I lean forward to get a better look at the woman who’s growing louder and more insistent with every word. Slightly dirt-streaked round cheeks. High forehead. Pale, blotchy ivory skin. Slight wrinkles under the eyes and around the mouth that Rose could easily make disappear with her magic makeup touch. When she isn’t tired and wet, the woman probably passes for late forties. In this harsh white light without any enhancements to ease the years, Rachael Corn looked at least two decades older, which probably meant her husband was around the same age.
Corn. The last name sounds familiar. I rack my brain, trying to call up the image to go with the name. Was he part of one of the design teams my mother worked with over the years. Could we have attended some of the same grand openings and awards ceremonies together? If so, I can’t recall.
“Contact David,” the woman insists in a more confident tone. She sits up straight in her chair and smiles. “You really don’t want the people we know to learn about this mistake or that you were warned you made it and did nothing to remedy the situation. If you call my husband now, I promise I won’t tell anyone about this mix-up. I don’t need an apology from your supervisor and I won’t demand anyone get fired. I just want to go home.”
“You want me to ask your husband whether you belong here?” Instructor Burnett glances down at the scanner screen again and shakes her head. “It seems it was one David Corn who filed the report that caused you to become one of our volunteers.”
“No.” Rachael shakes her head. Her eyes go dull and wide. “That can’t be.” She grabs the hand of the woman next to her and squeezes it tight.
The black rod whips in front of Rachael’s face, narrowly missing her nose, and clangs against the concrete next to her feet. Rachael lets out one last squeak, then falls into terrified silence.
Instructor Burnett waits to make sure she stays that way, then continues, “Regardless of what you wish to believe, you are all here because of your disruptive choices. Choices that have threatened to take us backward to a time when there were mass shootings. When gangs terrorized the streets in cities and towns around the country.”
“How does not recycling books encourage violence?” I’m so focused on how badly I have to use the bathroom that the words just slip out.
All eyes swing toward me as Instructor Burnett strolls to my end of the line. The scanner hovers over my ear and beeps. Instructor Burnett flicks a drop of water off of the scanner and recites, “MaryAnn Jefferson—caught defacing public property. A violation of the American Pride Beautification Act.”
Several seated women gasp. Whatever they did to get brought here was clearly not the same as my offense.
Slowly, I lift my chin. “I wasn’t caught defacing property. A can of spray paint fell out of my bag. For that, I was arrested, shoved into a car against my will, and drugged.”
The official slowly shifts her gaze from the screen to me. “Were you planning to use that paint to deface public property?”
I ignore the drip running along my cheek and take a deep breath. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I can’t say what I was planning. Neither can you.”
She scoffs. “Do you think that explanation helps your cause?”
“I was taken against my will and brought here,” I say calmly, despite my racing heart. “I think the facts about why you did that matter, don’t you?”
The woman behind me chuckles. I remember Wallace’s warning to avoid drawing attention. Suddenly, I wish I could take my words back.
Instructor Burnett’s eyes narrow as she studies me.
Finally, she says, “I will certainly be making a note of this conversation. Do you have anything else to add?”
“I’d like to use the bathroom,” I say.
Several women down the row nod in agreement.
Instructor Burnett taps the rod one last time, then slowly starts walking again. “Bathrooms will be available when you move to the next room. The more cooperative you are, the sooner you will have the opportunity to use them. Do you understand?”
Several of the other Instructors smile.
Not a single one of us sitting in our lines says a word.
“Good.” Instructor Burnett gives an approving smile. “Some of you might be teachable after all.”
Her eyes slide in my direction, as if after my words she isn’t so certain about me. “You have been granted the opportunity here at the Great American Farm to make amends for the disruptive choices you have made in the past and to learn the error of your actions. Here you will be taught the value of putting the unity and safety of your country above your other interests. At this farm you will have a chance to contribute to the food supply our country relies upon. The harvests here are essential to our economy and the Instructors will do their part to make sure you are dedicated to your work.”
She stands again at the front of the line of chairs and looks at Rachael, who has tears silently streaming down her cheeks. “You will obey your Instructors without question. You will do your work without complaint. Anyone disobeying an order from an Instructor will be punished. We do not wish to punish you, but actions have consequences,” Instructor Burnett continues. “It is our job to make sure that is a lesson you don’t forget again. We take that job very seriously.”
An Instructor standing along the wall holding a long black flexible rod that reminds me of a riding crop smiles at the official next to her. My stomach curls at the glee in the woman’s eyes.
“Anyone with ideas about trying to leave before completing your instruction would be wise to leave those thoughts here,” Instructor Burnett says sharply. “A number of measures have been put in place to ensure you cannot leave the boundaries of the farm without completing your time here. You have all been fitted with one of those measures.”
Slowly, I touch the edge of the cuff riveted into my ear. A few others do the same and Instructor Burnett nods.
