The Slave Series

by Laura Frances

  Now I sit on the floor, my back pressed to the wall of a dim hallway, drinking water from a plastic bottle and eating beans from a can. All around me, muddy, rain-soaked Workers eat and sleep and whimper into their knees. There are some who refuse the food, glaring at the wall, eyes lit with anger. I’ve never seen such expression on other Workers, and it fascinates me. My first thought is that I wish I could talk to them. Then I realize that I probably can, if Edan is telling me the truth. Once this stops feeling like a dream, maybe I will.

  A man walks in, followed by four others. He introduces himself as Solomon. He wears a trimmed, gray beard and a green, knit hat shoved over his head. His frame is thin, but healthy. I can see strength in his forearms, where the sleeves are pushed to his elbows.

  “I know this is scary,” he says, his voice deep and tired. “I know you woke up terrified and now you’re here. Just know that tonight you are safe, and tomorrow you’ll understand things better. You’ve been through a lot. Let’s get you to bed.”

  Everyone stands in unison, because that sounds like orders to a frightened group of Workers. A flash of surprise crosses Solomon’s face, but soon he’s leading us down another hall. I think they want us to relax, but it’s hard with a man in black fatigues walking just to my right. Another walks a few paces ahead, next to Solomon. We walk in silence, with Solomon occasionally glancing back to throw us reassuring smiles. I think he doesn’t know how to act either. I’d like to know why he’s helping us.

  A little girl, maybe six, pushes through the crowd and walks between me and the Watcher. I notice heads turning, nervous glances, and I consider gently nudging her back into her original spot. Before I can, she says,

  “Hi.” She stares unabashedly upward, at the Watcher. From the corner of my eye, I see a flash of blond as the man looks down at the small girl.

  Don’t look them in the eye, I can hear my mother warn.

  “Hello,” he says tersely. His voice sends a nervous current through my chest. I wasn’t expecting a response. His voice is deep and quiet. My insides squeeze. I’m silently begging her to leave him alone.

  “Are you my friend?” She continues her stare, her face calm and curious. He is silent for five agonizing seconds. Nothing but the sounds of coughing and shuffling feet and murmured conversation. My heart thumps hard. It’s a simple question, but no doubt one he never expected to be asked.

  “Seems that way,” he says.

  Seems that way?

  He could have come up with something more sincere, if he wants us to believe he’s not going to kill us in our sleep or alert the Council to our whereabouts—as if they don’t already know.

  My mother used to tell me that my curiosity would get me killed.

  It’s okay to be curious at home, she would say. But never outside our unit.

  But I’m too curious to keep my eyes straight ahead. His reply was so curt that I have to see his face. I peek over, only to have my eyes drawn upward, because he’s a foot taller than me—taller than Edan by several inches. He stares ahead, jaw tight, a tattoo hidden behind his ear—a single, white feather. He sees my movement, and for a second his eyes flicker to mine. I get a flash of golden brown. Instinctively, I look away.

  The little girl is quiet the rest of the walk, but she stays by the blond’s side. Her parents must not be here. They wouldn’t allow her to bother him. That, or they’re too afraid to engage.

  We are led through doors that open into another large room that has also been cleared of equipment. The work that has been done to accommodate hundreds of Workers has me wondering just how long they’ve been in control of this factory. In place of sewing machines and cutting tables and rolls of fabric are rows of mattresses laid out with just enough room to walk. Along the far wall opposite the entrance are the doors to the men’s and women’s bathrooms. Large, bowl shaped light fixtures hang from the ceiling, and long skylights cut between them. All I’m looking at are the mattresses. Every joint and muscle that makes up my body is screaming to be lying on one. I’ve only ever slept on a cot, with paper thin fabric and sharp springs pressing through.

  “The showers are through those doors.” Solomon points in the direction of the bathrooms. “We’ve been able to turn up the water temperature temporarily, so be careful turning it on. I can’t promise hot showers tomorrow or the next day, but tonight, they’re our gift to you.”

  A collective inhale. Our showers are always cold.

