching for the door handle, my hand instinctively goes to the energy control panel, which suddenly glows at my approach. I turn the power off, and a little metallic voice comes through the speaker: “Waste not, want not.”
“Waste not, want not,” I reply automatically, already turning towards the door. As I break the seal to my apartment, I find the little stack of papers nestled onto my doormat. I bite back the shiver that rings through my body as I enter the hallway, assaulting in its sudden intensity. I scan the pages quickly, noting the information as I go. Frank Powell, 430 5th St, 70 kilowatt hours. Jeremy Hughes, 24 30th St, 42 kilowatt hours. Elizabeth Hill, 61 2nd Ave, 120 kilowatt hours. It will be a busy day. I head downstairs.
The streets are still largely empty at this time of day, the cold dissuading most from being outdoors. I huddle in my winter gear, grateful as ever for their inclusion in my uniform package. I am lucky to have such items: most cannot afford even the simplest versions, the energy and materials used to make them simply too expensive. Certainly they cannot afford wool-lined coats and specially insulated gloves. Perhaps in another time I would have felt as though I was flaunting my wealth, my position. Right now, however, I simply want to be warm.
Frank’s apartment is far away, and I begin the long trek down the quiet roads. As I turn a corner, I am met by a whipping wind, icy and rampant. I pull my scarf up higher, wishing I could close myself entirely in a layer of warmth. I wonder how cold it is today, if we’re gearing up for another record. Perhaps it is just the wind, but it feels impossibly colder than the day before yesterday. Sometimes I wonder if I can really sense temperature at all anymore; outside always feels like something new. As I trudge through the snow, my boots catching on thick patches, I try to occupy my mind.
This season has been harder than most, challenging the experience I thought I had as an enforcer of four years. Thievery has gone up tremendously in recent months, though in fairness, it has always been going up. I’m beginning to question if the Burnings are working as preventative measures.
After a while, I arrive at Frank’s building, A quick flash of my badge and I’m at his door, knocking. I glance at the paper again and see the warning, in bold letters “VIOLENCE LIKELY.” I remove my gun from the holster. As he answers, his hands float up slowly, a scowl forming on his face. I take note of the scene: his underdressed state, a tank top and shorts, the brass knuckles on his fingertips, the heat emanating from the apartment in enticing droves. I watch him shift before me, his eyes searching for escape. He doesn’t try to defend himself.
“Drop them, slowly,” I command, gesturing to his hands. He hesitates for a moment, suddenly making a decision. Without warning, he bolts back into the apartment, aiming for the window. I calmly follow suit, shutting the door behind me, and watch him jostle the latch in vain, trying to get out through the fire escape.
“I said, drop them. Or do you want to lose a foot?” He startles at my words, immediately stopping. He stands up, lifts his arms, and drops the brass knuckles to the floor. They clank loudly on the linoleum, the sound echoing across the room. He turns back to me with fear on his face.
“It was so damn cold, I felt like my feet were gonna come off. Please, please, I just wanted a few hours of warmth.” He kneels now, eyes meeting the floor. I move to cuff his hands.
“Frank Powell, you are under arrest for the theft of 70 kilowatt hours of electricity. You have been deemed an energy thief and will face the appropriate punishment.” I guide him up and out of the building, all the way to the processing center, where he will be held until his Burning.
—
Jeremy is next on my list, and by the time I arrive it’s already midday. A young woman opens the door, brightening up when she sees my badge.
“Officer,” she says, smiling at me, “I believe you’re here about the report I filed?” I stare at her, unsure of what she could mean.
“Does Jeremy Hughes live here?” I ask.
“Of course, he’s my boyfriend.” It’s only then that I notice the patch on her sweater, the letter A+ emblazoned prominently. It’s her energy efficiency rating, a number the government provides to keep people up to date with their energy usage. Those in the highest class, an A+, are gifted patches as a prize. I realize now what she meant.
“Is he here?” I venture.
“Yes, he’s just in the bedroom. Let me get him for you.” She opens the door wider, gesturing for me to come in. I oblige. The apartment is shockingly spare, the only prominent things being the blankets strewn about. After a minute or two, I hear yelling coming from the bedroom, then clanging, and quickly rush to the sound.
“How could you?” a man, who I presume is Jeremy, yells.
“How could I? How could you?” she screams. “You turned on the heat without me knowing! You went over our limit and risked both of us! Are you crazy? Those two hours could’ve saved somebody!”
“Saved somebody? What about us, Lisa? Do you know how cold you were to the touch?” he’s almost whispering now, eyes tearful. The woman shakes her head, looking baffled.
“Jeremy Hughes, you are under arrest for the theft of 42 kilowatt hours of electricity. You have been deemed an energy thief and will face the appropriate punishment,” I cut in, moving to cuff him. He makes no attempt to stop me.
