Echoes of the Waste

An imaginative composed by Rylan (Year 10)

The city looked like a ghost town, trapped under a dirty grey sky. Tall buildings- their walls worn down and covered in vines- that leaned over the streets, as if they’d been there forever. The pavement was shattered like glass, littered with rubble and puddles, that reflected the gloomy clouds above. Decayed and hacked at, trees stood like silent watchers to a world that looked long uninhabitable. A thick fog hung low, making it hard to see much at all, the air smelt foul, you could see small particles floating. Dylan shuffled through the mess, his worn down boots treading in the clumpy mud.  At 18, his face was scarred by the struggle to survive. A mask covered his mouth, trying its best to filter the bad air, but not enough to stop that burning feeling in his lungs. This was the ninth division, a place where the Council ruled everything, including Dylan who was just trying to survive.  

Around him, the air whistled in the silence, their grey clothes blending into the fog. They were the few survivors, forced to comply with the Council's laws, their faces blank like they had lost all memory. Drones buzzed above, there were hundreds of flashing red lights watching every move, making sure no one stepped out of place. Dylan had heard stories about those who had been taken to the Wastes, a deadly place outside the city where no one came back. The Council's motto was imprinted everywhere, carved into walls ‘Obey or Disappear.’ 

Dylan had heard those words ever since he could remember, repeating them in the  crowded buildings where everyone slept in rows. Food was delivered once a week, dry bread and a small soup. Work never stopped, sorting scraps in the ruins for the Council's machines was the main one. His hands were rough and shaky, but he kept going, even though it felt pointless, not daring to slack off. 

Something inside Dylan was awakening. Two days ago he had found a piece of broken glass in the rubble, engraved with one word ‘Fight.’ He hid it in his pocket, its sharp edges digging at his side. He wouldn’t dare to share this information with anyone. It made him wonder if there was more to life than this? The fog sometimes cleared out , showing a faint light over the hill. He was contemplating if it was real or is his mind ,playing tricks on him? 

Hope was a thing of the past. 

The trouble started early that morning. A strange siren echoed, loud and sharp, erasing the quiet. The whistling stopped. A drone dropped from the sky, its red eye glowing as it hovered over the street.  

A robotic voice spoke, "Issue found. Go to central processing. Disobey, and you are gone." 

Dylan’s stomach felt 10 times heavier. "Gone" meant to the Wastes, and he knew it wasn't a choice. 

People started whispering; someone had written on the walls, started a fire somewhere. His heart raced. He hadn't done it, but the glass in his pocket felt like proof he was guilty.  

Then, everything changed. A figure broke from the crowd, sprinting toward the Wastes, slowly disappearing into the fog. The drones buzzed after him, and the siren screamed louder. Dylan quickly dove behind a pile of bricks, his breath quick and shallow, he couldn’t get a full breath in. Was this the resistance he'd heard about? The glass pressed against his leg, its word burning into his thoughts. The drone's light swept the street, and he knew staying meant getting caught. But running? That meant facing the unknown to him. The light on the horizon flickered again, almost like calling to him. Dylan gripped the glass tighter. He had to decide to stay and face what was to come, or run and risk it all. The siren wailed on, and with a deep breath, he stepped into the fog. 

The weight was unimaginable knowing there was no going back.