After a beat, she continues, “The boundaries to the Great American Farm are at times unmarked, but do not make the mistake of believing they are not real. Your ear markers each have been installed with an education protocol chip. The minute you came through the gates of the farm, that chip was activated. Any attempt to deactivate the chip will send an alert to the farm’s Instructors. If the chip is not deactivated when you cross the boundaries of the farm, the education program will be triggered. You will be designated unteachable. A drug will be released into your system by the program protocol and you will die.”
Eleven
Rachael lets out a horrified gasp. Someone whimpers. The woman beside me lets out a hushed “No.” Two—a woman maybe my mother’s age with hints of white streaking down her auburn hair, and another in her early twenties—nod as if this is completely expected. I try to memorize their faces.
The ear cuff isn’t just a tag.
The barcode is not simply a method of tracking who we are, what we have done, and where we go. It’s a leash designed to prevent any attempt to flee. If I try to escape I will die. If I don’t try, everything we have done with Gloss and all the risks Rose and her mother and Stef’s group are taking to help bring the truth to light will fail.
Instructor Burnett holds up a hand and waits until everyone goes silent. Finally, she says, “This information is not designed to scare you. It is merely a warning. You have been given a second chance. If you waste this one, another will not be given. Others have doubted my words. If you do, I assure you that you will fail as all before you have done. Cooperate. Contribute.” She gives an almost motherly smile. “Prove that you are willing to continue to make this country great. Those who demonstrate their ability to do these things will earn their way back to the lives they left behind. In many ways, the choice of how long you work here at the farm is up to you.”
The woman with the gray hair behind me snorts, then coughs.
Instructor Burnett looks at the coughing woman and then nods to the pairs of Instructors standing near the front of the room. Each pair has one Instructor with a scanner. The
other is holding a long black switch. When the first three “subjects” on each side are scanned, the Instructors order them to head to the next room. Their exit is accompanied by the sound of the patter of the rain on the metal roof and the pounding of my heart.
Finally, the Instructors return and begin the process with the next six women. Scan them. Walk them to the gray double doors in the back of the room, then disappear inside it.
“I hate when it rains,” one Instructor standing near the exit says just loud enough for me to make out her words. “It takes longer to clean up after we’re finished processing them.”
“Yeah, but they don’t smell as bad when they’ve been wetted down first.” The other one laughs. “Do you remember the group that came in from Chicago last week? Ugh. A little mopping is a small price to pay for not feeling like I have to throw up.”
“That’s what happens when they wait almost a month in between transports.”
My heart jumps. If it took a month for the last transport from Chicago to arrive, Isaac would have been a part of that group. The Great American Farm is massive. Several hundred thousand acres of barns and fields and barracks and outbuildings and processing centers. The odds of me finding any one person are long. But if Isaac arrived recently, there’s a chance he could still be at this training facility. If not, at the very least, someone here could know if he’s okay or where he was sent.
“Last group,” Instructor Burnett announces. When the Instructor with the scanner gets to me, I notice a streak of blood on the back of her hand. She grabs my ear, pulls it toward her, and the world swims in front of my eyes.
The fresh flash of pain rolls all the way down to my stomach. I hold my breath and pray for the agony to end.
Finally, there’s a beep, and the Instructor lets go.
I blink back tears as I fall in line behind the woman with the gray hair who laughed at the idea of ever being allowed to leave. Then I shuffle with the other through the double doors into a white tiled bathroom.
Never have I been so glad to see a toilet stall in my life.
“First things first,” Instructor Burnett says as she pulls the doors shut behind us. “You all need to get clean. Leave your coats in the bin by the door. They will be returned later. Undress in one of the stalls. Leave your shirts, pants, and shoes on the floor. Take one of the towels and a bar of soap from the cabinet over the toilet. You will then proceed to the next room where you will have five minutes to shower.”
The others start to vanish into the small cubicles that line the room, but the gray-haired woman stares at Instructor Burnett and asks, “You want us to shower?” Horror colors her voice and it only takes me a second to realize why. “Are there going to be Instructors in there monitoring us?”
“Instructors are not the ones who need washing,” Instructor Burnett replies, watching the woman intently. “They will be waiting for you through the next set of doors once you are done.”
Color drains from the gray-haired woman’s face. She stands motionless as Instructor Burnett pulls a small personal tablet out of her pocket and taps the screen. One of the other Instructors—the one holding the long switch—advances, eyes focused on her target. Not sure what else to do, I step forward and bump into the gray-haired woman as if by accident.
The gray-haired woman stumbles. I stammer an apology that I don’t mean and am relieved the gentle jolt seems to have done the trick. The gray-haired woman gets moving. As she shuffles toward a cubical without another word, the Instructor with the riding crop retreats, and I quickly head into a bathroom stall. I yank the metal door closed behind me, grateful to have reached the toilet in time.
When I finish peeing, I wrap my arms around myself and squeeze my eyes too tight for tears to fall. When I leave this little box, I have to take a shower.
