As I make my way across the scruffy alleys of Creed Holme, trails of pale grey clouds stalk my path, and, despite being alone, I couldn't shrug off the stabbing feeling of countless eyes. It's as though the authorities are already monitoring me from above, and it's sending chills down to my spine.

The usual day of work turns up with tension as I anticipate the arrival of the announcement regarding the updated list of top family names hunted down. The sultry air ruffles my honey locks as I approach the grocery store. It is a dome-like grey building as pale as the sky, and it's wedged between two towering duplex houses that are equally as dull.

Within the grocery however, it is teeming with life.

"Nearly thirty minutes late? Keep up the good work, Byrne," Luke, an employee working alongside me, jeers as I stride past him.

"You won't be disappointed." I return the sarcasm.

The employee's locker room is usually devoid of life as I use to come at work earlier than the others, but now however, it's their turn to stare at me stupidly as if mentally yelling how much of a bitch I am. I ignore them nonetheless.

Fumbling for the right combination, I settle my pack within my locker. The pictures of me, Oliver, and Oakley are clipped behind the locker door, and our elated smiles beam at me. I smile back. It's one of the  few remaining motivations I have for work—my family. Yes, I consider Oliver as my family now as well. He's five years ahead of me, making him seem like an older brother, looking after the brat that I am while Oakley's gone to work overseas.

As I close the locker door and scurry out of the locker room, I nearly stumble with our manager as he suddenly pops in front of me, blocking my path. I look up to him impassively, masking my nearly startled expression. His reprimanding eyes search my face, and his unruly hair looks as if he just woke up.

"You know you could've been one of the candidate employees for promotion if you'd only been working hard these past few weeks," Dalton, our manager, says as he crosses his arms on his chest.

I could roll my eyes if he isn't looking.

"Got no regrets, sir," I flippantly mutter.

"Unfortunately, you may possibly make it to the list of those for dismissal," he adds.

"What's this? School stuff? Should I expect detention later before I go home? Or a three-day suspension after?" I say. If looks could kill, I'd be dead by now.

"I'm serious here, Holland," he sternly says.

"Alright fine, I'll work some extra hours this weekend, hope this makes you happy now," I mutter, and boss grumpy himself seems satisfied with my words.

"Good, I'll be arranging some few minor changes on your schedule this Saturday, since one of the employees had to walk the plank."

"Piteous kit," I lazily say.

"I see potential in you, Holland. You're one of the best I've got here, so please snap out of whatever's been keeping you up lately." This time, he's really serious.

"Yes, boss," I add as I head off.

"I'll be excusing you some time later, okay?" Dalton calls out, but this time I'm not able to respond back at him.

The following few hours of work is hasty. The tension I've been feeling earlier this morning holds me on the edge, and makes me somewhat skittish with even the slightest interaction to the customers. I even notice my hands seem sweaty throughout my work. The image of my letter to Oakley is superglued to my thoughts along with the grim premonitory words that Oliver has said regarding the stamps being connected to The Shearing, and an unbidden feeling descends down on me like a cold finger tracing my spine; what if something already happened to Oakley overseas? If she's safe, then my letter may have actually been sabotaged, but if the Hollands turn out on the wanted list, then they'd definitely know my whereabouts; Oakley would be temporarily fine, while me and Oliver would be in for a nasty entrapment. No matter how much I want to banish the possibilities, they won't cease plaguing my mind. Whatever these happenings mean, I know deep within that I'm not yet ready to face the answer. In fact, I may never want to know it at all. I just want to escape the suffocating confines of this grocery store and flee to find Oakley, to hug her and to tell her how worried I am and how it's already driving me demented.

The whole time, I've been nervously peeking through the flat screen television hanging above as I wait for the news that Oliver has said; commercials on overpriced poultries and recent press briefings are the only things I see as I repeatedly glance up to check for the announcement. My fingers fidget nervously against the barcode scanner clasped on my faltering grip, and I even nearly tax a customer twice if it isn't for their warning.

I've never been so . . . distracted.

"That's it for the latest weather update, and now it is time for the awaited announcement of the fresh new list of wanted family names around our country, Pelnora, a recent update from the judiciaries. Let's here it from reporter, Zae Clemente!" The male reporter says, and, surprisingly, it seems it isn't only me who has been waiting for the news all along as someone from the technical booth suddenly turns the volume up.

My heart beat drums louder along with the volume, and I stop completely from my work to peek on the screen. The customers doesn't even seem to care, for their attention too seem to have been completely averted as well.

Most of the people in the grocery stop what they are doing, glancing up to watch the awaited announcement. I find my hands trembling as Zae Clemente appears on the television screen with our feared dictator at her side—Dictator Ross Pavel.

