The Unforgiven (The Propagation Project Book 1)

by Callie Bishop

She picks up the folder from the counter and opens it.

  “DeSales?” she asks in a disbelieving tone. “Is your mother Catherine by any chance?” She squints in thought as she waits for my response.

  I nod. I hadn’t heard anyone say my mother’s name aloud in years.

  “How is she?”

  “Dead,” I say.

  Margaret’s posture deflates. “I’m so sorry. She was a terrific nurse.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “How did you know her?”

  Margaret grabs a contraption from the wall and wraps it around my arm. I think it’s called a blood pressure cuff. I had memories of Mom using it on my grandparents shortly before they both died.

  “We worked together for years in the Capital. Through most of the Affliction.” Margaret pumps the cuff and then releases a gauge. “Until they transferred her to one of the outside Ward hospitals.” She pauses a bit, then smiles and takes off the cuff. “Pressure and pulse are good.”

  “Then what happened?” I ask, rubbing the area of my arm where the cuff was.

  “Then I never saw her again. Things were hectic so it wasn’t surprising.” She writes some notes in my file. “Now,” she says, “I need you to lie on your back and put each foot in one of these.” She points to the chair’s two metal legs. “Kinda like you’re riding a horse.”

  I hadn’t even seen a real horse, let alone ride one. I could barely ride a bike.

  Margaret reclines the chair, and I flop back. Now the front slit made sense. My heart jumps into my throat.

  “Don’t worry, Hazel. I’m going to do this as fast as possible.”

  “Do what?” I say. The bile in my stomach rises, and I’m thankful I couldn’t stomach breakfast.

  “I’m going to check your reproductive health.” She sits on a rolling stool and switches on an overhead light.

  I squint, then shut my eyes.

  I hear the snap of gloves and then the clang of something metal. My legs quiver, and I shut my eyes tighter.

  “A little pressure,” Margaret says.

  She inserts something between my legs, and I see stars on the back of my eyelids. There is no way this is a part of a normal yearly physical. Who the hell would do this more than once?

  “Have you had sexual intercourse yet?” she asks.

  I peek one eye open. Is this her idea of casual conversation?

  “What?” I say.

  “Have you had sex?”

  I wring my fingers, hoping these uncomfortable sensations are over soon. “Yes.”

  Finally, I feel a release in my middle and hear the clang of metal again. I open both eyes and see Margaret disposing her gloves. A vial sits on the counter.

  “How many partners?” she asks, pen in hand.

  I don’t answer because I don’t understand why it’s important.

  “I know it’s personal,” she says. “But not answering is worse. And lying is unthinkable.”

  “Just one,” I say, sitting up. I’m already feeling sore in unusual places.

  “How long ago?”

  “A year?” I wasn’t sure exactly.

  “Any pregnancies?”

  I sneered.

  Margaret stared, waiting for an answer I suppose.

  “You’re serious?” I say.

  “I am.”

  “No, no pregnancies.”

  She writes it down, then gets up. “Okay, Jasco will be in to take some blood, and then you’re all done for today.”

  “Margaret,” I say before she opens the door. “What are we doing here?”

  I register pity on her face. She releases the door handle and comes closer.

  “You do whatever it is they say. It’s the only way to stay safe,” she says in a whisper. “You don’t want to cross them.” It’s not a threat coming from her, but a warning. A heads-up on what’s in store for me and everyone else on my floor.

  “I have a sister,” I say as she makes her way to the door. “Netty. Please, have you seen her?”

  Margaret stops and checks her watch. She looks back at me and nods before disappearing through the door.

  Chapter 7

  The cell door opens and a guard slides a tray of food. Another meal here. Six meals within these walls. Doesn’t do much for your appetite. I make a dash for the door and peer out the window before it closes.

  “Wait,” I say.

  The guard locks the door.

  “When can we leave our cells again?”

  Our eyes meet through the glass.

  “You are to remain in your rooms until further notice.” He closes the window.

  The frustration is almost too much to bear. The little human interaction we had access to before was enough to endure the long nights alone. I’m not sure how much longer I can take this isolation.

  I pick the tray up and sit on the bed. The noise of the television fills the room for hours on end. The only reprieve is when it and the lights automatically shut off. I lie down for hours before the room suddenly darkens. I close my eyes and pray for some escape through sleep.

  * * * *

  The morning bell rings, but I’ve been awake for hours. I’m relieved when the door clicks. Before I have a chance to reach it, a guard stands in the threshold. He restrains my wrists and throws a burlap bag over my head. The thick material so close to my face makes it hard to breath. The guard tugs me along, worsening my labored breathing. Sweat beads on my nose. I don’t bother asking questions. I know their answer won’t give comfort.

  I’m shoved a final time before my wrists are freed. Just when I think I’ll pass out from lack of air, the guard removes the bag. The cool air on my face is heavenly. Before I catch my bearings, a door slams shut, and I appear to be alone in a room a bit bigger than my cell. No windows. Empty walls. Just a large bed with pillows and a blanket. Another door at the other end. I’m motionless for several minutes. The other door opens, and a guard shoves another inmate into the room, another burlap bag. Tall, athletic build. The guard removes his cuffs and rips the bag from his head.

