The Slave Series

by Laura Frances

  Someone shouts Come on! and I find myself running after them. I look over my shoulder, and Aspen is running too, a few paces behind. The hall is congested, and soon we’re slowing down. We round a corner that will lead us to the Infirmary, but before we get there a door is flung open. Bright light spills into the hall. A warm breeze hits my face. It’s only when I’m stepping through the doorway that I realize this is an exterior door. My boots land in a puddle of rainwater. I stumble forward, moving from the door to make space for others to follow. My head whips around, my mouth gaping.

  The light around us is all encompassing, not the light of a flood lamp. It is everywhere…touching everything. Warm rain falls, washing the streets of the thick layers of grime. I tilt my head upward, holding up a hand to shield my eyes. The breath is sucked from my lungs.

  This is sunlight.

  This is sunlight.

  This…

  It is the thing I have always dreamed of. The impossible thing. The sky opens, and it is endlessly blue. A million times brighter than Edan’s eyes.

  The rain is letting up, and the light is growing brighter the longer I stand here. Around me, Workers have crowded into the street, tiptoeing over glass, necks arched like mine. Someone laughs. Someone else is sobbing.

  Me.

  I am sobbing.

  Because this is sunlight. Sunlight. It is a single thought, repeating itself in my stalled brain. I touch my palms to my forehead and smooth back my wet hair, letting the warmth seep into my skin. My eyes close, and I can still see the light through my eyelids.

  A laugh flops from my mouth, and I clasp a hand over it. It’s hard to forget old habits. It’s hard to remember that laughing is allowed; that I can be outside and express my emotions freely.

  That I can feel joy, and it isn’t a betrayal.

  I drop my hand. Aspen appears at my side, and her wide smile alone is worth the risk. I open my mouth, and laughter spills over. We bend at the waist, hands pressed to our knees, and laugh until our stomachs hurt.

  My smile falters. I wish my parents could see this. Tears fill my eyes again. I wish they were here to share this moment.

  Aspen throws her arms around my neck, laughing and jumping. I cannot mourn my parents right now. I cannot steal this moment from my friend. I grin, wiping my cheeks.

  All around us, the Workers are staring upward. Some weep; others laugh. There are some who do nothing but stand, eyes closed, arms slack. An old man leans into a wall of the factory, his hand pressed to his heart. He nods his head again and again, his eyelids squeezed tight. He has lived an entire lifetime in this darkness. My joy is nothing compared to whatever he is feeling.

  I look over the streets, at all the faces, and I’m suddenly struck by a new truth.

  These are my people. We are not just slaves. We belong somewhere.

  We belong. Together.

  21

  We’re crowded into the cafeteria, pressed tight, children on parents’ shoulders. Everyone is talking about the sun. I’m lost in listening to the chatter. This is the sound of the silent ones coming to life. It is the rattling of dead bones. Everything is changing, and the sun has set it in motion again. We can’t see it from this room, but the memory of it still burns in everyone’s eyes. The soldiers didn’t let us stay outside for long. We were quickly ushered indoors, but not before the men who were once Watchers took a moment to look toward the sky. I stared at them, watching their tilted heads; mesmerized by their smiles and laughter. I watched the way they gripped each other’s shoulders and nodded, faces serious—focused on a goal somewhere beyond the moment.

  I saw a heaviness behind their eyes; saw the years of torment that came with serving under the Council.

  Solomon stands on something at the front of the crowded cafeteria. I lift on my toes, barely able to see his face between heads.

  “My friends!” he begins, raising his hands. The room quiets. His voice booms off the walls. “What a gift we have been given today! I am glad, because this is the day that I will share with you information that has long been kept from your ears!”

  All around me, people are shifting, inching closer, casting curious glances at one another. I don’t know why I’m suddenly nervous. I wring my hands and look at my feet. How will they take it? How will they accept that they were abandoned? My face heats when someone looks my way. The look didn’t mean anything, but I feel like my thoughts are playing on a loud speaker.

