The dark-haired woman shoots me a nasty look, but takes the other towel and shuffles away. I let out a sigh of relief.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling into the folds of the fabric for the round device. I palm it as the gray-haired woman reaches for her own towel. “I wasn’t sure how to reason with . . .”
She lifts her arms to towel off her hair and I see it. A few inches under her armpit hidden from plain sight. Less than an inch high or wide. The three dark black lines on each side that create almost a V. Wavy lines at the top—like licks of flames—in the center of which is an S. The same image Atlas has tattooed on his arm. The one I used to create the new Gloss logo. This woman standing in front of me is a Steward.
I lower my voice enough so the others won’t be able to hear over the sound of the water still streaming out of the showerheads on the other side of the room and ask, “Could you verify your name for me?”
The woman gives me a sharp look. “You’re not old enough to . . .” She frowns, glances around, and quietly says, “It doesn’t matter. I’m Dana. Do you . . .”
A low, hornlike alarm sounds. The showers’ spray grows weaker and weaker. When there are only a few drips coming out of the silver fixtures, the doors at the far side of the room swing open.
“Your time is up,” an Instructor announces from the exit.
“We’ll talk later,” Dana promises before heading for the door.
Quickly, I palm the GPS recorder. Then, wrapping the towel around me, I follow the others into another tiled room. This one is cold and smaller than the other. On one wall are shelves filled with undergarments and the same ugly pink-gray clothing that we wore on the trucks. On the other are row after row of shoes. Tennis shoes in a variety of colors. Brown moccasins. Tan work boots. All in various states of wear and tear.
“Hurry up.”
I shiver as I dry myself off as best as possible, then rummage through the clothing to find a support tank, underwear that looks newer than the others, and a shirt and pants that appear to be close to my size. Then using my locker room skills, I change my underwear under the damp towel. It’s probably stupid to be concerned about changing in front of a bunch of women I don’t know after we just showered in the same room, but I do it anyway.
The pants are too short. The shirt is narrow, but long enough that I think it can be tied into a useful knot. I sift through the shoes on the rickety, scarred wooden shelves until I find a slightly-too-big pair of broken-in powder-blue high-tops with slightly frayed laces in my size. Gently, I run my hand over the round patch that has started to pull away from the canvas fabric.
“There are some newer ones over there.” Dana points to the other side of the shelving unit. “I can help you look.”
“These are fine,” I say. Then, hunched over to make sure no one can see, I slide the GPS recorder in between the canvas and the lining of the beaten-up right shoe.
Like Dana, the other women in our group have gravitated to shoes with the least amount of scuffs and scars. A few months ago, I might have cared enough to do the same. I have a different set of priorities now.
The dressing room opens. An Instructor shoves a coat at each one of us with orders not to get wet again, and we are led outside.
The air is heavy and warm.
Rain falls in a light mist, which is probably something they’ll insist we appreciate because rain helps things grow. Right now the sounds of the rumbling thunder combined with the crunch of gravel beneath my feet and the slightly green-yellow tint to the sky give this walk to the unknown a horror-movie quality that I find more than a little unsettling.
Despite the stickiness of the air, I shrug on the jacket, which is at least two sizes too big. Ugh! There is a mildewy floral smell that reminds me of my grandmother’s funeral.
“Keep moving.” An Instructor snaps one of the riding crops in my direction.
I pick up the pace. But when the Instructor turns away I slow my steps and look around again, trying to figure out exactly where I am and what the best way out of here might be.
There are a dozen or more buildings in the area. To the west, I see more structures. Winding clouds of smoke puff into the sky from a number of chimneys. To the east is a covered walkway like this one that leads to the same, massive building we’re walking toward. Where there aren’t buildings there are fields of rich black soil and deep green growth that seem to go on forever. Getting out of here on foot—if I can find a way to get the ear cuff off without triggering their poison—won’t be easy.
The tempting scent of spices and baked bead waft from the large barn as does the faint strains of drums and maybe a base guitar. I walk faster toward the smells of food, and I’m not the only one. After almost a day with nothing but fear, determination, and granola bars to fuel me, I am running on empty.
The source of the music becomes obvious when we step into the dimly lit, wide-open structure. Over a dozen enormous screens like the ones outside my school and displayed on buildings throughout Chicago are set up along the top of the expansive room. Some are playing closed-captioned newscasts from cities around the country. Videos of the Boys of America song “Together We Are Free” blare from the others. I spot the familiar faces of the Chicago Channel 2 anchors smiling from one in the back corner. They are showing a video of people at the beach—some riding bikes, others on the sand or standing at the edge of the glistening lake.
My breath catches in my throat. I was standing just there only hours ago.
It feels like a lifetime from here, where Instructors line the room in their blue uniforms. Where they threaten with their long metal rods and riding crops. Where the music is too loud for anyone to speak more than a few words without being drowned out by lyrics that speak of unity and strength and freedom. Where there are rows and rows of benches and long white tables—all filled with people dressed in the same ill-fitting clothing. A few watch the screens with desperate eyes. Others look down at the table. There are occasional glances at our group as we are led to the tables nearest to the entrance.