  994. He’s healed face sports a new bruise.

  The guard leaves the room and slams the door, the lock sealing us in.

  Our gazes meet, but we maintain our distance in the room. My stomach settles somewhere in my knees. The air that brought me relief just minutes before feels like it’s being sucked out of the room.

  We both realize what we are here to do. I didn’t want to believe the rumors because I couldn’t bring myself to think humans could be capable of such things. But now I’m forced to face this fear, and I hate everyone and everything that brought me to this moment.

  “No,” I say. “They can’t do this.”

  I turn to the door, but there's no knob on this side.

  “Hey!” I say. “You can’t do this.” I don’t know who I’m talking to or if they can hear me.

  “Like we’re the last two pandas at the zoo,” he says.

  “Just shut up.” I fall to my knees in defeat.

  “Don’t waste your energy. They don’t give a shit about your screams.” He slides down the wall to the floor and dabs at the blood under his nose.

  Just then, a voice booms through the room. We look up and see speakers in the ceiling.

  “You are playing an important role in the Propagation Project. Your participation is vital to its success. It is your duty to multiply. Participants who do not comply will be reprimanded.”

  The speaker clicks off.

  “Fuck off!” 994 says.

  “I can’t do this,” I say. “This is insane.”

  “We don’t have to do anything.”

  “Why is this happening?” I tuck my knees in and wrap arms around my legs. “How did we end up here?”

  “Blame our healthy reproductive organs, I guess.” 994 leans back on the bed. “It is our duty after all.”

  His cavalier sarcasm grates on my nerves.

  “I don’t even know your name,” I say.

  “994.” He points to his shirt. />
  I scoff. “Fine.”

  After a few seconds he says, “Luka.”

  It’s the most human he’s ever sounded.

  “I’m Hazel.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Hazel.” He smiles, but it seems it’s not because of happiness. More like delirium. “Come here often?”

  I shake my head. “Just leave me alone.”

  I think of Netty and the thought of her doing this very same thing. It’s enough to make me sick all over. My time at home was usually spent scraping for every dollar, so worried about the future I was considering a job as a Pigeon. How I would take that life over this any day. At least I had some illusion of freedom.

  Hours seem to pass.

  “Where are you from?” Luka says.

  “East Point,” I reply.

  “That’s a shit ward.”

  “Fuck you. Where are you from?”

  “Salem,” he says.

  Same as Shane. I’m tempted to ask if they know each other but decide not to.

  “You’re one to talk,” I say.

  “You wouldn’t last an hour in my ward.” His words match his surly expression.

  I want to laugh but can’t bring myself to do it. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

  “A Ruser would spot you a mile away.”

  I wasn’t going to admit that part was true.

  “You’re probably one of them,” I say. “A Ruser.”

  The expression on Luka’s face changes in an instant. “I’m no fucking Ruser. Don’t ever call me that again.”

  I lean my head against the wall. How long will I be stuck in this room with the most intolerable human alive? Just when I thought this situation couldn’t get any worse. I can’t stand the thought of spending whatever time we had in here taking low jibes at each other.

  “Look, I don’t know how long it is we’ll be stuck together, but I’m guessing it might be a while. I don’t know you and you don’t know me, but I do know that I’m not in the mood to hear any more of your tantrums. We can either pass the time with conversation or just stay on separate ends of the room without speaking.”

  Luka lifts a hand. “I vote for separate ends of the room.”

  * * * *

  I wake when a hidden hole in the wall slides open and out pops two trays of food.

  “Talk about a mood killer,” Luka says, examining the contents.

  He hands me a tray, but I don’t have an appetite.

  After a while, Luka returns the trays to the opened window, and it seals itself.

  “Guess we’re going to be spending some time in here,” he says.

  I can’t stand the feeling of the floor anymore. A stretch in my muscles feels good, so I explore the room a bit. A small bathroom is concealed behind a pocket door and a few hidden amenities are scattered around, including a small fridge with bottled water.

  “Just like our cells, right?” Luka says.

  “Yours maybe.” I close the fridge. “What do we do now?”

  Luka shrugs. “Not sure.”

  He seems to be in the talking mood, so I take advantage. I’m afraid any more of this silent treatment and my next cell will be padded.

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  “No,” he says.

  “I do,” I say, ignoring his attitude. “Netty. She’s here, too.”

  “Younger or older?” he asks.

  “Younger,” I reply. “I haven’t seen her since the reaping.

  “That sucks,” Luka says. “She’s probably locked up in some weird sex room like this, too.”

  “Maybe not speaking was better.”

  “I’m only being truthful,” he says.

  “You’re only being an asshole.”

  “If she bleeds once a month, they’re breeding her.”

  I recoil at his crudeness. “You don’t know that.”

  “And you’re in denial.”

  The blood rushes to my face. Before I have a chance to refute his accusation, both doors open, and a burlap bag swallows my words.

  Chapter 8

  There’s a rap on my cell door, then Margaret and Jasco enter. I deflate on the bed.

  The cell door closes behind them.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I need to implant your ICC,” she says.