  Solomon has been talking as I’ve been worrying, and the words are just flowing over his lips when I turn my attention back to him.

  “You are not slaves! You are prisoners! You belong to a great nation of the South, and my friends, they have determined to see you free!”

  I’m lost in the murmurs and gasps as Solomon continues to explain. I turn my head and catch sight of Cash, standing with his foot propped against a wall. I’ve come to understand his expressions as easily misread. This time, when I see his lowered eyebrows and tight jaw, I don’t feel a twinge of fear. I feel bolstered. His intensity means something else to me now. Something driven and determined. His eyes meet mine, and I smile. He nods once, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. I can tell that he’s been wanting this. He’s been waiting for Solomon to free the truth.

  “How do we not know these things?” A male voice cuts through the confusion. Solomon looks to his left. The people grow restless, and voices begin to rise.

  “Listen,” Solomon says, palms forward. “I don’t believe you are naive to the fact that the Council has manipulated you from your birth. You have been trained to live in fear of the Watchers. Fear of the guns. Fear of the mountains. That same fear kept your ancestors quiet.”

  “You are aware, more than anyone, that the Council orders executions at random. Some are sick, others are accused of crimes. My friends, this has been going on since the very beginning. Many were killed in the early years to weed out those who would not submit. Many of you have lost loved ones this way as well. Over the last century, your people have been trained to believe a lie. That you are meant for this life! Your self-worth has been diminished. Your history erased from your memories. But I am here today to awaken a truth in your hearts! You are not slaves! You are not alone in this world! You must join with our fellow soldiers and fight for the future that you have been robbed of!”

  The room erupts in a mixture of elation and panic. Solomon steps down and walks through the crowd, talking with groups and answering questions. My chest swells, so full I feel close to tears. I slide between bodies, making my way to the back of the room. Cash sees me coming and kicks off the wall. We stand together, watching and listening. I look around and spot Aspen in the crowd, her eyes wild.

  “Will it work?” I say.

  It is easy to be excited when Solomon’s words are still ringing in our ears. But what happens the next time the Council acts? We can’t know what they have planned.

  “That isn’t the point,” he says, shaking his head. “Whether it works or not, they know the truth.”

  I stare at him. Everything about Cash contradicts all the things I’ve grown up believing about Watchers. I can’t help myself. I stare until he catches me and says, “What?”

  He turns his body to face me, taking a step closer, forcing my neck to arch back to see his face. I swallow.

  “Nothing, I just…you surprise me. You keep surprising me.”

  Cash smiles. “Likewise.” He leans a shoulder to the wall, watching me while my face heats. I look away, because it’s easier than holding his gaze. Even while I watch the crowd, I can feel his eyes on me. I should say something back, maybe ask why. But nothing I think of seems like the right response. I stay quiet, my heart a drum. I don’t think I’ve done anything surprising. I panicked when they took me on a mission. I cry in showers and press my hands to my ears at night. I am a Worker to my core, and everything that Solomon said applies to me. I have been trained to live in fear. But I can’t deny the shifting. I can’t deny that I feel braver now than
I did yesterday. Maybe that’s what he means.

  Aspen appears at my side. Her green eyes are brilliant and alive. “Do you know what I just heard a guy say?” She breathes quick, too full of energy. “He said he would fight. He said that if this is true, that he would fight. A Worker!” She presses a palm to her forehead. “This is nuts.” She laughs.

  I look to Cash again. He stands so close to me that our arms brush, raising bumps over my skin.

  “I guess it’s working,” I say.

  We share a smile. Aspen bounds off into the crowd again. I realize I forgot something.

  “Thank you,” I say, shifting, looking to my feet. “For the boots.”

  Cash shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

  “Not to me,” I say, quieter than I meant. Cash studies me. His expression slips from contented to conflicted.

  After a few heartbeats, he looks away and says, “They’re just boots.”

  My chest squeezes.