"We are one for a better world," both the reporter and Ross says in unison. "May the peace be with all of you my dear citizens! Alive or dead, no peace may fled." Half of the people within the grocery speaks in unison with the dictator as he mutters the last seven words, and the eeriness causes me to clench my fist .

The dictator's smile isn't something that would send positive vibe upon anyone. It's a villainous smile, as though he's rather happy that countless people are killed every minute of everyday . . . just to achieve his own utopia.

My heart lurches into race.

"And in this country we call Pelnora, our home, lies some bad shrubs that needs to be weeded out. As I've always been saying, think of it this way; if a plant bears bad fruit, we cannot stop it by removing the bad fruit alone. We must uproot it whole in order to stop it, and that, my dear citizens, is the sole purpose of The Shearing. It completely removes bad people from the society including the roots from which they came. And it does not only remove bad people, it also helps us lessen the growing population. Names of those who've committed crimes are listed in the Kill Queue, and their family names broadcasted so everyone would be aware who to kill. And now, my people, the time has come, another list of fresh new names to hunt, another step to the utopia we all have been dreaming of. Long live Pelnora," Ross blabbers and I nearly jump out of my skin when almost all the people around me applauds in complaisance.

Seriously, is it only me who finds this shearing thing kind of wickedly twisted? Even if can't see myself, I know my face blanches already.

"Thank you for that, our dear dictator, and now, the awaited list of names has come, and we shall start with the update from the top ten most wanted." The people applaud again, and anticipated smiles are emblazoned upon their faces.

"Are you ready?" reporter Zae says excitedly. I want to smack her, but it startles me when almost half the people around me respond "yes" like clown-coaxed children in a party.

And as if the reporter hears it, she begins to unroll a red scroll with a rose seal. If the people aren't cheering around me, the screams of my heartbeat would undeniably dominate the grocery.

"Top one, we have Doiley! Top two, we have Epsilon. Top three, we have Hawkins." My stomach twists to knot at the mention of Oliver's surname, and I can't help but scowl.

Family names who've earned a place in the top ten most wanted imply that there are only a few remaining heads to hunt for those names. That means they are close to complete banishment. Complete extermination; their bloodlines shorn from existence, and that is what Ross wants, to ruin a bad shrub to its roots, even if it means killing the innocent. What only matters to his irrational cause is the shearing of the criminal blood.

"These top three names are believed to only have one person left!" Zae exclaims, then, again, the people begin clapping their hands as if watching their favorite sports team win a match.

"Top four, Shurbeth. Top five, Scalene. Top six, Denver. Top seven, Oakwood. Top eight, Salome. Top nine, Baker. Top ten, Anderson. That's all for the top ten, up next are the newly hunted or the what we call 'freshmen' of the shearing." A few of the people around me laugh, and I think I'm the only one around who seems blanched.

I cringe. My heart stomps my chest as Zae unrolls a black scroll. It harbors the newly hunted families. This time, I struggle to block out the image of the weird stamp and Oliver's claims and pray for the safety of the Holland family.

"Cooper family, Shane family, Ashers family . . ." Zae continues, and my fingers tap impatiently against the table in front of me.

"Byrne!" I nearly shriek at the sudden mention of my name, I hastily spin around and face Ella, a sales lady that also works here.

She suddenly looks guilty.

"Hey, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to scare you there," she says as she places her hand on my shoulder, and it feels like I suddenly carry the weight of the world.

"It's okay, what is it?" I ask, my fingers tangling at each other nervously.

"Mr. Dalton's looking for you," she mutters without looking directly at me.

"Oh, Mr. Grumpy? What about it?" I quietly ask, trying hard to hide my shaking voice.

"It's about the changes on your schedule this Saturday," she says.

"Oh, okay just give me minute," I say as I glance back at the television.

"Sierra family, Kurtson family, Johannes family," reporter Zae carries on, each name booms to my ears and forces my heartbeat faster.

Sweat starts to drip down my head.

"Byrne! He needs you now!" I nearly jump at Ella's raised voice.

"Okay okay!" I say as fast as my heart rate, holding up my hand in the air.

"Why are you so jumpy today? Something's up with you these past few days. Snap out of it will you? Have you been taking drugs?" Ella prods.

"Just shut it!" I snap without looking at her.

"Gailford family, Pierre family, Wilson family, Hanesworth family . . . "

Please.

Spare my family name.

"Holland!" This time, I shriek. I swivel around only to meet Dalton's stern look.

"Wait!"

"Holland, you have ten seconds to come here and ten seconds before I fire you!" he barks.

Before other people could even get curious with our commotion, I hurriedly comply against my will, and I couldn't swallow the fear as I unsteadily walk past the placid sea of people; their eyes glued upon the television screen. It would've seem so comical if not only for the string of circumstances.

