City of Beasts

by Corrie Wang

  Although I guess that’s also what I thought before I saw all those fetuses in the lab.

  “Are…?”

  His plum-size eyes widen beneath his heavy frames. He puts a finger to his lips. Shhh.

  “Are you real?” I whisper.

  Comma and Sway said one of the rumors about the Fortress was it churned out robots. At this point in my journey, nothing would shock me.

  In a raspy whisper, he replies, “No, I’m a wooden boy who wishes he was real.”

  I stare at him blankly. “Is that a movie reference?”

  He pushes up his enormous glasses using his whole hand. “Duh.”

  “Motor,” a calm voice says. “What do we say about sarcasm?”

  I jump. The voice sounds like it’s next to me, yet the boy and I remain alone in the tiny room. The boy’s bitter expression immediately changes and becomes beatifically blank.

  “Sarcasm,” he parrots, “is aggression with a bow on top.”

  “Yes,” the room says. “Very good. Very good indeed.”

  Suddenly, a male in a pale blue suit materializes against the wall to my right. As with the gray male at the front desk, it isn’t only his suit that is powder blue but also his shirt, tie, shoes, hair, and eyes. I bolt up in surprise and immediately regret it. The liquor. The electricity. I feel like the twisted sheets of paper we use to start a fire. Which must be why I don’t quite understand what I’m seeing.

  The blue-suited male didn’t appear against the wall. He is the wall. The entire room is one big screen.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. “Where’s Two Five? And my friend Sway?”

  But it’s like the blue-suited male is on some kind of prerecorded track, because instead of answering my questions, he cheerfully says, “Welcome to the Fortress. You may call me Doctor. While you are here, I ask that you follow a few simple rules. Motor?”

  Motor sits up straighter, like a tame cat bringing its owner a mouse, then studiously says, “No roughhousing. No back talking. Always drink your milk.”

  Always drink my milk? Why does every male environment have to be so strange? Rubbing at the ache in my forehead, my hand quickly moves across the rest of my skull. My hair is gone. Shaved off entirely.

  “Lice preventative,” Motor murmurs, and rubs his own shaved head.

  I look down. I’m now wearing a baggy gray sweat suit. No shoes or socks. Same as Motor. And then it hits me. Someone has changed me into a baggy gray sweat suit. I look back up at the doctor. His gaze is directionless, yet the corners of his lips rise ever so faintly.

  And right then, knowing this or some other equally strange male saw my bare body. Knowing they have Sway and Twofer, yet prefer to keep us frightened and separate. Suddenly, my fear, sickness, and confusion burn off, and all that’s left is seething rage.

  “Look, Doctor Blue Male,” I say. “I don’t know who you are or what it is you do here or why you can’t mix and match your colors. I honestly don’t care. Sell me or turn me into a robot or force me to drink all the dairy you want. I. Don’t. Care. I want my brother and my friend Sway, and until they’re with me, I don’t plan on following any of your garbage rules.”

  Motor lets out a gruff squeak of distress and curls into a ball with his hands over his ears. His reaction is so severe, I spring from my bed and ready myself for more guards or electric volts. Instead quiet chimes sound throughout the room.

  “Recess time,” Doctor says pleasantly.

  As Motor stays curled up, I walk to the screen and peer at Doctor.

  “Can this dumb goit even hear me?” I ask.

  The doctor blinks once, then shifts his gaze to stare straight at me.

  “Yes, Glori,” he says quietly. “I can always hear you.”

  I freeze. “How do you know my name?”

  “As it turns out, we have a mutual friend. We’ve agreed to keep you here for them until they arrive. In the meantime, break whatever rules you feel you must. But be warned, as you witnessed earlier today, we do not tolerate dissent at the Fortress. Instead I think you’ll find that you get along easily if you go along easily. I’d hate for a tragedy to befall you—or anyone else you cared about—simply because you could not do what you were told.”

  I can still hear the smack of Sway’s face hitting the floor.

  “Although I would love to give you a personal tour, I regrettably have much to do. Motor, however, shall accompany you during your stay. Given the right motivation, Motor is my most helpful ward. He will keep me apprised of your every concern. Won’t you, Motor?”

