Disclose

by Joelle Charbonneau

  Quickly, I work my way down the bench, pulling out drawers and closing them when I don’t immediately identify anything of use. Some are filled with surgical masks. Others with gloves and an assortment of eye protectors. I find an empty plastic water bottle, a half-eaten bag of pretzels, a pair of used socks, and three sleeves of peanut butter and cracker sandwiches that I place on a metal stool. It’s only when I pull out a drawer at the end of the bench and the contents rattle that my pace slows.

  The deep wooden drawer is filled with barcoded ear cuffs. Dozens of them, along with a scanner and two metal ratchet-looking things that fit the back of the ear cuff perfectly.

  I run my fingers through the ear cuffs. Some are stained with grass and dirt and reddish-brown streaks that can only be blood. I hope the images I take capture it all.

  Leaving the drawer with the barcode cuffs open, I head for a series of large metal cabinets like the ones my father has—had—in our garage. In the first, I find yellow coveralls. In the next—blue Instructor uniforms. All of them look way too big for me to wear, but a slightly dirty one hanging from a hook on the wall next to the cabinet might fit. I shine the flashlight in that direction and stop dead in my tracks.

  Beyond the used uniforms is a floor-to-ceiling whiteboard like some of my teachers who weren’t good at operating the digital class screens used. Instead of being filled with chemistry formulas, there is a black box in the corner with the word “Freedom1234” written carefully inside of it. The rest of the dingy board is covered with words written with red, black, and royal-blue ink in at least a dozen different hands. The board was probably intended to provide reminders to fellow workers. At least that is what I believe when I read the sentences in the middle.

  Don’t forget your gloves and masks.

  Use the lime!

  Speed bumps occur when you don’t dig deep enough.

  After the muddy field, those words make me want to scream.

  But the rest . . .

  Do they always have to smell like animals?

  The three today are finally useful.

  God bless America!

  Check out today’s images from zone 2! They are saluting now.

  Shivering, I use the recorder, then read the words again. A lot are faded—like someone brushed by the board and wiped some of the color away. There is one I start to skim over, but a word catches my attention.

  Pictures

  I get closer to the board and squint to make out the words.

  Uploaded new pictures onto the computer. Check out the face John is making on the backhoe!

  Could the picture be on this computer?

  I don’t have time to spend hanging around here. Still, I go back to the cracked screen and click the mouse.

  Password

  “Who password protects a computer in the middle of nowhere?” I can’t help asking. So much for . . . Wait.

  I look at the word in the corner of the board again. Could they be lazy enough to write the password on the wall? After all, it’s not like they expect anyone unauthorized to come waltzing through.

  I type “Freedom1234” into the password box, press Enter, and a display of dozens of desktop folders appear. First thing, I turn off the internet connection—just in case—then start going through the folders. There are backhoe manuals and forms for ordering new equipment or uniforms. Several folders are marked as requests for transfers, vacation schedules, and employee evaluations. I ignore those, but take pictures of the spreadsheet filled with schedules and dates and numbers of subjects buried as well as the work schedule of officials who work here.

  A name catches my eye at the bottom of the last page and I feel like throwing up again.

  Isaac Webster.

  According to the spreadsheet, he was assigned to work here two days ago. He knew about the mass grave. He must have wanted me to see it so if I escaped I could tell others. And I will.

  I spot a folder titled “Fun,” click on it, and discover hundreds of photographs. These must be the pictures reference in red marker on the whiteboard. The first images look like the ones I saw on news segments extoling the virtues of the Great American Farm, with smiling men and women in blue uniforms standing in front of this barn. Then the images change to ones the news channel would never allow anyone to see.

  Instructors wearing masks and gloves dragging bodies across the dirt.

  A male Instructor peeing into a hole in the ground while others laugh.

  Bodies stacked like firewood under a partially tacked tarp sprinkled with snow.

  By the time I reach one with dead bodies posed with their hands on their hearts as if saluting the flag, someone has added captions. This one reads, “Bet they wish they had done this before.”

  I blink away tears and use the GPS recorder to capture dozens of the images. Bile burns my throat. How does anyone live with knowing this is happening? Do they think they are protecting the country? Are they too scared to voice their opinions? Or are they glad to have an excuse to be cruel?

  How does one person—a few, a hundred—fight this?

  From the first night I sat in the Stewards’ station across from Atlas and learned about the missing words and history, I believed that people just needed to learn the truth. Once they did, they’d want to fix what was broken. But this . . .

  I don’t know if anything can fix this.

  I turn off the computer and place my GPS recorder on the workbench with the other items I will be taking with me. I’ve spent more time here than I should have, but Isaac told me I’d have a better chance of escape if I ditch my “subject” clothing, so that’s what I’m going to do.

  I strip off the shirt and pants and stash them behind one of the white bags stacked in the corner near the entrance. Then, I spit on a rag and dab the blood and dirt from my ear before tugging on the first uniform that looks close to my size.