  “As for the mattresses, let’s just say we’ve gained control of several factories. Enjoy them! We’ve also secured extra clothing, so you will all be provided something dry to sleep in.”

  Some gasp, others cry, while boxes marked pants and shirts and underwear are carried in. I stand with my mouth gaping, my thoughts tumbling over one another. My world is expanding too fast and it all feels too sensational to be real. Which makes me question all of it.

  “There are two more factories in this immediate area housing Workers,” Solomon says. “The residents of this part of the valley. Soon you will be united with them, but for now, get some rest. You are safe here.”

  He leaves, but the men who look like Watchers stay. I turn back to the room as others slowly move toward the bathroom or collapse on mattresses in their wet clothes. The exhaustion hits, and I sway a little when my eyes close. I have to open them too wide to keep from falling over. Large hands enter my line of vision, holding a stack of clothes. I look up and see it’s the blond. He looks angry—his eyebrows low, lips pressed tight. His eyes skirt mine, only connecting for brief seconds. I look down and see my rain-soaked clothes and the blood of the little boy, and I can’t deny the gift, even if it would only seem he was our friend.

  I think I forget to thank him, but a second later he quietly says You’re welcome, and I get the vague feeling that I did say the words. I’m too tired to remember. He shifts uncomfortably in his black combat boots before turning again to his duties. I stare at the clothes for several seconds before realizing what I’m doing. I follow the crowd to the bathrooms.

  Some women have taken to stripping down right in the middle of everything, and I can’t say I blame them. With mattresses waiting just a few feet away in the other room, I’m desperate to change. But there’s a lump in my throat, and my stomach is churning. I need a minute alone. I wait anxiously for a stall, listening to the sobbing and coughing and hesitant conversations around me.

  A woman exits a stall in clean clothes, her face streaked with tear stains. Our eyes meet for a second as she passes. I hurry past her and shut the door in time to fall to my knees in front of the toilet bowl and throw up. Wiping my mouth on my damp sleeve, I lean against the wall and press a palm to my eyes. My mouth opens in a strangled sob, and I clamp my hand over it. The next sob lodges in my throat and I can’t, I can’t, I can’t breathe. This shouldn’t be happening. None of it feels real. Except, I can hear the weeping outside this stall. Women console wailing children, and somewhere in the other room, a man is sobbing for someone, calling out her name. Sarah.

  This is the revolution, Edan said. But the words still sound foolish to me. We’re still in the valley, and the Council controls every inch of it. If we’re safe tonight, it’s because they are allowing it. And I don’t want to know why.

  I wipe my face and peel the wet clothes from my chapped skin. The clothing the blond gave me is warm and soft. A pair of pale blue pants and a gray t-shirt made of light material. Their touch is like feathers on my skin. They make me feel bare, though I’m fully covered. I wash my face at the sink, splashing cold water over my swollen eyes. I don’t attempt to hide that I’ve been crying. I don’t see any point in pretending. I look around and see the same story written on all the faces. Red noses and puffy eyes and tears leaking, while traumatized mothers and daughters and grandmothers clean their bodies and change. I pull my knotted hair from the rubber band and drape it over my shoulder. My fingers work the knots at the ends while my eyes stare empty at the wall above the sink. Steam from hot showers mak
es the air thick. I consider waiting to try one, but my legs are shaking beneath me. After a deep inhale and a slow breath out, I leave the washroom to find a place to sleep.

  7

  I’m lying on my back, and I haven’t bothered with the blanket folded at the end. My arms out. My legs extended. I stare at the ceiling where the lamps hang, still on. The air smells like damp boots. People are still walking around the room, passing by me, almost stepping on my fingers that dangle over the edges of the mattress. I inhale slow through my nose, then push out the air until there’s nothing left. I wait, letting my lungs stay deflated in my chest. I lie motionless, a breathless form. I wait for the bombs that will level us. I wait for the gunshots and the fire and the screaming. I wait…because it’s coming. They haven’t lost us. They know where we are. And here we sleep, gathered in a room together—an easy target. If I look at the skylights too long, I see faces that aren’t there…fingers prying the glass…

  My heart pumps too hard, and I gasp, filling my lungs to ease the burn. Turning to my side, I watch the others. Some are already asleep. Mothers rock children, and fathers rock weeping mothers, and no one got out without a scratch. Everyone wears faces like lost children, the panic waiting just below the surface. There are too many questions to be asked. I don’t know how I’ll sleep.