  “Oh, yes, Doctor,” Motor says fervently.

  “You mean he’ll tell on me if I step out of line?”

  The doctor’s laugh sounds like an un-oiled door screaming open. “I can see the back-talk rule will be a hard one to follow.”

  “Wait.” I ask, “How long do I have? Before my ‘friend’ gets here?”

  Doctor smiles. “Six hours, perhaps. Depending on traffic. But please don’t waste your time trying to escape. The first-floor doors are all impenetrable steel. The windows are constructed from the same glass that aquariums used for their ocean tanks. Aquariums, if you don’t know, were places fish were kept for people to stare at and study.”

  “Let me guess,” I say. “Fish never escaped their aquariums.”

  Again, that laugh. “You are a quick one. I think you will enjoy this.”

  Once more, the chimes sound through the room. Doctor softly clasps his hands. “Time to play.”

  Then he blinks out.

  Six hours. Six hours to find and free both my brother and Sway and then escape from a place that is inescapable. SIX HOURS. Part of me wants to curl up on this mattress and sleep the minutes away. Six hours is only a little longer than a good rainy-day nap. It isn’t nearly enough time to figure out, let alone complete, this impossible task.

  As fast as the doctor disappears from our wall screen, the obedient fervor drops from Motor’s expression. We warily eye each other as he resumes a seated position. I have a thousand different questions for this male. How old is he? What is this place? Are there more males like him? Who is the doctor?

  But honestly, there’s only one thing I care about in this second.

  “How the hill am I supposed to get out of here in six hours?” I say aloud.

  “Weren’t you listening? You aren’t. Duh. Want me to set a timer?” Before I can answer, he says, “Set timer for six hours.”

  Softly glowing blue numbers now count down on the wall above him. They’re the same blue as the doctor’s suit. The chimes ring again.

  “Third chime,” Motor says. “We gotta get to the yard. Lateness is not tolerated.”

  Grabbing a keycard from his nightstand, he hops out of bed and waves it at the door. It pops open with a soft hiss. The outside hall is pitch-black. When we step into it, a warm ambient light glows from the baseboards.

  “Terrific,” I say. “More environmentally friendly lighting.”

  “Being friendly is always good. But being environmentally friendly is the best.”

  This must be what I sounded like to Sway when we first met. Motor gives me a flat, satisfied smile, then hurries off down the hall. I follow after, glaring at the back of his head, trying very hard to suppress the urge to squash it. As we trot along, the baseboards light up in front of us like they know our route. Considering Motor’s timer is now floating along beside us on the wall—5:58:02. 5:58:01—maybe they do.

  Now, this looks like a luxury compound. Charcoal walls meld into plush charcoal carpeting that is swirled with deep cranberry-and-black flowers. Wide doorways are spaced evenly along the hall, all with copper keycard sensors to the right. After every fourth door, an identical hallway branches off and seems to go on for miles. I try running a blue fingernail along the wall, but Comma’s nail paint doesn’t even chip. Likewise, there are no other distinguishing markers to give me my bearings. No decorations, no room numbers. Nothing.

  I’ll never find Two Five.


  “This tour doesn’t come with a map, does it?”

  Behind his thick glasses Motor’s eyes grow even bigger as he waves his hands in front of him. But it’s too late. The doctor is suddenly on the wall next to us. Motor smacks his forehead.

  “Is there a problem?” Doctor asks.

  “Walk-In asked for a map.”

  Doctor considers and nods. “All right, understood. Continue to monitor. Proceed.”

  Interesting. So Doctor can’t hear what you’ve said. Only that you’ve spoken. Motor shoots me a dirty look and hurries on again.

  “Motor,” I whisper. “What is this place?”

  “Geez,” he quietly rasps. “Pay attention. It’s the Fortress, the most technologically progressive building in the world. It was gonna have a VR climbing wall, a skydiving room, and an Olympic-size swimming pool on the top floor—”

  “There’s a pool?” I can’t help but interrupt.

