The Slave Series

by Laura Frances

  The wind is wicked today. It wants to foil our plans by freezing my bones before I make it to the door. The shivering has started again, and I realize that somewhere back there I must have dropped the warming packet.

  Nervous energy builds in my stomach. By the time I enter through the glass doors of the factory, it is a full-blown ache all over me. I see the wall holding the map of the facility and the scanner just below. Dozens of Workers are filing into a line. Their faces are placid, but I can see the devastation they’re trying to hide. I join them, easing in behind an elderly man who wears a poorly-scrubbed blood stain behind his left shoulder. I see the way he flinches when he lifts an arm to scan his thumb, then walks away.

  I can’t help wondering if this revolution has done more harm than good. So many Workers are still trapped. There are more bodies here than at the southern edge. And they are battered and bloody. The sight of the old man brings up memories of Albert and Norma, and I feel their absence like a hole torn in my heart. I rub at my chest and step toward the scanner.

  My eyes drift upward. This is my one and only opportunity to check the map. I scan quickly and find a blue square on the far east side of the building, behind a red line that reads: Authorized Only. I’m lifting my thumb to the scanner, and I’m halfway there when I realize that if the techs are not ready, I will be caught. The Watchers—the bad ones—will drag me away, and they will have the right to decide my fate. After the uprising, I doubt they will show mercy.

  Two more inches. One more inch. A man behind me coughs, and my finger finds the cool glass surface.

  Runner-Lab appears on the screen. I press out a breath and step away from the wall.

  The halls are bright and sterile. When I reach the hall leading to the lab, my feet hesitate. A Watcher stands at the far end, by the door, a red line painted across the floor in front of it.

  Twenty minutes. I have twenty minutes before the plan is blown out of the water by my unauthorized thumb print.

  I keep my head low and my pace deliberate. Better to look like I belong. My heart rages. All of me is jelly and lead and solid ice. Each step feels obvious and clumsy, and I know that the Watcher is studying me. He’s reading my movements, and his suspicions are raised. He can see into my brain and see into my heart, and he knows what I’m thinking because Watchers are bad. They aren’t human.

  So I thought.

  I reach the door, and before I can second guess myself and give everything away, I press my thumb to the scanner. The Watcher is staring at me, holding a rifle in his gloved hands and flexing his fingers over the grip. Waiting for the error. Waiting for the alarm.

  He knows.

  The same words appear on the screen. Runner-Lab. The door clicks, and I exhale, pushing through.

  The room I enter is full of white coats and masks and elbow length gloves. Several eyes turn to me. These people are not Workers. They are formulating medicines and mixing chemicals. Steady hands raise droppers to clear, round dishes. Tubes carry blue and red and yellow liquids to vials, and educated eyes peer through microscopes. Machines hum, and others shake tubes. Words are scribbled on papers, and murmurs of discussions sit in the air. These aren’t Workers. I shouldn’t be here.

  14

  They’re all staring at me. Hands have stopped mid-movement, and eyes are narrowed. I’m not breathing. A blond woman—young, but older than me—steps toward me. She wears a white coat and protective gloves, which she slowly removes, one finger at a time.

  “Why are you here?” she demands, looking me up and down. I try not to squirm under her scrutiny. I’m opening my mouth, but no words are coming out. Her sharp eyebrow lifts so high, I think it will disappear into her hair.

  “I asked you a question,” she snaps, pushing out a hip and crossing her arms. I’m stammering and sweating. I’ve forgotten why I’m here. Why am I here? What could possibly have possessed me to come? This is beyond the red line, a restricted area that Workers never go.

  The woman straightens, flips her blond hair over a shoulder, and peeks back at a group crowded a few feet back. She smirks, her shoulders jumping in silent laughter. She looks back at me like I’m pathetic. And maybe I am, because I have no idea what I’m doing. Heat rises over my face. I take a step back.

  My eyes land on something yellow across the room. I can’t tell what the object is at this distance, but the color is enough to remind me of the plan. I reach into my pocket and feel the smooth paper that Solomon gave me. He promised me that these people would know what to do. I made him say it a dozen times. I look to the woman again. She’s just finished whispering something to a man nearby at a work station. He looks at me and laughs, shaking his head and turning back to his work.