If I hadn’t read Dewey’s history books, I wouldn’t find that prospect terrifying. But I have. I know what was left out of the electronic versions of history textbooks that I used in school. Based on her reaction, I’m betting the gray-haired woman does, too.
The Holocaust. Nazi Germany. World War II.
I force myself to get moving. I can’t lose control or I might not survive long enough for Atlas to track me down. So, I take stock of the small stall I’m in. There don’t appear to be any screens or cameras in the ceiling high above. Nor are there any located inside the stall that consists of three silver metal walls, a slightly dented door, and a metal shelf two feet above the toilet, which is stocked with a stack of stained white towels and a small pyramid of lime-green bars of soap. There is a law against US government cameras being used in public spaces and a holiday that commemorates the day the last of the cameras were removed. That kind of monitoring had become a symbol of the divide between citizens and the government, and the removal indicated the new partnership that had been embarked upon.
Dewey said the government couldn’t risk using cameras to track down dissidents like the Stewards because cameras indicated a lack of trust. That was the reason why those monitoring devices were made illegal dozens of years ago. If the government resorted to those tactics and got caught, it would not only be against the law, but also a loud signal that they were not telling the truth. People could ignore their doubts or suspicion, but learning the government felt the need to monitor them could shake public faith enough to cause trouble. Instead, the government quietly passed laws allowing them to increase the monitoring of online devices, social media posts, and phones—all in the name of national safety.
“Most people don’t worry about what they can’t see. Especially when they don’t want to give up the devices they are using,” Dewey explained when he warned me to watch for cameras once the Marshals took me into custody.
So, even though I can’t see any signs of monitoring devices, I am once again careful to keep my own camera out of sight when I undress.
With my jacket providing cover, I unknot my shirt and slide free the recording tracker. Despite walking in the rain, the device is dry. Which is great, only now where do I put it?
Instructor Burnett yells to hurry up.
Damn it!
I pull off my shirt—ouch—pants, and booties, and set them on the metal shelf. Then use the hand I have the device in to clutch the towel I wrap around me. Grabbing a bar of soap, I take a deep breath and go out to join the others.
The gray-haired woman emerges from around her stall moments later. Her steps are stiff. Her hazel eyes spark with anger as the door in front of us swings open and we are told to go inside.
I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other—trying not to remember the pages I read about people who were alive when they walked into the showers, but when it was over were taken to an incinerator. The room has white tile and drains on floors that are glistening wet. The same tile covers the walls. A row of showerheads on one wall. Low, gray benches line the other side.
“You will have five minutes to get yourselves clean,” an Instructor announces before disappearing out the door, and closing it behind her. There is a loud click of the lock tumbling into place.
The gray-haired woman stands still as a stone—staring at the showerheads. The others look at each other as if trying to decide what to do next.
There is a short, low buzzing sound, then suddenly the showerheads begin to spray. The gray-haired woman backs away. I squat near one of the drains and run my fingers through the liquid running toward one of the drains. Then I sniff at my wet hand to be certain.
“It’s just water,” I whisper over my shoulder. “This is a normal shower.” At least as normal as anything right now can get.
The gray-haired woman’s lips tremble slightly. Then she straightens her shoulders and nods. If the others were concerned about what was coming out of the showerheads, they don’t show it. Most have already removed their stained white towels and have stepped into the spraying water to get clean.
Carefully, I fold my towel, tuck the GPS recorder inside, and place it on the far end of
one of the benches. Then I follow the gray-haired woman to the other side of the room.
After years of showering in the girls’ locker room at school, I’m used to frustrating lukewarm water and getting clean as fast as humanly possible. And like high school, I don’t watch the others in the shower with me. Instead, I keep my eyes focused on the tiled floor as I scrub. The soap has a minty, antiseptic smell and barely lathers, but I don’t care. I wash, rinse off, and head for my towel just as another woman with a short cap of dark hair is making a beeline for it.
I dart forward and reach for the towel at the same time the other woman grabs and tugs.
“This is mine.” I pull hard enough to almost take the other woman off her feet. The thin fabric comes free from her hands, but when the woman regains her balance she reaches for the towel, again.
“Give it to me!” the woman snarls, lunging toward me.
I turn toward the side and hug the towel to my chest hoping the device doesn’t slide free.
“There are other towels,” I say desperately when the woman latches on to the fabric with a viselike grip. “Please let go!” If we are still fighting over a stupid towel when the Instructors open the doors, they are going to wonder why. Time is ticking away; the woman isn’t giving up and I don’t know what to do.
“Excuse me, but isn’t this yours?”
The woman fighting me for the towel looks blankly at the gray-haired lady who tapped her on the shoulder and is now holding out a perfectly folded, albeit horribly stained, towel.
“Here.” The gray-haired woman gently pries the other woman’s fingers from my towel and hands her the other one. “They’ll be opening the doors soon. You’ll want to dry off.”
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