  “Nah, none of that stuff got built. But the Butler did. It’s a Household Smart Assistant. It can go anywhere. Except the bathrooms, obviously. Can you imagine? Oh, hey, Doctor.” He makes a fart sound with his mouth and lets out a soft guffaw of laughter. “Back when all the Littles started showing up, Doc reprogrammed the Butler with his image. Now we self-police.”

  “Who are the Littles?” I ask.

  “You’ll see.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “You walk funny, you know that? And too close.”

  I hold up my hands in surrender and drop back a pace. In the lobby, the gray-suited male raised his voice to call security. Given Motor’s whispering and propensity for shushing me, it was safe to guess the Butler only activated at certain volumes. And thank you, Motor, I now knew there was one place he couldn’t go.

  “So how do I know a bathroom from a regular room?” I ask.

  “A bathroom has a toilet.” He snorts. “Duh.”

  I roll my eyes. “I mean from out here.”

  “The keycard light next to a bathroom is yellow”—Motor snickers—“like pee.”

  He waves his keycard, and we take a stairwell three flights down, then walk along more gray corridors until we turn a corner and are stopped by impressive white-ash doors. EXERCISE YARD is written on them in gold script. Motor waves his card. As the panel next to the doors beeps green, I realize just how stuck I am. Not only will Motor tell on me if I step out of line, but I also can’t go anywhere without him. He sees me eyeing his keycard and smugly tucks it in the elastic band of his underwear. Waste.

  5:53:26. 5:53:25.

  We push through the doors.

  “Whoa,” I whisper as every thought of escaping escapes me.

  Behind his enormous glasses, Motor’s eyes cut to me and he flashes a trace of a smile. His first genuine one.

  “Welcome to the Yard. Nice, right?”

  Considering we’re in a nuclear fallout building, I’m not surprised the yard is inside. But I certainly wasn’t expecting it to perfectly re-create the outdoors. The space is roughly the size of the athletic field we have at school, but this one is wrapped, floor to domed ceiling, with wall screens that play a lifelike video of a pre-Night park. Vibrant green trees sit in lush emerald grass as orange-chested birds fly past. At the very top of the dome, the sky is construction-paper blue with puffy white clouds. I have never seen such color.

  But that’s not what’s left me speechless.

  It’s that the cavernous room is filled with children.

  Dozens of young males crowd the yard as more trickle out from a doorway on the opposite side of the room. I do a quick count. Despite the silence, there are almost seventy males in this space. All of them look younger than me. A couple dozen seem younger than Motor. It is a miraculous sight that brings tears to my eyes. Except I don’t understand how it is possible. It can’t be, unless fees never stopped making babies. Except we’d never purposely make more males. Grand had guessed that Majesty wasn’t the only fertile fee. (Liyan was proof of that.) But telling from these numbers, there were a lot more out there. But how and why did their children—all sons—end up here? And where were they?

  “Motor, where did all these males come from?” I ask.

  “Admissions, duh.”

  “But from where before that? Like, who are their parents?”

  “I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.” He starts pointing around the room. “The Sixteens are over there on the exercise court watching the MMA practice wall. Fifteens are the ones doing kickboxing where that park couple is sharing dinner meal. If you watch the couple long enough, they kiss. It’s disgusting.”

  As we move into the space and Motor continues to break down the yard by age group, my eyes frantically scan the room for my males. With all the shaved heads and gray sweat suits, they—we—all look identical. Yet since everyone is as Heinz 57 as a Miracle, Sway should be easy to spot. Only, no matter how many times my eyes sweep the room, I don’t see him.

  “And,” Motor finishes, “last but not least, the Nines are the ones over there lying on their backs staring at the sky. They’re more useless than an empty candy wrapper.”

  Trying to steady my breathing, I say, “Empty wrappers make pretty good origami.”

  I didn’t see Sway. And there was no one here younger than nine, so that meant no Twofer either. Panic fills my chest as swiftly as floodwaters took the world’s shorelines. A sensation that isn’t lessened when, one by one, every single male in the yard stops what he’s doing to turn and stare at us.

