The Unforgiving Book

by Mary Genevieve

Beyond the cave’s mouth, two suns set across the waxen blanket of snow. It’s the twentieth artificial day inside Stadium Seven. With each passing minute, perturbation accumulates like pools of hot tar in my gut. I hope that the story won’t end soon. For eight years, I sat idle, ready to fulfill my grandfather’s request to locate his hidden hard drive inside this simulation. He never told me what the infamous object contains, but it has to be vital, considering he stashed it here. 

None of this is real—not really. The chip in my brain stimulates the nerves in my body to respond to this virtual reality, but even so, this world appears remarkably tactile. In a way, I suppose it is. If I die in here, I die out there. I wish that incentivized me in any way to take caution, but I truthfully don’t care. Stadium Seven at least offers a more dynamic and spontaneous life than that of urban Chicago, where the elite prosper, and the poor remain slaves to the hierarchy, working endless hours in the dusty concrete jungle. No, I am not here to survive; I am on a mission—one that has proven unfruitful thus far.

You see, books don’t exist anymore. Nobody reads. Society does not value the act of laying around, laboring over language and writing. They do not desire the gradual burn and anticipation of a world in one's imagination. People these days are only satisfied by one thing—after one thing—instant gratification. So here I am, inside one of the few books they allow us commoners to read. 

There’s only one rule, one parameter: do not interfere with the plot. 

Of the thirty stadiums in the city, Stadium Seven has the least number of participants. Nobody wants to live inside this book, and I finally understand why. In the real world, the story takes only an hour to live through, but inside, time lasts the length that the narrative dictates. My grandfather’s hard drive is concealed somewhere within this novel, but it’s proven impossible to uncover. I wonder what I will find inside the drive. Is it worth dying for? 

Each day, I venture out into the tundra, where the frigid wind bites my cheeks and sinks into the marrow of my bones. And each day, I dig, I map, I search. Thankfully, my friend Axtar entered with me. His mother nearly lost her mind when we told her we were entering Stadium Seven to experience “The Unforgiving Book,” the title everyone coins the story.

“What happens if we don’t find it, Riverr.” Ax’s whisper dissipates into the cavernous chamber of stone overhead; its intonation slinks down the gelid cave interior, raking through my ebony tresses. 

“That's not an option,” I respond adamantly, keeping my eyes trained on the small fire. “Then, we need to spend more time out there, searching.” he asserts. A scoff slips from my throat, one I meant to withhold. 

“You know what will happen if we go out there. Every day, it’s something new. We can’t fucking escape it.” 

“So what? The book ends, you reenter, and you continue searching? I can’t afford to come back with you, Riv; I’ll lose my job.” 

“I never asked you to come in the first place.” I’m being mean, and I know it, but sometimes Axtar prods the ugly side out of me. He asks too many questions and proposes rational solutions that vex my impulsive nature. My friend falls silent after my outburst, seemingly lost in thought. 

I settle further into the oversized pelt hanging off my starved frame, pondering his question. What does that job mean anyway? What value does that life have in the first place? We are never allowed to ascend—to accomplish. When knowledge is sheltered by the rich, the poor are kept in a cage—one without books, without internet. The literature is hoarded, protected, and banned from being shared with those who are considered less. Axtar’s job collecting street garbage does him well enough to endure, but I know my friend. He loves to create things—build them with his hands. But jobs like those go to the offspring of the elites. They harbor all literature, all power. One can only go so far without books, without transmission of history and wisdom. If a commoner so much as demonstrates one skill out of line with their assignment, they are sentenced to death. The only books we are allowed to read are the stadium simulations. Even then, something about stepping inside an already simulated story takes away a sense of autonomy, a sense of ownership, and individual thinking. But society accepts this way of life, blind obedience to a higher authority. 

I do not. 

Where did all the books go? The schools? The things I hear whispered about in hushed tones on the street? My grandfather knew. He found something, hid it within this book, and left me a letter telling me to search for it when I was old enough to purchase entrance. So here I am, and here Axtar is, right behind me. He claims he wouldn’t reenter if I did, but I know him better than to believe that. Before my brother died, they were best friends. And despite how he may act at times, he would never abandon me, not in this lifetime or the subsequent.

✵✵✵

The next morning, we head out. The weather is scalding today, so much so it may cause my skin to blister. I abandon the fur coat in the cave, stripping down to the thinnest layers I can manage while my companion does the same. Perhaps the ever-changing climate contributes to the aura of dread surrounding this particular stadium. Though, most days, it’s the furthest thing from our minds. I’ve never seen the main characters of the book, and I often wonder if they are dead. Each morning, we are hunted until the sun goes down. Animals, humans, creatures untold and unheard of, sneak through the fabric of reality, ready to tear us apart. The only place that offers any solace is the cave. The book must be one of fantasy, make-believe—for some of the things we encounter are fabled, nightmarish monsters that stop at nothing to keep us from our mission. 

Axtar and I stalk closer to the grove, a concentrated area of trees that stands as the only unchanging spectacle throughout each day. As we slink closer, the threat increases. I have a suspicion that what my grandfather spoke of in his letter will be tucked within the trees somewhere—if we can reach it with our bodies intact. 

“Riverr,” Axtar warns as I creep around the outer valley surrounding the grove. He trails on my heels, his presence insufferably close, as always. “We’re too close to the grove; we should look elsewhere.” 