  The slick dark blue shirt sticks to my sweaty skin. I find a scrap of rope to keep the pants from riding too low on my hips and tuck the bottoms of the pants into the top of my socks to make sure I don’t trip. There aren’t any boots, so I keep my mud-coated shoes and rummage through the barn until I find a small black bag with a thin leather strap to replace the mud coated one I was using. I slide the scalpel into my pocket, then use the bandages I found in the infirmary desk to protect the wound on my ear. Finally, I add a handful of discarded barcodes and one of the hand scanners to the black bag before closing all the drawers and returning the bucket to where I found it. At first glance, the interior of the barn looks like it did before I got here. Hopefully, no one will look twice.

  Isaac’s directions about how to get to the edge of the farm were sketchy at best. Everything is still quiet when I step out of the barn. I fill up the water bottle at the pump and drink from it as I jog toward the trees in the distance, leaving the graveyard behind me.

  “Follow the road until it turns to the north,” Isaac told me. “There should be a dirt path through the fields nearby that you can follow east the rest of the way.”

  Easier said than done, since once I follow the gravel road over the hill, the trees and bushes stop, leaving the road exposed in every direction. One large golf cart like the one used to take me to the infirmary zooms along the road back in the direction I’m pretty sure I came from—one Instructor behind the wheel while another is perched in the back cab scanning the fields.

  I crouch behind a tree, wait for the cart to creep down the road, and just as I am about ready to get up spot another cart kicking up dust in the distance.

  Isaac’s plan for escape had been good up until now. But I don’t think he was counting on people patrolling the road in search of me. Following the road is definitely out. I need a plan B.

  I weave through the trees that line the top of the hill and stop every time a cart comes into sight—which is way too often. Voices yell from somewhere in the distance. I can’t tell what direction or how far away they are. The chances of someone seeing me in this uniform and wonderin
g what a lone Instructor is doing up here is going to get me in trouble sooner or later.

  Another golf cart—this one with just a driver—rattles down the road. I duck beneath a bushy pine and wait for it to roll out of sight. If I have to keep stopping every few minutes I will never make it out. I need to steer clear of this road. Or maybe, I think as I watch an Instructor steer a cart into an area next to a group of white and red buildings with solar-paneled roofs and a bunch of other parked cars—maybe I’m thinking about this hiding-from-the-Instructors thing all wrong.

  I can almost hear Isaac yelling at me not to do anything stupid. But he’s not the one who has to make it a dozen or more miles on cramping legs and blistered feet. Sweat drips down my neck and the backs of my knees as I walk at least another mile—hiding from Instructors while keeping the buildings and the line of carts parked next to a charging station in my sight.

  In a nearby field, I perch on my hands and knees in corn not quite as tall as my shoulders. The driver gets out, pulls a cable from the red-and-black charging station that resembles a smaller version of the gas stations the government says will be unnecessary in another twenty-five years. He attaches it to the cart he was driving. When a red light appears above the charging slot, the man unplugs a cart with a green light, hops in, and in seconds is sending up dust as he zooms away.

  The sky goes gray. My stomach grumbles so I slowly eat the packages of stale peanut butter crackers from my perch in the rustling corn as two more Instructors in golf carts repeat the same process. One goes into the small garage-size building while the other hooks up the cables and emerges not long after, wiping her hands on her navy-blue pants with the other shouting to hurry up. No one else comes out of either of the buildings.

  I slip the black leather strap of my bag over my neck and crawl farther forward between rows of corn as the sky dims. Night approaches, bringing with it darkness that will both conceal me from my pursuers and make it impossible for me to see what direction I’m going. If night arrives before I have found the dirt road Isaac said would lead me east, I will probably have a better chance of getting lost than leaving.

  When this next cart comes, I have to go.

  Finally, another appears. I wait for the driver to cycle through the routine. When he drives his exchanged cart down the road, I push to my feet. I grit my teeth as the edge of my shoe rubs against my raw heels, and walk across the dandelion-spotted carpet of grass toward the charging station and the four remaining carts.

  All the stations are marked by red lights. I head for the far side of the station and the two carts that were charging when I first arrived. I look at one charging station display, then turn to compare it to the next as the sound of tires on gravel hits me.

  Crap!

  I look at the nearest building. I might be able to make it to the door before the Instructor parks his vehicle. But what then? Running will be like a flashing neon sign telling him that something is wrong, if he hasn’t figured that out already. If my Dewey-created government ID allowed me to walk around Chicago in plain sight, I’m going to have to trust my Instructor uniform to help me do the same.

  I smooth my hair over my ear, and hope the last rays of light don’t provide enough illumination for him to see the streaks of dirt against the deep blue fabric of my uniform. As the Instructor steers toward the parking area, I walk with deliberate steps to the driver’s side of the cart and unhook the charging cable. The deeply tanned, curly-haired man behind the wheel of the approaching cart waves when he sees me glance his way. I raise my hand and gesture back, certain he has to see my hands tremble and how I almost drop the cable as I return it to the charging station.

  The cart kicks up stones and dust as it rolls by me. I open the door to my cart and throw my bag onto the passenger seat as the curly-haired man pulls into an empty space three cart-lengths away.

