Missing girls and lost b.., p.1
Missing Girls & Lost Boys, page 1
Contents
Copyrights
Dedication
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
26. Chapter Twenty-Six
27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
30. Chapter Thirty
31. Chapter Thirty-One
32. Chapter Thirty-Two
33. Chapter Thirty-Three
Acknowledgements
About the author
Copyright © 2025 by H Elliott
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.K. copyright law. For permission requests, contact Elliott Works.
ISBN: 978-1-83709-344-1
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by Hannah Elliott
First edition 2025
To the kids who daydreamed of worlds better than their own.
Chapter One
The City
I have never believed in God any more than I have in wishing upon stars or blowing dandelion fluff into the wind in hopes of good fortune. My father always encouraged a cynical mindset, since preparing for what could go wrong was always more practical than expecting things to go right. But at this moment, I can’t help but pray for a happy ending, wishing this to be the origin of some impossible fairy tale, for the twists of fate to fall in my favour. I long for optimism to emit from my bones and have the universe rain blessings upon me. I long to be rewarded for my patience, and my eyes swell with tears for fear of the unknown. I’m scared and I’m alone, and I just want to go home.
I don’t know if I’m getting motion sickness, or if I’m just sick to death of being in this truck. A panic of nostalgia grips my chest, and before memories threaten to tease, my eyes widen to halt the rush of tears. A flock of swallows hook my attention, gripping me with their synchronised flight. The hypnotic, sweeping motion is a soothing distraction after the miles of insentient land, as if they were sent for me—a sliver of light to reflect on in darker times—but I can’t help but envy their freedom, their unchanged lives. Do the males quibble and fight for favour? Are the females meticulously controlled? Do they even feel the immense pressure to contribute to the world’s population problem? I doubt it, the lucky bastards.
The delight is spent, along with my last frayed thread of patience. The unrhythmic rattle of something within the truck has been demanding my attention. A loose screw clatters its steel washer against the Plexiglas partition between me and the driver, drawing my gaze across its surface, weathered with circular abrasions. There’s a stripe of a stain, like that of a rusty cross, but on plastic? Most likely not. Most likely blood. Between this and the crumbling mud and threads of hair upon the chequered steel floor, my bare hands have been tucked tight beneath my arms since we set off. I dare to reach out and tighten the screw, so the washer will be wedged into silence.
“Hey!”
I flinch at the volume of the ranger behind me, my eyes drawn to the rifle gripped across his lap.
“Get back, woman! Stay away from the driver!”
With a narrowed glare towards him, I reluctantly flop back into my seat. But without further distractions, I’m forced to pay attention to the bubbling nausea tickling my throat. My mouth waters threateningly from the noxious scent of the exhaust filtering into the vehicle. I clear the condensation on the window with my sleeve and refocus outside.
Without turning to the ranger behind me, I ask, “Is it much farther?”
The power-trip ranger ignores me, while the driver turns back, having to speak above the muffle of his helmet and the partition. “The checkpoint was the ten-mile marker. Any minute now.”
I nod, but my body tightens in response. Since we set off this morning, the sun has arced across the sky and is now beginning to dip, and I’ve yet to see another hint of civilisation. But like a grand inhale before a deep dive, I breathe in every last detail of the Wilds, because this is where I’m comfortable. This is where I was raised. The way some people find peace with religion, the Wilds was my church. I was taught the basics of faith, but never understood how anyone could step from the beauty of the outdoors into a stone place of worship to feel closer to God.
The idea of cement perimeters is not as homely as the corridors of dark, barren trees, which occasionally offer a glimpse of yet another derelict town. I was a child when the world began to crumble, having never known a time before junkers and marauders looted and stripped buildings down to their skeletal frames, taking desirable resources to trade. A time when the cracked, decaying asphalt of roads weren’t flanked by rusty, windowless vehicles pushed to the curb. At the wrong end of autumn, I consume the dregs of colour among the russet forest carpets, the fallen leaves darkening as they turn to mulch. Like the world beyond the cities, they’re left to degrade while Mother Nature restores the land, devouring the remnants of the modern world with every passing year.
The cities that survived the war were quickly fortified for fear of invasion from other nations. But there was a community that didn’t wish to enter the walls. These citizens refused to be herded by fear and propaganda. Living in the Wilds was difficult—worse now than ever—but a life of hardship was the lesser evil compared to the complicity of city life. It has been years since I left home, but the margin of freedom is shrinking before my eyes. For those who chose the Wilds, taxes are rising, the sprawl of rangers is expanding, and even communities are struggling to keep women safe. Disappearances are increasing, but not enough to provoke action from the government. It has been getting worse. There is a darkness that even the peak of spring or a parade of sunshiny days can’t pierce, whether it’s a physical reality, or a miserable cloud of my own cynicism.