“No,” I spit back with authority. His brown skin pales a nearly imperceptible amount. “Today, Ax. We are finding this hard drive today. You were right. We can’t risk waiting any longer.” 

He shakes his head incessantly, the ivy green of his eyes swirling with trepidation. “I know, but we have to be smart about this. I can’t lose you, Riv. You are all I have left.” “That’s not true. What about your mother? I am not all that’s left for you, but you are what’s left for me. And I am grateful to have at least that. But Ax, I need to do this. For my grandfather, for you, for myself. I understand if you don’t wish to follow, but you cannot stop me.” 

I break for the grove, not giving myself another chance to change my mind. Axtar’s footsteps pound the dry earth behind me, as I expected they would. Some people can be counted on the way the flowers count on the sun to rise; he is that person for me. 

The grove roars to life as I enter the treeline. I draw my feeble weapon—a makeshift spear—a staff with a sharp point. Axtar fashioned them the best he could. I pray it will be enough. We continue dashing through the trees, guttural noises crescendoing around us as we near the center. There’s a fountain there, one I can hear from the distant cave each night. I stumble into the clearing that encircles the stone structure. No water runs down the marble-white statue—crafted as an angel with a harp. The basin under the figure—where coins usually sit beneath murky water's surface—is empty. Axtar stumbles in beside me, knocking my shoulder as he emerges from the trees.

What happens after that proves impossible to narrate effectively. All I see are hues vibrant red, infernos of zealous tangerine, and a black so dark it eats the matter. A blood-curdling scream rips from my throat, the smell of iron and flesh bombarding my senses. Then everything goes dark. I hear Axtar’s voice as I come to my senses. 

“Riverr, wake up. Please, oh god. Riverr, please.” His words jar me awake, an influx of fervid air filling my lungs as I jolt upright. 

“What happened?” I gasp, searching the grove around us frantically. 

“Big cats—lots of them,” he responds, wiping a hot, sticky liquid from my cheek. Tears or blood? I wonder. 

“Where are they now?” I ask, searching his face. 

“Gone,” he answers, his voice low. “I can’t explain it,” His hold tightens along my jaw. “But I dragged us to the fountain after they came for you. I barely managed to wrestle your body from under the first one. But I got us here, and when I touched the stone—well, they stopped. It was as if we exited the story.” 

I blink several times, realizing my back rests against the angel’s feet at the center of the fountain’s base. “This must be the exit!” I exclaim with more vigor than my body probably appreciates. Axtar’s eyebrows pinch together. 

“But I thought there was no exit.” 

“Every book has an emergency out for the elite,” I roll my eyes with scorn.

“I thought they didn’t use the stadiums.” He responds, still flummoxed. 

“Not anymore. But they created them. And every creator wants control over their creation, no?” I stumble to my feet, running my hands around the marble, its exterior overgrown with vines and viscous weeds. “My grandpa always loved angels, you know—said they would lead you home, lead you to freedom, to the life that is life.” I continue navigating every nook and cavity of the figure, nesting my hand under the vines, tearing parts of the thicket from the stone. Finally, I find a loose piece, a minute fissure separating the statue at its base. The brambles are so dense in this section that I use the staff in order to hack them away. Beneath the slab of marble, covered in ash and dust—barely noticeable—rests the hard drive. 

Emitting a victorious yelp, I snatch the drive and turn and turn to Axtar, holding it up to the light. 

“Now what?” he questions with a twitch of his lips. 

“Now we go home.” 

✵✵✵

We gouge out the chips in our arms after that, something not usually permitted by the software, but the dead zone of the statute allows it. We grab the statue and envision our world. The simulation began to dissipate, replaced by the soundless beeps and rumbles of the stadium. 

I sit up, looking around at the other tables, where several bodies lay resting, still stuck in the book—the book about nothing and nobody. Why had we not seen these people there? I spot

Axtar from several tables over; he bolts off the steel surface and runs to me, grabbing my hand, not stopping before pushing us to the exit. Voices begin clamoring from above levels, sounding panicked and hasty. 

“We need to get out of here, now.” Axtar hisses over his shoulder as we fly down flights of stairs. I am grateful he remembers where to go because I certainly do not. Only several minutes have passed since we went in, which means the “L” is about to depart any minute from Roosevelt. We soar through the streets, racing to the station just in time to slip through the closing doors. 

People glance askance in our direction, but nothing could matter so little. We got it– the hard drive. Axtar grins down at me, his eyes tender, his chest pressing against mine amongst the crowded bodies. 

When we reach Axtar’s house, we rush to the basement, uncovering multiple bookshelves to unveil his home's sole—and very much illegal—computer. I shove the drive into the old machine and wait till a file pops up. My hands tremble as they click the mouse. The screen changes, new colors flickering onto the monitor before materializing into a new window. My eyes widen, my breath going dead in my chest. 

“What is it, Riv?” Axtar inquires beside me. A blurry film of tears floods my vision, threatening to brim over with an emotion I lost long ago.

Hope. 

“Coordinates,” I whisper more to myself as I read through the letter below the numbers. 

“Coordinates?” He frowns, dissatisfaction in his eyes. “To where?” 

“A library,” I answer. “The last library left on earth.”