  22

  Edan and I walk a dim hallway, somewhere near the center of the factory. We are nowhere near exterior windows, so the lighting here is yellow and artificial.

  I run a hand along the wall, and dust sits on my fingers when I pull them back. A lot of these doors are open, the rooms vacant and ransacked, the contents tossed onto the barricade around the edge of our little corner of the valley. Ahead, I hear noise—the muffled sounds of grunts and punches.

  We pass another doorway on our left. Inside, a dozen workers stand paired, throwing practice punches. In the corner, the soldiers have stacked tires and secured them so they hang from the ceiling. A shirtless man hits them repeatedly. We are almost beyond the doorway when I meet a pair of familiar brown eyes. Cash is in the back of the room, instructing a small teen boy on how to swing a punch. His gaze follows me for a few seconds before we pass out of view.

  “Will we be ready?” I say. “When they attack?” If what I saw in that room is any indication, the answer is no. Most of our manpower is made up of Workers. We aren’t used to acting defensively.

  Edan rubs the back of his neck. “We don’t have a choice,” he says. I can hear in his voice that he doubts it. I am dipping my head, already wearing defeat, when Edan stops and taps my chin. I catch a glimpse of his dog tags peeking from the collar of his coat. I wonder why he still wears those.

  “Don’t give up yet,” he says, smiling gently. Everything about Edan is kind, but somehow it doesn’t take away from his strength. When he smiles at me, I feel like everything will work out. When he smiles, I can forget for a moment that the likelihood of things working out is extremely low.

  “We have something they don’t,” he says.

  I can’t hide the doubt in my expression. “What could we possibly have?”

  “It’s like this,” Edan says, walking again, talking with his hands. “The Council are fighting for something they’ve had and lost. They are trying to reestablish order. Regain control. Most of these people are fighting for something they’ve never had. Never even seen. They’re fighting for something they’ve been denied under threat of punishment. It means more. And if they can get a picture of it in their heads, they’ll do anything for it.”

  “So you think because it means more, somehow our passion will be a match for their weaponry and aircraft?”

  “Not necessarily,” he replies. “But weaponry isn’t all that matters in conflict.”

  “Isn’t it?” I mutter.

  Edan touches my elbow. We stop.

  “No,” he says. “It isn’t. Sure, those things matter…a lot. And we’re really out-gunned. But don’t underestimate pure determination. Your people have been made aware of the truth. You’ve already been liberated. If you want to get out of here badly enough, you will. And we’ll help you. The Council isn’t going to gun us down. They need Workers.”

  “They have Workers. Thousands of them.”

  Edan shakes his head. “It isn’t their tactic. They’ll first manipulate. Terrorize. Those are the things they do best, but it’s to their disadvantage. We already know to expect it.”

  He presses his hands into his pockets and leans against the wall.

  “What did your ancestors do? How did they respond to being terrorized?”

  I lean next to him. I listen to the sounds of fists hitting tires and soldiers instructing slaves on how to defend themselves. It still doesn’t seem like enough. Our fists are no match for bombs and guns.

  “They didn’t do anything,” I say. “They didn’t—”

  I get it. That’s the difference. They didn’t do anything, for a hundred years. When the Council applied the pressure, the Workers bent to their will. But we won’t. We have the truth, and that has freed us from being slaves to their terror. We belong to the South. We matter to someone, and that changes everything.

  I push off the wall and return to the doorway of the room where the Workers are training. I see the lowered eyebrows, the gritted teeth. I see the sweat on their foreheads and backs, and I get it. I get it. It isn’t about learning to punch. Not exactly. It’s about building up the fight in our hearts. It’s about freeing our minds of the fear.

  “That’s what they think we’ll do,” I breathe. “If they scare us enough, we’ll lie down. We’ll give up.”

  Edan stands beside me. “They aren’t expecting much. You are all like children to them. You were persuaded to act out, now they will reprimand you. What they won’t expect is for you to follow through. But you have to.”