  I pull the paper from my pocket. The woman’s eyes follow my movement, and for a second she looks uneasy. Then relieved. Then annoyed.

  “Well give it here,” she says, shaking her hand at me. I cross to her and set the paper on her smooth palm. The air surrounding her smells nauseatingly sweet. I step back, breathing through a crack between my lips.

  She examines the paper and grumbles something about this system being so archaic, then waves it at a young man, glaring at me.

  “Dickens, let’s go,” she barks. The man scurries across the room, takes the paper, and rushes off to collect the samples.

  Her eyes narrow.

  “I assume you know how this works,” she says. I nod. She taps her foot. She’s waiting for me to do something.

  “Gloves!” she barks, pointing at a small station near the door. She rolls her eyes, and I hurry to the station to slip on a pair of latex gloves. “And?” she says. I panic, looking around while my back is still turned. I see a box of medical masks. That has to be it. I secure one over my mouth and nose.

  When I turn back to the woman, the man is standing to her left, holding a small lidded box. Inside are six miniature glass jars filled with liquid. He holds it out to me.

  “I’ll be waiting,” the woman says coldly. “You have five minutes.”

  Five minutes. I have five minutes. But five minutes until what? It hits me. I have five minutes until she expects to hear from the other lab that they received the samples. My heart thumps. I walk to the man. He is short and round and wears a pair of black-rimmed glasses. When I reach for the box, he hesitates releasing it, and I look up. His eyes dart to the woman, who has lost interest. He looks back to me and moves his mouth so slightly, it takes me a second to realize he’s trying to say something. I narrow my eyes.

  Don’t lose it.

  I try not to let my face react, but it was a strange thing to say.

  We’ve been standing like this too long, and the woman is turning toward us again. I take the box from his hands as he’s mouthing it again.

  Don’t lose it! His eyes are wide beneath the lenses of his glasses.

  I can feel my heart in my fingers as I walk toward the door, forcing my legs to keep to a slow pace that won’t raise suspicion. The Watcher outside eyes me, glancing at the box in my hands. I keep my head down and walk the long hall at a pace so slow, so steady, it’s torture. I can feel his eyes studying each step I take, analyzing all my awkward movements.

  I turn the corner, only to realize that I’m lost. This is the part where I meet up with Edan, but I don’t see him anywhere. I don’t know where to walk, but I also can’t stop. I can’t be seen loitering in a hall. The cameras are watching me. The eyes behind the screens are determining if I am supposed to be here, and soon they’ll figure out that I’m not.

  I have four minutes until the woman is expecting a call. Five until they catch me.

  A hand grips my arm, and I’m yanked through a doorway, a second hand pressed over my mouth. My body goes rigid, and I’m straining against strong arms—too strong for me to do anything besides kick my legs. This room is dark and musty and smells like chemical cleaner.

  “Hannah,” Edan’s voice whispers near my ear, and I stop fighting him. He lets me go, and I stumble forward a step, cat
ching my breath. His hand grips my arm, steadying me.

  “The medicine,” he says. “Did you get it?”

  “It’s here.” In the darkness, I find his hand and push the box into it. I don’t want to hold it longer than I have to. There’s an undercurrent of panic sitting under my skin. I shouldn’t have done this. I shouldn’t have come.

  They know what I’ve done.

  I have three minutes.

  “Good. This is so, so good,” Edan is whispering. I hear him fumbling with the box, opening the lid, tinkering with the jars. “You did this, Hannah. I knew you could do it.”

  I yank off the mask and toss the latex gloves into the corner. Edan’s fingers find my arm, find my hand, and he gives me two jars.

  No, I’m thinking. No, no, no.

  “Put them in your jacket,” he says. “Hurry! That way, if one of us gets caught -”

  An alarm sounds in the hallway, and I jump. Three high pulses, a pause, another three pulses. Each high, tinny sound sends a current down my spine. I’m trembling, fumbling with the glass jars, pushing them into the pockets of my coat.