  “They’re all still charging?” the man asks as he cuts the motor and climbs out. A black riding crop hangs from a loop on his hip. A gun rests next to a blue and silver uniform cap on the fake tan leather of his cart’s passenger seat.

  I swallow and shrug as if this is typical. “Avoid the cart on the end,” I warn, sliding behind my cart’s steering wheel. “It’s going to take forever to charge.”

  Now, I wonder which of the two big black buttons turns the damn cart on? And do I need a key fob to make it work?

  I can feel the man’s eyes on me as I kill time deciding by adjusting the rearview mirror.

  “Drives me nuts,” the guy says as he strolls to the charging station for the charging cable. He plugs it into the cart with a weary sigh. “You’d think we’d get the fast-charge units since we are dealing with runaway traitors, although the way I see it . . .” He grabs his hat and gun off the seat of the cart, turns, taking me in. “The search is going to be finished any minute now.”

  When he smiles, I’m positive he knows who I am.

  Slowly, I ease my hand so it hovers near the button on the dash to the right of the wheel.

  “So what do you think?” he asks, taking a step closer.

  “About what?” I ask stupidly.

  “Well.” He edges closer. “If the subject is going to be taken in at any moment, no one would care if we kept each other company while the carts recharge.”

  Wait. What?

  I blink as I understand that he isn’t talking about taking me into custody. He’s hitting on me.

  Now what?

  “Sorry.” I punch what I hope is the start button. To my intense relief, the engine roars to life. “You’re going to have to recharge on your own,” I say with my cockiest smile as I pull the gearshift into reverse. “I have orders to follow.”

  Now I just have to hope I don’t back into a tree!

  Heart racing, I press down on the gas and spin the wheel. The cart jerks at an angle backward. The tires kick up gravel and I don’t wait for the cart to come to a stop before I shift again and shoot forward.

  “You’re a crap driver!” the guy shouts. No kidding, I think as I steer the cart down the center of the bumpy road, sending up bits of rock and dust in my wake. But crap driver or not, I’m making good time.

  I clutch the black plastic wheel and brave a glance over my shoulder in time to watch the man disappearing inside one of the buildings against the last gasp of dusk. Then with my eyes firmly on the road in front of me, I drive.

  Eighteen

  The farm’s green electric cart reminds me a lot of the bumper cars that Rose, Isaac, and I used to ride on when we were kids. No matter how hard I pushed the pedal to the floor, my car ambled along while the others zipped by or rammed me from behind.

  The sky turns more black than gray as I perch on the edge of my seat and urge the cart to go faster. I roll by long rows of corn that look like menacing lines of shadowy soldiers against the darkening of night. The glowing slice of moon and hundreds of stars shine impossibly bright against the velvet black sky, casting the only tantalizing hints of light. The dirt road Isaac said I should look for has to be close by, but I don’t know if I am going to be able to find it in the dark.

  Bright white headlights appear in the distance. I clutch the wheel tight as the lights grow larger. Finally, the other cart passes me. The driver yells, “Hey! Turn on your lights” as she zooms by.

  Turn on my lights? Yeah, even if I could find them, I’m not sure making it obvious this cart is on the road is a great idea. However, if I don’t find the dirt path I’m looking for before another cart passes, I might have to consider taking that chance.

  I hit a rock and ease off the accelerator when I almost veer off the road. I am just about to search for the headlight switch when I notice a small square on the dash has started to blink a warning red.

  The cart is almost out of power.

  I shove the hair fluttering in my face out of my eyes and squint into the almost completely fallen darkness in front of me for an opening between the rows of corn that is wider than the others.

  No.
r />   That’s not a road, either.

  Maybe there?

  Without knowing how much longer the cart will drive, I have to take a chance. I yank the wheel to the right and stomp down on the pedal. The cart leaps off the road through the tall grass and wildflowers and onto the dirt path between the rows of corn that is most definitely not the road I was searching for. The front of the cart smashes into the cornstalks and barrels forward.

  Stalks fly, slicing against my legs. The cart bounces and jerks and plows down the plants. I grip the wheel tighter and turn it back and forth, trying to keep the cart going in the same direction as the rows of corn. I’m leaving what might as well be a huge neon sign for the Instructors to follow with the line of destroyed corn behind me. If I’m lucky they won’t notice it until dawn.

  The right front wheel hits something hard, sending bits of stalks and dirt into my face. I close my eyes for just a second. When I open them there is no time to swerve as a dark shape stumbles out of the shadows. I can tell it’s a woman a second before the cart mows her down.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”

  The right side of the vehicle rises up and I’m certain it’s going to tip over. Thankfully, it doesn’t. The wheels return with a thud to the ground. The cart comes to a stop and I grab the black bag from the passenger seat and jump out of the cart into the shoulder-high corn. Stalks rustling and cracking, I cross to the front of the cart while fumbling to find the flashlight and almost trip on a pair of shoes. I flick the flashlight beam to low and suck in air at the sight of feet sticking out from between the two sets of wheels like something out of The Wizard of Oz.