  “We have to,” I repeat. Small tremors touch my body, imagining what life would be if the majority of us quit, if we let them have us back. How much worse would things be? And what would happen to Edan if we lost? What would happen to Cash? All of the Watchers who deserted would likely be killed. And what about their families?

  We would go on, living as slaves. But they would all be dead.

  We walk in silence for a while.

  “How’s your sister?” I eventually ask.

  Edan’s expression falls. I touch his arm, and we stop. He sighs.

  “She’s a fighter. Stubborn, you know?” He grins, a sad attempt. “You remind me of her a little.”

  “How?” I say.

  “I don’t know what it is exactly,” Edan says, his grin widening, his eyes twinkling. “But you’re both so…emotional.”

  I shove him. “I’m not emotional.”

  “Okay.”

  I cross my arms.

  “Maybe emotional isn’t the right word.” Edan steps back, grinning against a laugh. “Temperamental, maybe?”

  “How am I temperamental?”

  He shrugs. “You’re moody.”

  “I am not.”

  “Okay.”

  I lunge at him and he jumps away, laughing. I can’t stop the grin that crosses my face. I shove his arm, and he pretends to fall into the wall.

  After a few seconds, the smiles falter, until we’re looking at each other, bearing each other’s sadness again. Edan drops his arm across my shoulders.

  “She’s a fighter,” he repeats. “Like you. You’d like her.”

  “I want to meet her,” I say.

  “Maybe you will.” Edan smiles. “When we get out of here.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Chloe.”

  I smile at him. “That’s a beautiful name.”

  “She’s a beautiful girl.”

  I peek up—see the faraway look in his eyes, the longing he feels for his family. He’s sacrificing so much to be here. They all are. I wonder if protecting me eases that longing a little. The weight of his arm on my shoulders feels different now. It feels like he’s doing what he can, and right now that means caring for me. If I had a brother, I think he would be something like Edan. I can imagine Chloe, a small girl with dark hair and blue eyes. She’s a piece of Edan’s heart that he’s helpless to protect.

  From where I sit, I can see his little hand falling out of the blanket. In his dreams, he must be running, because his legs twitch. I wonder
if he sees the Watchers. Maybe he is playing with his father.

  The father that is dead. According to a nurse, his mother is likely dead too.

  I rise from the chair and cover the toddler’s hand in the blanket again. It is cold in here, growing colder every day that we train and plan and bond. This little boy, the one I grabbed from the street, is a face I have avoided for the past two weeks. His loss reminds me of my own. I look at him, and I think of how much has been taken from us. The idea is to move forward, to not obsess about the past anymore but to find hope in our futures. But this little boy brings the ache back to the surface.

  I touch his hand, moving closer, then brush back his hair. A woman told me that he has yet to wake. He is breathing fine, heart strong…but he sleeps. I can’t decide if I’m glad he is unconscious for all of this, or sad. If he can avoid the trauma of all these experiences, then perhaps he is better off. But I feel like he is sleeping because there is nothing left for him in the waking world, and somehow he knows that. I try to rub the pain from my chest before it makes my eyes well.

  “Hey,” I whisper. I look over my shoulder. We are alone. “I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you. I wanted to, it’s just…”

  It’s just easier to avoid you.

  I stare at him for a long time. My eyes fall in and out of focus as I think over what his life will be if he does wake up. He is young. As he grows, the memory of his father will fade into nothing. I had eight years with my parents. I knew them well. But even for me, time has painted a haze over my childhood. I have to strain harder to draw up images of my father.

  This child will not remember. There is no one that can tell him about the parents he has lost. There is no one else. Their memories have died with them. I cover my mouth when a sob falls out, pressure tightening in my throat. They will be forgotten. They will not exist, even in a memory. Hot tears fall down my cheeks, off my chin. I scoop the child into my arms and sit again, careful with the thin tube attached to his hand. I rock him, pressing my lips to his temple.