I scan the crowd looking for brown eyes that are quick to brighten with laughter, and the handsome face that captures the attention of almost every girl at our school.
Please, let Isaac be here.
Someone bumps me and I walk down the center aisle, past benches filled with people who I recognize from the cages in Chicago or the truck I was transported on. I spot Wallace sitting on the end. His face is mostly hidden by the black hood as if he is blocking out everything around him. I should ignore him. He’s a Marshal. That alone tells me he can’t be trusted. Still, he knew we were coming here. If he knew that, maybe he also knows a way for me to get out.
As I walk by his table, I step on the edge of one of my shoelaces with my other foot and make a show of kneeling down to retie it.
“What are you doing?” An Instructor grabs me by the shoulder as I give the laces one more yank. “Get up!”
“My shoelace came undone.” I point down. “I just need to finish tying it.”
The Instructor rolls her eyes and lets out a loud, frustrated sigh. “Finish up and join the others.” She leads my group of women to a bench several rows down and orders everyone to sit.
“Wallace?” I hiss as a new song starts to play. “I need to talk to you.”
“Later,” he says, never looking down at me. “Meet me at the fence.”
The fence. I have no idea what that means, but I’ll figure it out.
A shadow looms over me as I pull the laces into a bow and scurry toward my place next to Dana at our designated table. Once I am seated, Instructor Burnett and a dark-bearded official climb the steps to a small wooden dais.
Someone cuts the sound system. “Red, White, and Blue for You” fades out leaving behind the haunting echo of the patter of rain overhead.
Instructor Burnett taps on a microphone. “Rise.”
Benches scrape across the gray wood-planked floor and we all get to our feet.
The screen directl
y behind the two instructors displays the image of an American flag. The other feeds display white words marching across a black backdrop. I skim the words, blink, and start reading them again as the bearded Instructor leans into the microphone and announces, “Begin.”
Everyone who was here before today places their hands over their hearts and in loud voices recites the words that move across the screens.
I swear that I will be a faithful citizen. That I will celebrate our country’s greatness and take pride in our shared accomplishments. And that I will always be obedient to the laws and my duly elected leaders, and put my country’s interest above my own.
A few women around me join into the recitation halfway through. When an Instructor approaches me with his riding crop raised, I move my mouth, but not a single word passes my lips.
When the strange oath is finished, the bearded official says, “Each day you stand here gets you closer to fulfilling that promise. To our new subjects . . .” He glances at our group of tables. “You will say these words every day until they are part of you. You will work here until you believe. We will see that you live by these words.”
He sharply places his hand over his heart, then in the same crisp movement puts his hand down at his side like a salute. The others around the room repeat the movement and take a seat. I look around the room and do the same.
“What the hell was that?” Dana whispers.
I don’t know if she is talking to me or herself, but I don’t have a chance to respond before the screens flicker. Most return to their previous programming of muted newscasts and loud, flashy pop-music presentations that make it impossible to talk without shouting. But one screen on every wall continues to display the words of the recited oath—a constant reminder of what they intend to teach us here.
“Do they really think they can convince us we don’t know what we know?” Dana asks.
I glance around the room. Most of the ones who were here before today are sitting quietly at their tables. A few lean close to each other as they exchange words. But there are several others intently staring up at the screens with the white words of the oath, moving their mouths, silently repeating the words over and over again.
Large tureens of some kind of stew and long, thin loaves of bread brought to the ends of each table pull my attention. The older men and women serving the food are wearing what I have come to think of as the “farm uniform” as they ladle stew into small wooden bowls. They then tear hunks of bread and place them atop the stew before passing them down the table. The hollowness in my stomach is more pronounced with every bowl I pass until finally mine arrives.
There are no spoons or forks or utensils of any kind. So I pick up my bowl like the others in the room and sip. If I were in Chicago, the last thing I would want is hot soup on a warm, sticky day. But here, I gobble down the carrots and potatoes and mop up every drop of the almost paste-like brown goop with the bread as if it is the best thing I’ve ever eaten. It’s not, but when I’m finished far too quickly, I’m sorry there isn’t more. I find myself reading the words on the screen to keep myself from grabbing Dana’s bowl out of her hand.
A horn blows. The screens go black and benches scrape the floor as everyone gets to their feet and starts filing toward the doors in the back.
“Women to the left,” a loudspeaker voice announces. “Men to the right.”
I rise with the others, fall in step, and that’s when a tall, lanky man up ahead catches my eye. The smooth gait—the set of his shoulders makes my heart leap.
Isaac!
“Excuse me,” I say, shoving my way forward through the mass exodus of bodies trying not to lose sight of the back of Isaac’s head. “Please. Let me through.”
I elbow people to the side and ignore their grunts of annoyance and pain and the shouts over the loudspeaker to “settle down.” I don’t listen. Instead, I duck around a large, lumbering man and grab hold of Isaac’s arm. He turns, looks down at me, and—
There is nothing familiar about the face that is at least a decade older than Rose’s brother.