  An hour later, the room is quiet. The lights are down, but small lamps serve as guides for anyone still moving around. I tiptoe past arms and legs to find the bathroom empty. For a while I stand in the quiet, listening to the dripping. I’m still waiting, because I know this isn’t it. This can’t be it. I’m like a finger tapping on a table, an anxious twitch, ready to run.

  My feet hurt. I look down and see burst blisters and missing toenails. Maybe the blond ex-Watcher knows where I can get a pair of new boots. Combat boots. He is our friend now—it would seem. A hysterical laugh catches in my throat. This whole thing is a joke.

  The shower knob squeals when I turn it. I’ve chosen the shower stall in the farthest corner of the room, with a colorless, plastic curtain as a door. The water sprays out cold at first, and I’m instantly shivering. I realize with a sigh that I’m wearing my new clothes, and now they’re soaking wet. I turn the second knob, and the water slowly warms. Goosebumps rise over my skin, and I’m shuddering, learning this new sensation of warm water over my arms and legs and back. Steam is billowing in clouds, and I’m breathing it in—greedy.

  But soon it is all too much. The warmth and the clothes. Solomon and the Watchers and the pain medicine. I’m shaking my head and pushing my palms into the cement shower wall. I want to see Norma and Albert. My face twists into something ugly and I’m sobbing, letting the grief finally win. I grab at my clothes, grab at my chest, but I can’t make the ache go away. I huddle on the floor, my face in my hands, and the water tries to clean away my sadness.

  But it isn’t working.

  My eyelids part slow; small slits at first, then wider when I see her staring at me.

  “Did you sleep here?”

  She has red hair, green eyes, and a bandage covering the left side of her face, near her temple. I shift, and twinges of pain shoot through my back. Groaning, I scrunch my face. I’m still huddled on the floor of the shower stall in damp sleeping clothes. The floor is wet around me, but I must have turned off the water sometime in the night.

  “Oh my gosh. You did, didn’t you? You do know there are mattresses— “She points a thumb over her shoulder. “—just out there.”

  She offers me a hand up, and I’m wobbling on my feet, rubbing the small of my back.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “You bet.”

  She stares at me like I’m crazy: an eyebrow up, arms crossed.

  “I’m Aspen.”

  “Hannah.”

  We walk toward the sinks. Thankfully the mirrors aren’t clean in this factory either. I’d rather not look in one for the first time at this moment.

  “Isn’t this insane?” she says, filling her hands with water and splashing it on the right side of her face. She carefully spreads it to the left, avoiding the bandage.

  I nod. I remember last night with Edan, when that’s all I could do. I need to think of something to say.

  “Are you hurt?” I ask without looking. I run water over my hands, rubbing soap into the creases of my knuckles.

  “Oh…this?” she says. She waves it off, like it’s nothing. “I fell into a wall. Knocked me out. I woke up here.”

  I stare at her. She matches my stare for a moment, then drops her gaze. “Others have it worse,” is all she whispers. I leave it there.

  “Do you know what time it is?” I ask after a pause. I don’t care about the time. I just need to fill the silence.

  “Maybe ten?” she says, shrugging. “They’ve called a meeting. Should be starting soon, actually.”

  “Ten?” I’ve slept four hours past the time I usually leave for work. I feel like the Council really is hunting me now because I didn’t show up. Now I have done something wrong.

  “Tell me about it,” Aspen mumbles.

  We dig through the bins and find clothes. I change into black sweat pants and a gray, short sleeved t-shirt. Digging through a third bin, I find socks before pulling on my boots. I return to my mattress just as Solomon is walking in, followed by men who must have been Watchers. One of them has blond hair and a scowl. I notice his boots, though his outfit has changed to something more civilian, and I smile dryly. I still need to ask him where I can get some of those. A few feet to blond’s left is Edan. The sight of him brings a pang of familiarity, though it shouldn’t. He catches my gaze and starts toward me.