  “What is an ICC?”

  Margaret holds up a sealed clear package with a tiny metal chip about the size of a grain of rice. She takes my arm and pushes on the backside of my wrist.

  “An Identity Confirmation Chip. Every participant gets one.”

  The sting of rubbing alcohol hits my nose as she swabs my skin.

  “Stop calling us participants,” I say. “We’re prisoners.”

  She looks up at me but doesn’t respond.

  Jasco hands her a needle when she gestures.

  “It will contain important information regarding your identity. It will also assign you to a special serial number that will help us identify you in case…”

  “I die?” I say.

  “In case there are problems of any kind,” finishes Margaret.

  I want to reach for the needle and plunge it into her neck.

  The sting lasts just a few seconds but leaves a permanent reminder of my status in life. I am no longer a person. Just unlawfully acquired property.

  “See,” she says, handing the needle to Jasco. “Not so bad.”

  Her smile sickens me.

  “I want to see my sister.”

  Margaret makes some notes in my chart, then hands it to Jasco. “Leave us,” she says to him. He hands her an empty plastic cup with a STERILE sticker on the lid. He shuts the door silently behind him.

  “It’s not possible,” she says. Her voice is gravelly, not the usual booming timbre. “But I can tell you she is fine. No better or worse than you.”

  “You can help us get out of here.” It’s more of a hiss than a request. “You know what they’re making us do.”

  She stands and averts her eyes. “You’re doing your duty.”

  “Fuck my duty. This is psychotic.” I stand, too. “You can help us.”

  “Guard!”

  I close the distance between us, but she cowers.

  “You were friends with my mother, how can you look the other way?”

  The guard charges me.

  “Answer me!”

  The guard backhands me, and I spit out blood.

  “Enough,” Margaret says. But she isn’t talking to me.

  Jasco rushes in with another needle.

  I fight with all I have against the guard, but he has 100 pounds on me. The more I resist, the stronger he presses against my neck with his elbow.

  I feel the stick of the needle, and then a heaviness draws down my eyes.

  “Just something to calm you,” Margaret says. “Now, I’m going to help you to the bathroom.

  The urge to resist fades, and my Judas of a body complies. She leads me to the bathroom, then holds out the plastic cup.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I slur.

  She pushes the cup into my hand. “We’re going to be doing this a lot, Hazel. I rather it didn’t go like this each time.”

  I take the cup from her hands. “Are you going to watch?”

  She doesn’t move.

  Without looking away I tug down my pants and underwear. The room sways a bit, and I hit the wall of the tiny bathroom. Finally, I feel the cold metal of the toilet and fill the cup. I’m too numb to feel humiliated.

  Margaret pulls a glove from her lab coat and takes the cup from my trembling hands. She says a terse thank-you and leaves me to redress and wash my hands.

  When I exit the bathroom, I hear the slam of my cell door.

  Chapter 9

  The light in the breeding room never shuts off. Years, days, weeks. The world could have ended. It’s starting to feel like Luka and I are the last two people on earth. I shudder to think that I might start enjoying these days together after spending so much ti
me alone in my cell. My thoughts are terrible company. The anxiety is at a raging boil in my stomach. Sweat dews on my nose and forehead. Another week locked up in the room, and I want to crawl out of my skin.

  My fists pound the door until the skin is numb. Screaming, I kick the door with every ounce of energy. I’ve become the caged animal I saw in Luka.

  “Hey,” Luka shouts. “Stop!”

  I ignore him and keep kicking.

  “Hazel!”

  It feels too good to stop.

  Luka grabs me from behind, and I wriggle in his arms.

  “Stop, Hazel,” he says. “It’s no use.”

  “Let me go!”

  He squeezes me tighter. “They’ll only kill you faster.”

  I crumple.

  Luka eases us onto the floor.

  “It’s okay,” he says as I sob.

  A tender hand rakes my hair.

  I’m hyperventilating, and the corners of my vision darken.

  “I lied to you before,” he says. “I had an older brother, but he died when I was really small. I don’t really even remember him.”

  I suck in a deep breath, and the rise and fall of my chest slows. Luka still cradles me.

  “I was a tattoo artist back home. I really miss it. The pay sucks, since people would want to trade. I’ve collected this pile of useless junk people gave me. It used to drive my mom crazy when I brought something new home.” He chuckles at the thought.

  The panic feeling subsides, and I turn to face him. The sour expression has faded, revealing a beautiful face. “What about you?”

  “Scrambled to get by,” I say. “I actually considered becoming a Pigeon.”

  Luka’s face twists. “I can’t see it.”

  A small smile curls the edges of my mouth. “Me either.” I try to imagine my life as a Pigeon and shudder. I was more desperate than I wanted to admit.

  I’m calm and release myself from Luka’s embrace. “Thank you.”

  He lies on the floor, hand behind his head. Silence fills the room, and it isn’t long before sleep consumes me.

  * * * *

  Luka insists on sleeping on the floor, even after I offered to rotate with him. The bed is thick and soft. But I’m betting it wasn’t selected for comfort. Its presence is for function only—just like us.