“You’re not him.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” The man tugs his arm away as others behind him push their way forward.
“I’m sorry.” I let go and look down at my empty hand. “I . . . I thought you were someone else.”
“I wish.” The guy follows the exodus through the right door.
I really thought . . .
A weight settles in my chest. It wasn’t him.
“Hey, you can’t just stand there,” a woman hisses as she grabs my arm and pulls me along into the line headed to the left. “You have to keep moving or they’ll make an example of you.”
A few women in the line nod.
“I thought he was a friend of mine,” I explain. “He went missing and was brought here last week, I think. From Chicago. Maybe you know him?” We step through the wide door and start down a hallway with narrow windows. “His name is Isaac. He’s almost eighteen. He’s six feet tall with dark skin and short dark hair. He wouldn’t have known why he was taken and . . .” I bump into the woman in front of me who has stopped walking.
“Isaac. Did his father work with the mayor?”
“Yes.” My breath catches. What are the odds that there is another boy that age here whose father worked at City Hall? It has to be him. “Is he here? Can you tell me where to find him?”
Her hazel eyes shimmer and everything inside me goes still. “I’m sorry to tell you this, honey, but the Isaac I met is dead.”
Twelve
My fault.
My fault.
My fault.
“You have to get up.”
Hands grab at me. Shake me. Someone steps on my hand and I lift my head.
How did I get on the floor?
“They’re coming.” The words mix with a dull buzzing inside my head. My stomach heaves. “You have to move.”
Someone helps balance me as I push away from the concrete floor and get to my feet.
“Move!” the woman snaps. “If you don’t they’ll punish you. Would your friend have wanted that?”
No. He’d think that was giving up. Giving in because I know it’s my fault he had been taken here in the first place. He never let anyone on his team give up when they felt beaten or useless. “You’re giving up if you don’t step up,” he would say. I whisper it to myself and put one heavy foot in front of the other.
The hallway swims in and out of focus, but I keep walking through the door and into a room filled with women of all ages and dozens and dozens of bunk beds.
“Over here.” The woman who still has a strong grip on my arm leads me to a bunk bed about halfway down a row. “This is mine. You can take the top bunk.”
“I told Jennifer she could have it,” someone complains.
“Now you can tell Jennifer that it’s taken.” The woman sits on the bed next to a flattened pillow and waits for me to do the same. For the first time, I focus on her face. Not a woman’s face. A teenage girl with light tanned skin and curly brown hair with streaks of yellow threaded through it. There is also an angry-looking scab just over her right eye. “I’m Liz. Are you going to throw up?”
I put a hand on my uncertain stomach and shake my head.
“Good. They won’t feed us again until morning. The nights suck hard enough without being hungry. I’m sorry about your friend.”
Hot, bitter tears build.
“I never talked to him,” Liz says. “Never had the chance.”
“Do you know what happened? How he . . .” I should be able to say the word, but I can’t squeeze it past my throat.
“I just know that he tried to stop someone else from getting a lesson and the Instructors decided to drag him away, instead. When I first got here, I was warned that it’s always worse if you fight back.” Her tone is clinical even as her hands are balled into tight fists. “Isaac must not have gotten that warning, or he didn’t listen to it. That was two days ago.”
<
br /> Two days. When Mr. Webster saw me at the Unity Center, he still believed Isaac was alive. Has he been told about Isaac’s death since then? Has he broken the news to Rose and Mrs. Webster? I doubt whatever Rose and her mother are told will be the truth. It will be up to me to pass that on once I find a way out of here. If Mr. Webster doesn’t reveal my real identity first. . . .
A horn blast sounds.
“I’ve gotta go.” Liz reaches under her pillow and pulls out . . . something that she shoves in the elastic of her pants. “I’ve got crap duty. You can use the top bunk, but don’t just sit there all night. It’ll send the wrong signal. You don’t want anyone to report that you’re weak. Just remember to leave your jacket on the bed when you aren’t around so people know it’s taken.”
“Wait,” I say as she starts to leave. “I heard someone mention something called ‘the fence.’ Do you know what that is?”
“It’s through there.” She points to a wide opening in the wall between two sets of bunk beds. “I shouldn’t need to tell you this, but—be careful. The Instructors aren’t the only ones who can hurt you here.”
Liz weaves her way through the maze of beds and disappears out the door. When she’s gone, I drop my head into my hands and picture Isaac.
The way he grinned when he zoomed his bike past us and made Rose shout that she was going to tell their parents.
How his nose crinkled when he studied the basketball hoop from the free-throw line at one of the games Rose guilted me into going to.
And the way he took Rose’s hand in his and held on tight when she told me their parents were getting a divorce.
He shouldn’t have died. It was my fault he ended up here. My stupid choices that pulled him into situations he knew nothing about. If it weren’t for me, the officials who run this system wouldn’t have taken his life like they took my mom’s and so many others. How many have died so they could keep the truth from coming out? How many more will die if no one stops them?
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