  “Crap. Listen, Hannah.” Edan grabs my shoulders. “This medicine is important. The most important thing right now. I want you to walk into the hall,” he says, shoving a bottle of cleaner into my hand. “And act confused. Do what they say. Keep your head down. Try to move toward the end of the hall.” He pushes me toward the door. “Cash is just outside that exit.”

  I spin around fast, knocking items off the shelf with my arm. “I can’t. Edan, I—”

  “Go!”

  He shoves me into the hall. The alarm is deafening on this side of the door. I stand confused for several seconds, clutching the bottle in my hands. Workers dart in every direction. Some of them give me strange looks, others push past me, slamming my shoulder with theirs. This is the chaos before the order. In one minute, all the Workers will be in their assigned corners of the factory, standing against the wall, waiting to be interrogated. That is what this alarm means. This is my one and only chance to escape, but I can’t move my feet and the walls—the walls are spinning. I realize that Edan is still waiting in the closet, waiting for me to move so he can exit. I force my feet forward in the direction he told me to go. I see the EXIT sign several yards ahead.

  A black figure is stalking toward me. I blink to clear my eyes. Tears are pooling. I grit my teeth. I will not cry. Not now. I blink again, and now I can see that the figure is Cash. He wears a look like hate, and his body is menacing. His feet stomp against the linoleum, right toward me. This hall has cleared. We are alone. No, I remember. Edan is behind that door. I meet Cash’s eyes. He doesn’t look like he’s here to save me. I freeze. Panic kicks in, sliding down my spine, rushing through my blood. I spin around and run. I’m slipping and stumbling, blind from tears.

  It’s Cash, I think. It’s Cash, you idiot. Cash, with the white feather tattoo and the heating packet.

  But Watchers are bad. That’s what my mother told me. That’s what my father said. Watchers do not save Workers. They are murderers and bullies.

  I trip, landing hard on a knee. I look over my shoulder. He’s running at me now. I rise into a run, and slam into a solid mass. A human mass.

  Hands are grabbing me, covering my mouth, and I’m lifted off the ground. I kick and fight, but whoever this is is too strong. He hoists me off the ground and soon I’m outside, the cold wind biting at my wet face.

  “Hannah!” Edan yells. But I am a million miles away. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. I scream into his hand.

  “We have to go! They’ll catch us here. Hannah! Listen to me. I’m letting go. Okay? I’m letting go.”

  His hand drops from my mouth, the other releasing me. I scramble to the wall and drag in gulps of air. He follows me, crouching. His hand finds mine.

  “We have to go,” he says, forcing a steady voice. “They are coming.”

  I nod and let him pull me from the ground. Cash stands off to the side, rubbing the back of his neck; running a hand down his mouth and chin. He shifts on his feet, and when Edan drags me into the shadows, Cash follows.

  He catches me watching him over my shoulder. When our eyes meet, something inside of me cracks. He wears a look like anger, but his eyes show embarrassment.

  He was trying to save me.

  We avoid the open streets, running next to the high walls of this dank alleyway. We have to jump over Outcast legs to keep to the shadows. Some of them are awake, and they watch us, giving nothing away. They look at us as though we are illusions, something their minds have conjured to ease the descent into death. I should be watching my step, but I can’t stop my neck from twisting to the side; can’t stop my eyes from finding theirs. I meet the empty gaze of a woman. Her eyelids are heavy, her lips thick and dry—hanging open like they’re stuck that way. When our eyes meet, it’s as though a switch flips, and she sees me. I am no longer in her mind. Her eyes flick to Edan, who is dragging me faster than I can walk. She sees Cash running behind us, and something clicks.

  Her voice is hoarse when it first tumbles past her lips. Barely loud enough to cut through the cold wind. But even after years of silence, our voices have a way of remembering. She coughs, swallows hard, and the second try raises the hairs on my neck.

  “Over here!” she shouts, lifting from the ground, balancing weakly on unsteady knees. “They are here!”

  I look back at her in horror, but Edan doesn’t stop. He pulls me forward, and I stumble, craning my neck to try and stop her.

  “Please!” I whisper. “You don’t understand!”