  “Did you get some rest?” he asks once he’s standing a few feet from us. Dog tags hang from his neck, and his hair is tidier, though his bangs still fall past his eyebrows.

  “She slept in the shower,” Aspen blurts. I throw her a look, and she shrugs a shoulder.

  Edan looks between us. “Is she serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  It annoys me that I’m feeling ashamed. I’m too used to treading carefully, to obsessing over keeping out of trouble. I feel like I’ve done something wrong. Edan takes another step toward me.

  “Are you okay?” he asks quietly. His voice holds the same sincerity that it did last night.

  “I’m fine,” I lie, taking a small step backward. Edan takes too long to accept my answer, and I’m fidgeting and shifting. He can probably see what I didn’t because there are no clean mirrors. I’m guessing dark shadows under red-rimmed eyes and matted hair. Now I’m self-conscious.

  “This is Aspen,” I say, diverting his stare. He gives her a smile and nods.

  “I’m Edan.”

  Aspen smiles back, just a little. There is caution in her eyes. Her face changes from calm to apprehension—her eyes a little too wide. She is young, I realize. Maybe fifteen.

  Edan looks back to me. “I never caught your name.”

  “Right,” I say. “You were too busy saving us.” My cheeks heat, and that annoys me too. “Hannah.”

  “Hannah,” he repeats, smiling. I like the way he smiles—kind of crooked. “Good to know you, Hannah.”

  I should say something. Yeah, you too. Nice to meet you as well. But I’m no good at this. I doubt any of us are. My face is warm, and my eyes water. I don’t breathe out until he’s walking back toward Solomon. Aspen and I lean against a wall.

  “Friends!” Solomon’s voice fills the room, and all heads turn toward him. “I know you have many questions. I want to start by telling you how deeply sorry I am for the loss of so many of your friends and family. It was our desire to get you all out safely. If there is any consolation, it is in knowing that a larger number of you have survived.”

  Whispers drift on the air. A woman near me chokes on a sob. A child has been crying since Solomon and the other men entered the room. I stare at a point on the floor and bite my lip. His words don’t mean anything to the Workers who are now alone in this hell hole—once the Counci
l takes us again.

  “Let us now talk about the future!” Solomon continues, clapping his hands together and smiling widely. “Because your future is no longer bound to this valley. Your future is out there! Beyond the mountains!”

  Silence—probably not the reaction he was looking for. The Workers eye one another.

  Solomon clears his throat and lowers his voice, softening his approach. “I would like to open things up. You must have a million questions. First, let me introduce to you some of the men who have sacrificed their own safety to bring you to us.” He gestures to the men at his right.

  Edan is among them. The blond’s name is Cash. All the men look tired and bruised.

  “As you may have guessed, they were Watchers. But I give you my word, they are your friends. They have given up everything to bring you this far, and they are committed to seeing this through.”

  “See what through?” A man’s voice rises above the murmurs.

  Solomon finds the man in the crowd and fixes on him. I follow his gaze to a man in his forties, with a woman clinging to his side. His face is bruised. His eyes challenge Solomon.

  “Your freedom,” Solomon says simply.

  The energy in the room grows. A candle lit in the darkness. All life scrambling toward its warmth. Desperate. Hopeful. Mostly desperate. Aspen kicks off the wall beside me, and she’s staring at Solomon—wide eyed.

  We’re still in the valley! is what I scream in my head, though even I can’t deny the ache blossoming in my chest. Hope is bubbling up, rising out of the dusty corners of my heart. It’s a tiny voice in the back of my head, screaming from behind closed bars. But the voice of reason is louder and more experienced. It tells me these people will get us killed. My eyes shift to Edan and he’s watching me. I look away; stare at the floor; try to smile when Aspen turns to me. The room is building into a frenzy, and Solomon is shaking hands and gripping shoulders. All I want is to go home. I try to feel what everyone else is, but I can’t.