“Was it worth it, to watch me die?” Jeremy whispers. I look back and see the woman looking unsure. I wish I could tell her that she didn’t need to call, that the energy control panel tracks everything regardless, but that is not mine to divulge.
—
The day is already waning on me, but I have one final job. I knock on Elizabeth Hill’s door with a certain level of conviction, ready to complete my rounds. When the door opens, however, my confidence falters. Upon seeing me, the woman looks immediately nervous.
“Are you Elizabeth Hill?” I prompt. She nods meekly. I can see her trying to keep her composure, but her flickering eyes betray her fear. “May I come in?” Best to not scare her away. Again, she nods.
Her apartment is more cluttered than my previous call, but it seems to be a sort of joyful chaos. I glance around the room, noting that the windows are latched shut. The room is colder than I was expecting for someone who had used so much energy in a short period. I turn back to her, working myself up to the arrest. “Would you like to take a seat?” I try. She shakes her head. Just then, I hear a sound from the other room. A baby’s cry. At the sound, she breaks. She rushes into the other room and I follow, ultimately finding the object of her energy use. An incubator sits at the end of the room, an unusually small baby nestled inside. Elizabeth reaches out to cradle it, comfort it. When she turns back, her arms are firmly locked around the child.
“She was born too early, I had no choice.” Her voice is pleading, tear-stained. “You can’t take me away, she’ll die without this thing. I only need a few more days, I beg of you.” Her whole body shakes, and I understand now that her physical weakness is a result of her healing. She had just given birth a few days prior.
“You broke the code—”
“Tell me you wouldn’t have done it, if it was your child on the line!” she bellows. I startle slightly. I don’t know how to approach her, how to constitute her crime.
“Ms. Hill, I need you to put the baby down.”
“They say this is all for the kids, yet they’re so happy to send you to kill me off. This child won’t have a mother. Do you want to be the cause of that pain?” I can see she’s shaking, with fury or with fear I am no longer sure. “Please, please let me keep her alive, then you can take me. I just need her to live.” Tears form around her face then, spilling everywhere. I think of the child, of what type of life it might live.
“If the child needs this much energy now, think of it in the future. It can’t survive in this world.” I whisper the words to her, moving closer. The room seems to chill around me, and I think of my warm home, my energy supply. They would kill me if I didn’t bring her in. Gently, I pick up the baby, placing it back in the incubator. Elizabeth looks completely hollow, formless. I don’t bother with the handcuffs as I bring her down the stairs.
—
The Burnings happen at night in locations throughout the city. I don’t go to every single one—my job keeps me outside enough—but the warmth and spectacle are hard to miss. There are few times when I can see energy created, see in real life how my job can serve the population. Perhaps that’s why I go quite often, despite how hard it can be.
As the cold descends over the plaza, I join the swelling crowd, trying to maintain my footing as people press around me. I feel constricted, squished, yet somehow comforted: we will bear this fire together, we will reap its warmth as one. Once people settle around me, I catch sight of the stage, raised and large. It’s a circle with a stone pit in the center, now piled high with stacks of wood. People surround it on all sides. A small opening on the edge of the stage reveals a hidden space, from which the speaker will emerge. Staring up at it, I wonder what sort of Burning it will be, who will be involved. I always prefer the ones where I don’t know the thieves, when I don’t have to worry about them finding me in the crowd. It happened once, with a man who I’d brought in a few days prior. He’d pointed at me before the match was lit, and I’d seen the anger in his eyes, the hurt. He burned with his hand stuck outwards, a line directly to me. I’d stopped going to Burnings for a while after that. Tonight, I hope, will be different—be usual. I sway with the crowd in anticipation, trying to keep warm.
Lights flicker on, illuminating a spotlight on the stage. A man walks on, elegantly dressed in a dark suit that peeks through his thick wool coat. I’ve seen the man before, many times. He runs a local energy sector and appears frequently on fliers and billboards. From my understanding, he’s a popular figure, preaching energy conservation in the now for energy excess in the future. “While we may suffer in the present, our children will reap the benefits. We build new energy systems for them, so that they may live in a future brighter than our own,” or something along those lines. Now, though, he has a more immediate concern.
He addresses the crowd with grand bravado, projecting silence onto the audience. They stare back in wonder. “Gracious citizens, we are gathered here today because one of you has broken our sacred code.” His lips curl in disgust, the automated response for such treachery. “Her acts,” he spat the word, “were a threat to our society, and her betrayal must be dealt with accordingly.” The lights shift from him, irradiating the great pyre at the center of the stage. The light is unsettling, the brightness casting the audience into complete supplication. The effect is magnetizing, and the crowd pushes inward like moths to a flame. Then, on cue, the lights shift back to the speaker. “This selfish woman stole from you, from your children. Do you accept her actions?” A resounding no emerges from the audience. “Do you think she deserves more energy than any of you?” Again, an echoing no sounds around the plaza. “Then what do we call her?”