  Despite the Fortress’s perfectly regulated temperature, I shiver. For as little as I know about the gender, these males are not behaving like males. Males shout and laugh and bicker. At Euphoria, they sang and danced and provoked. On the streets, they played sports and talked trash. Yet here, during playtime, never mind the silence, there is no joy or amusement, let alone fierceness. Instead every gaze turned on me—which is all of them—is sleepily blank.

  “Motor, what’s wrong with everyone?” I ask.

  Before he can answer, a ripple subtler than a leaf falling into a puddle goes through the yard. A boy holding a ball a few feet away leans forward and whispers, “Breaker calls dibs.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask.

  “Who are you talking to?” Motor looks around. “Did they start a murmur? What did it say?”

  With a quick glance, I realize there are no guards in the room. Motor said they self-police. The males must be purposely quiet to keep it that way. So quiet that even though we’re standing side by side, Motor can’t hear them.

  But I can.

  Another murmur goes through the room.

  “Breaker is coming.”

  Like a hand squeezing into a fist, all the males in the yard move in tighter around us.

  “Motor, how do we get out of here?” I ask as my flight instincts dial up to high.

  “Can’t. They remotely lock the doors once we’re all inside.”

  The timer he set unobtrusively hovers in the park air above where we came in.

  5:49:58. 5:49:57.

  Why is there so much time left?

  The crowd parts and makes room for a tall, muscular male who must be a Sixteen. Breaker, apparently. Unbidden, I think of Liyan cracking walnuts, unsure if this male is the nut or the nutcracker in the analogy. Because while Breaker is obviously fit—his sweatshirt sleeves might burst at the seams for his muscles—he isn’t healthy. His shaved hair is badly thinning, and his cheeks are so sunken they could hold a quarter cup of water. His emotionless dark brown eyes are equally cavernous and rows of black spots crisscross half his face, like someone wanted to play connect the dots but had no paper.

  “Oh no,” Motor breathes. “Not Breaker.”

  Other similarly worn-down-looking Sixteens bunch behind him. All with sickly little potbellies despite their toned physiques. All with varying patterns of black marks on their skin. It’s like I’m being approached by a bunch of underfed sewing patterns. Just as Breaker steps into the empty circle of space that’s around me, the d
oors at the far end of the room swing open.

  Two guards enter. Both were in the foyer when Sway and I arrived. Only now they aren’t toting Tasers or dart guns. Instead two neat lines of males, all about Twofer’s age, trail behind them. I do a quick count. There are sixteen altogether, ranging in age from three to five. These must be the Littles.

  Just like that, the flood of panic that drowns my chest rushes out in one swift breath. Because there, bringing up the rear, chatting happily as he swings the hand of a little boy with a very large head, is a slight figure I thought I might never see again. His long curls have been shaved off, but his chubby baby cheeks remain. I laugh out loud with relief. It makes Breaker take a step back. Finding Two Five was the goal of this entire journey, but only now do I realize how thoroughly I’d never expected to achieve it.

  As if he can feel my eyes on him, Two Five looks over. His little mouth drops open. Then, like seeing me here is no more extraordinary than if we’d casually met in our kitchen back home, he brightly waves and gives me a thumbs-up. I laugh again. It’s him all right.

  My silly lovely sweet alive baby brother.

  “Where are you going?” Motor whispers.

  Two Five is right there. Only forty feet away. You can sure as waste bet I’m going to him.

  The only problem is, a mob ten males deep separates us. And they have other plans for me. I motion for Two Five to stay put.

  “Breaker’s got dibs,” they all murmur. “Breaker’s got dibs.”

  As the guards who brought the Littles in leave—Negligent, I think. Who leaves something so precious alone?—I try to push my way past Breaker, but his mixed martial arts training is obvious. It’s like pushing against a solid wood door only to have it push back.

  “Seems to me, we kinda, like, have not yet begun, Walk-In,” he says.

  It’s now so quiet in the yard, you could hear dust settle. Across the way, Two Five is acting out something that looks a lot like hopscotch for the enrapt Littles.