I visited cities as a child, but to be so incredibly close to the government—to be under their radar—set my skin crawling. But I guess this is what they want: to make life unsustainable for those who refuse to move out of the Wilds. A fog of disbelief veils my reality, even as I’m being escorted hundreds of miles north to continue my Independence Interval, so I can find work in a city like everyone else. I dreamt of a career as a child—maybe a doctor, or a lawyer, and there was even a stint where I was convinced I’d be a fantastic bank robber, which was embarrassingly not that long ago. But women are no longer entitled to such aspirations. Well, they’d never be so bold as to state as much, but our education is no longer available—an unofficial snipping of ambition.
As a girl, I adored movies. Hollywood painted an enviable image of the world before. What I wouldn’t give to walk the streets alone, visit shopping malls, or even come and go of my own free will. But the abrupt arrival of the Missing Girls phenomenon put an end to such things. So, I can only imagine what their freedom felt like before America was forced to take measures to protect its women—measures to protect the endangered human species after the fall of female birth rates.
If I had been born before the phenomenon, maybe I’d be on my way to college right now, or coming home to visit my family for a long weekend in the suburbs. I can’t even remember the last time I saw a suburb intact, but I guess it shouldn’t be surprising that the world turned out like it did. It seemed to happen overnight, when the generation of Missing Girls spread throughout the world. Within a decade, animals fell down the scale of the threatened species list, and the danger of human extinction became real—and fear invites panic, while panic provokes anger. I have no recollection of the Lost War, having been only a baby, but the aftermath has been my life. The civil war that followed is there, on the cusp of the earliest memories, as broken and faded as a dream. Not the battle itself, but how it changed the people in my life. Quietened them. Angered them. Broke them.
The curtain of trees drops away, revealing a chalky rubble expanse as far as the eye can see. Like a halo, the surrounding flattened land gives a clear view of one mile surrounding every fortified city. The blanched, frosted sky emits a painful glow, and I lean forward as the city of Minneapolis rises from the horizon, looking like an apparition amongst the stark surroundings. The cement walls stretch into the atmosphere, adding more grey to the achromic palette, and as we approach, the looming towers dwarf and humble me. Now my nerves exceed the sickening fumes, the butterflies in my stomach going wild with the prospect of my new home—my new cage.
The daunt ing ashen walls of large concrete blocks are built at least thirty feet tall to shield the towering city. Among the original buildings are the new soulless cement structures of the Shanty Towers, a nickname bestowed on accommodations hastily built in the cities for American coastal refugees from the Lost War. The visual abominations are colourless blocks, hiding their windows within the shadows of vertical grooves stretching the length of the structures, resembling prison bars.
I thought I had seen the last of colour among the autumn leaves, but my lips curl at the unwarranted display to the east end of the wall. An American flag the size of a house is stencilled onto the cement canvas. This isn’t unusual; I have seen the same template used on other city walls, and I believe they’re usually repeated every hundred yards. An enormous government stamp in place of flags, which must have been deemed too subtle. Each red and white stripe is as tall as me, and stamped in the upper left is the single star of the United State of America. The new flag would usually set my teeth grinding, but this one is different. This one has been rectified. A crowd of men on scaffolding were monitored by rangers as they scrubbed at the graffitied stars decorated above the lonely star. A rainbow of colours has been hastily scribbled in the scrappy way a star can be drawn in one fluid five-point motion. While they were brushed away, their colours bled into one another above the singular white star. Such a rebellious statement is enough to cost a life, but I cannot hide the smirk that the defiance provokes. A middle finger from those who still believe in the United States. It’s a sight I cling to, my heart gripping thoughts of a revolution like a comfort blanket.
The truck slows on our approach, while a large solid iron gate mechanically creeps open with a spine-pinching metallic wail. A dozen rangers spring into action within the processing bay, like the scattering of vermin from a nest, crowding the vehicle. Seeing them in these numbers sends me shuffling in my seat. I’m reminded of the few times I’ve seen them, and how every encounter was laced with violence. Dressed in black Kevlar jumpsuits and full-face helmets, they seem nonhuman, almost robotic. Their hostile conduct keeps the ever-taut string of tension gripping the people. As the Grim Reaper is synonymous with death, the ranger is a visual reminder of the government’s ever-watchful presence, an extension of their surveillance, their large, reflective black helmets like the dark eye of a raven.
The government has stationed rangers as a permanent military presence. It didn’t happen overnight. A trickle of black Kevlar dripped down the hierarchy, replacing the muted green-and-beige camo like a slow cloak of decay. As the complaints of brutality arose, then came the helmets. These anonymous soldiers were repurposed to correct illegal or rebellious behaviour with draconian policing. It didn’t take long for the resistance of civilians to simmer down. Our driver, like the majority, is a private, designated by the single red stripe that runs from his shoulders to his wrists. The higher the rank, the more red stripes, and the sergeant with the power trip and a gun on his lap behind me sports three. Guns are much more restricted nowadays, with weapons manufacturing highly regulated by the government. They can’t risk having another civil war on their hands, can they?