As I approach Mr. Dalton, he abruptly pulls me to his office and slams the door shut.

"Byrne, what's happening to you? Are you even okay? You look so pale, and skittish, and clumsy, and jumpy!" grumpy starts, and I notice my heart beat is still racing like crap.

"I'm fine!" I snap, though my tone clearly contradicts my claim.

If Dalton thinks I'm lying, he lets it pass. "You will be replacing Donna's schedule on Saturday, so that means exactly six in the morning I'd be expecting you here. You got it?" he sternly says.

"That's it?" My voice raises for a fraction.

"What?"

"You excused me from my work just to tell me that?" I groan loudly in disbelief.

"What? Do you want me to discuss my business plans this coming November? Well I guess I can share a bit of information with you, you see, the grocery's sales had been skyrocketing since the offer of the other holdings made drastic-" I cut him off before he could even proceed into an economics lecture. And, anyway, I don't even think it's proper to share those information with me.

"I'll be off, sir, thank you!" I say as I trot off the office.

"And that is all for the latest Kill Queue update!" Zae says from the television screen, and I can feel every fibers of my body wanting to puddle down the marble floor, while another part of me wants to storm back into the office and give Dalton a fistful of my anger.

"Let's have another word from our dictator, Ross," Zae continues.

"Thank you, Zae. Alright, people out there, remember that anyone who can submit an individual from any of the mentioned family names shall be greatly rewarded for sheer altruism for our country. Apart from that, those who are more than willing enough to kill anyone from the aforementioned family names is regarded as a noble patriot and will hence be noted for their deed. And for anyone out there who belongs in one of the wanted family names, and are listening now . . . we are watching you." Dictator Ross and Reporter Zae exclaim in unison with their devilish grin, and it makes my heart race more.

The grocery walls suddenly seem to be pressing down on me.

"Remember, that the only way to get complete riddance of criminality, is to destroy them from their roots!" Ross adds.

Then all the people around me applaud. I swear, given the chance, I would melt down to the ground. And now the news is over, and the show peters back to various commercials.

As I proceed back to my work with heavy heart, a sudden scream abrupts me, which comes off far ahead from the rows of cashier booths, but I couldn't have a good view as people quickly throng around.

"I am not from the Ashers!!" A guy agonizingly yells. People begin crowding at the commotion, but the other employees carry on with their work as though something like this is normal.

"Please! Let me go!" he pleads at the top of his voice, but the crowd's booing seem to penetrate his pleads.

"I beg you! I'm only seventeen! Get off me!" he yells further.

What follows is the sound of coins chattering against marble, then I hear a continuous bone-crunching sound of fist smashing on body, and it is followed by the guy's grunts and screams. The guy yells desperately for help again and again; his voice twisted and muffled in pain, but no one seems to pay him heed.

More grunts and sickening sound of punches follows, until, mercifully, a gunshot goes off.

The guy's pleading voice falls to silence.

Then the crowd begins cheering and applauding, and it causes all the colors of my face to drain away. I could only stare in horror at the frenzied crowd in fearful realization, until the air finally stings my eyes.

"What's your name?" The voice startles me, it comes from the customer in front of me, an aging veteran clad in dark leather jacket and dark pants.

I think it is my cue to get back to work. I blink my eyes several times as I banish the bid of tear that almost made it out to my cheeks.

"Byrne, Byrne Holland." I force a brief smile as I begin to scan the barcodes of his purchases. I let the continuous loud beeping from the barcode scanner to momentarily distract me from the noises around, and to block out the reoccurring pleads of the guy earlier within my plagued mind.

"You're a Holland, eh?" he says followed by a cackle.

I smile back and discreetly nod.

"You must be very lucky I'm not the type of person that goes along with the flow of the crowd, but if I were you, I would've ran already."

I freeze.

My heart skips a beat. "Excuse me?" I say and snap my head up to gaze at him questioningly but with patented dread.

"Goodness, dear! Haven't you—" before he could even complete his response, the grocery alarm shrills off, startling everyone in the process.

"This is the Population Control Agency, and this store is on temporary lock down for suspicious figures namely, Ashers, Cooper, Baker, and others including Hawkins," The robotic voice from the alarm blares, but what alarms me more is the mention of Oliver's surname. Is Oliver really here?

All the people begin cheering loudly as though to anticipate the impending deaths. That's when I see Oliver quickly break from the crowd, heading for me.

"Kiera! What are you still doing here?! Haven't you watched the news?!" he yells. Suddenly, confusion engulfs me like fire.

"What?" I snap.

"Allow me," the veteran customer in front of me starts. "You are a Holland, and you're in the Kill Queue," he says.

Just as the words dawn on me, I feel my blood turn to ice.

Then I hear Oliver's yell again.

"Run!"

And that's when somebody grabs my arm.

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