“Energy thief, energy thief!”
“And what do we do to energy thieves?”
“Take the energy back, take it back!” And with that the speaker gestures to the opening in the stage, out of which emerges a frail woman. I freeze, suddenly no longer hearing anything. It was her, Elizabeth, freshly bruised and battered. I am shocked, taken aback. To see her so soon… There has always been a buffer period, a way to reset, a length of time before I would have to see any of them like this. She’s too fresh in my mind, too raw. They’ve tied her mouth shut to stop her from screaming, but I can still hear her, echoing in my ears. She isn’t supposed to die yet, there was supposed to be more time… Do I kid myself by centering on this one issue? She was always going to die, so why does it matter when? Why does it feel like her blood is on my hands?
“What do we say to this woman?” the speaker asks.
“Waste not, want not, waste not, want not, waste not, want not…” I can barely listen, barely look as they drag her onto the pyre, tie her into place. I want to turn away, to leave, but the crowd keeps pushing inwards, towards the would-be fire. They untie the rope from her mouth, and suddenly she’s screaming. From beneath the chanting, I can just make out a call for her baby. The speaker lights the match and drops it into the well-oiled pyre. The mound goes up in seconds, but her screams continue for minutes after. I close my eyes against the brightness of the flames, suddenly scorched. I join in the chant, hoping to drown out the sounds of her suffering.
—
The next morning comes on like a jolt of electricity, rapid and painful. I’ve never felt this before, the visceral disgust, the level of guilt. All I want to do is get back to my routine. I went to the apartments and picked people up. I didn’t think about what they would look like on the pyre. All I thought about was getting them from point A to point B. As I walked, I took off a glove, my hat, my scarf—trying to let the cold in, trying to let it smother all my thoughts. Finally, I was at the last apartment of the day, and I was ready to be done with it.
When I knocked, a little boy answered. I blinked back, confused. “Is your father here?” The boy shook his head. “I don’t have a father anymore.” I startled at the thought.
“Do you have an older brother, maybe?”
“Nope, just me and my mama.” My heart sank.
“Is your name Kevin Murphy?” He nodded slowly. “Can I come inside?”
He showed me into the studio, one large mattress taking up the center space. “Are you here to take me away?” he asked. As I met his questioning eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything.
“That depends, have you done something wrong?” Maybe it was a mistake…
“Like what?” I sensed it then, the warmth of the room. Too warm for it to be the middle of the day. I tried to respond, but my lips felt sewn shut. “Mama says not to turn on the heat while she’s gone and just huddle under some blankets, but it doesn’t feel the same. Do you mean something like that?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” I whispered. Don’t think, don’t think. “Do you want to go on a walk?”
“Is it cold out?”
“Only a little bit. Come on, get your coat on.” He obliged my request, and before I knew it we were walking outside, towards the processing center. As we walked, Kevin reached out for my hand, and I held on tight. When we were a block away from the center, I stopped dead in my tracks.
“You’re taking me away, aren’t you?” he asked, big eyes staring into my soul. I nodded. “I thought so.” I couldn’t take it anymore.
“You know they’re going to kill you, don’t you?” The boy nods, his nose and cheeks blooming red from the cold. I stare at him, at his lack of fear. “You’re not afraid?”
“Daddy’s dead. Mama always says not to be scared if she dies, because she gets to be with him again. I’d like to be with him again.” He’s rocking on his heels now, chewing on his lip. He’s been conditioned to accept this, to not be afraid of the death that is almost assured. I feel my eyes well, and I swallow down the tears. I think of the flames, brilliant and dancing. I think of Elizabeth’s screams as they penetrate the shouting. I think of Kevin on the pyre, burning.
“Go home,” I whisper, “and when your mom gets home, tell her what happened. Tell her you need to go far, far away.” I rise again, stepping away from him. “Take this,” I say, giving him the only things I have to give: my coat and my gun.
He stares up at me in wonder. “You’re not…”
“Go!” I shout, feeling the tears crawl down my face. He gets the message, not hesitating a moment longer, and runs. I crumple to the ground, collapsing in the freshly fallen snow. I lie back, staring up into the foggy evening. They will come for me soon enough, I know it, and I will burn too.
Looking into the sky, I watch as the color fades, blossoming into shades of pink and yellow. The city is always prettier like this, in the just darkness before lights should be turned on, with a sky brilliantly free of smoke.