“Stay seated while we register you!” the sergeant yells from behind.
What the living hell is he on? My jaw tightens in annoyance rather than intimidation. I hover by the window, straining to listen when he climbs out and discusses my details with the gate rangers. They log us in and out of checkpoints like detainees, but to be fair, every gender has to detail reasons for leaving and the destination of travel. All for our “protection,” of course—not at all for surveillance.
I lean towards the driver. He had enough compassion to answer my questions today—a thread of good woven within the tapestry of misery. My family warned me about rangers, and I have seen them deal out cruelty, but I think I’d be compelled to ask, even if he hadn’t been kind. Hesitation drags on my words, making me stammer, since I hate how naïve it makes me sound.
“What’s it like in there? In the city?”
He’s still. Their helmets create tunnel vision, so even a glance in the rearview mirror would be noticeable. I don’t think he’s going to answer, and my body deflates with his delay.
“A mess.” His sigh is louder than his words, while disappointment drips from his tone. “A real fucking mess.” His helmet tilts towards me slightly. “Attacks on women are on the rise. Just keep your head down. Don’t cause trouble.”
There’s not a thing about his words that should bring comfort, but they do. It’s honesty. My father always said you should learn as much about an enemy as possible. And that is what this place is: my latest foe.
“Thanks.”
There’s a moment of silence, and my ears prick at a mention from outside of my new work placement. The ranger twists in his seat, his Kevlar hissing with the sudden movement, while his incredulous tone startles me. “Why don’t you just go to the R&R facilities?! Why the hell would you opt for this?”
I look up at him under a furrowed brow, my voice tired. “You wouldn’t understand.”
He shakes his helmet in response. “They’re safer! You’d be in Eden quicker!”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“I know what I’d pick.”
He does not understand. I spring from my seat, talking through a clenched jaw. “They’re medical prisons for guinea pigs. The women cowed into submission. Education consists of knitting, sewing and cooking. I’d sooner die than be hauled into one of those places. What, just so I can race to be with the Eden elite? Race to become somebody’s wife?”
His helmet shakes again before he turns, almost fully facing me, mirroring me through the sheen of his helmet. “And this place isn’t a prison? It’s just a bigger cage. A bigger pool to fit more sharks. The rest is inevitable.”
I’d love to ignore his words—to dispute them—but I watch the gulp bulge down the column of my throat in the reflection of his helmet. My brain fires comebacks. Venom positions on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t bring myself to part with it. We stare at each other in a grip of frustration. This world we are a part of makes no sense. We are fighting for something out of reach—an ideal that no longer exists. The American dream was once the shining example of liberty throughout the world, but it is long since dead.
The rear door opens, and the tether of our stare loosens as the sergeant bounces into the truck. With the completion of my registration, an outside ranger motions to the concrete watchtower, and the second gate rolls open, slowly unveiling the city.
An audible gasp escapes my parted lips. From stillness to chaos. Paths heave with bodies, overflowing from the curbs, and steam puffs from the manholes in the road, joining an amalgamation of body heat and vaporised breath from the men, rising like smog. The lower of the high-rises are loosely decorated like patchwork—a fragmented city with corrugated metal sheets roughly bound like a corroded jigsaw puzzle and decorated in primary-colored paints. These clashing shades conceal the buildings, as they have been repaired, insulated, and embellished for practicality rather than visual appeal. Like the vehicle I sit in, the city is strictly utilitarian, a tatty reflection of what it used to be.
At the crossroads of the street, steel rigging is propped between the buildings, hosting giant digital screens with four sides, one facing each road. They’re new—well, newer than my last visit when I was a kid—but I have been told about the infotrons, much like the jumbotrons that were once used at sporting events. Each screen seems nearly half the size of a basketball court, split horizontally into three strips, so they aren’t assaulted by a sudden gust of wind, but they still sway despite the one-foot gap between them. Right now, they’re displaying drone footage of a coastline, which may be California. Charred palm trees and blackened sand, buildings flattened, while anything above ankle level has been scorched into charcoal remains. There’s the wreck of a frigate, rusting and collapsed against a pier, with a gaping hole in its keel. Its edges are thick and green with seaweed, and the tide washes in and out of it, splashing its jagged iron opening like the mouth of a cave. Along the fractured asphalt of a coastal road, shells of helicopters lie on their sides, their windows burnt out, with the blades snapped like a discarded children’s toy. It’s harrowing to see the remains of war, so still and falling into decay, emphasising the passing of time. But the idea seems to be to spark inspiration, as a quote is layered over the footage.