  But it’s too late. They’ve arrived. The Watchers appear in the alley, and shots are already flying through the air. Edan yanks me hard, pulling me around a corner as a bullet shatters brick near our heads.

  “Cash!” I shout. He didn’t follow us. I listen as the shots grow farther away, our breathless bodies propelling us through the narrowest alleys, the darkest corners. Edan’s grip on my hand is too tight. The bones of my fingers press into each other.

  “He’ll be fine,” Edan pants. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  But I heard the warning in Solomon’s voice the night we planned this. I heard him trying to persuade Cash not to go. I run, but I can’t stop looking over my shoulder, hoping that any second I’ll see him rounding a corner.

  We don’t slow down until we’ve crossed the barrier. Takeshi appears just as we’re reaching it. The Resistance guards stand alert when they see us running. As if commanded, at once all guns are aimed behind us, waiting for our pursuers to dare approach. Edan shoves me over the pile of machinery, matching my steps the second my foot lifts. When we’re over, we collapse against a wall. Edan slides to the ground, arms resting on his bent knees, catching his breath. Takeshi crouches, his hands running over his face. I stand and pace a five-foot stretch. The men guarding the barrier glance at me.

  “Where is he,” I gasp, my lungs overworked. “What if they caught—”

  “Here he comes.” It’s the same man from this morning. The one with his rifle aimed through a hole in the mess. He gestures with his head for me to look. I lean to peer through the scope.

  It’s Cash. He jogs toward the barrier without looking over his shoulder once. He knows the others have his back. My heart tries to calm, tries to slow down now that Cash is in sight. But another fear rises when I remember how I reacted in the factory. I remember his face, the embarrassment he wore, and now I want to hide away. I hurry to Edan’s side and slide to the ground beside him. He isn’t as big as Cash, but his form makes me feel hidden just the same.

  My heart thumps while we wait. I need to distract myself, or I will cry.

  “Why did the woman give us away?” I don’t understand it. She of all people should hold no loyalty to the Council.

  Edan releases a heavy breath, his lungs finally settling. “It’s different for the Outcasts,” he says. “For you, meals are a guarantee. The Council feeds you rations, shelters you, mends simple wounds. For
the Outcasts, they barter.”

  I turn and meet his gaze. “She wanted to earn something.”

  Edan nods. “She probably thought that telling them where we were would earn some kind of favor. Food. Maybe a blanket.” He shrugs. His eyes darken into something like sadness. “The truth is, she probably got caught in the crossfire.”

  She’s probably dead. It isn’t funny. It isn’t, and I feel a sob moving up my throat. But instead of crying, a stupid laugh flops from my mouth. I clamp a hand over it. Edan drops an arm over my shoulders, and we sit this way until movement draws our eyes to the barrier.

  Cash appears over the top. When he looks at me, I look at the ground.

  15

  I sit in the brick-walled room, head down, hands folded neatly in my lap. The men discuss the mission in low voices, but I have tuned them out. I catch small pieces, like too easy and we’ll know soon. They grip each other’s shoulders and slap each other’s backs. I am invisible for the moment. I glare at the edge of the table, replaying those last minutes in the factory. I can’t shake the embarrassment. I can feel the red of my cheeks.

  I want to go to bed—to bury my face under a blanket and hide.

  “Was anyone injured?” Solomon’s voice breaks through my thoughts. I feel a twinge of pain on my shin but stay silent. Murmurs reach my ears, Edan and Takeshi saying no.

  “Hannah.”

  My eyes flick to the corner, where Cash sits. He leans forward, elbows pressed to his knees. He stares at his hands. The rest of the room looks to me.

  “Are you injured, dear?” Solomon circles the table and sits beside me. I straighten in my chair, eyes on Cash.

  “I’m fine,” I mutter.

  “Left leg. On her shin.”

  I narrow my eyes, but he wouldn’t know that because he’s still staring at his hands, telling them my business.

  “I said I’m fine,” I snap, and this time he catches the inflection. His eyes lift to mine. Two seconds tick by, then he looks away again. I shouldn’t have snapped. It’s my fault there is this tension between us.