Teddy handed him the bowl. "There are spoons over in the corner."
Bray looked around the battered hovel, finding a few pieces of grubby silverware on the side of the small hearth. He took one and slurped some of the soup into his mouth. It tasted mostly of water, but he caught the hint of some vegetables.
"Soup is a good way to stretch rations, when you need to. It will keep us going for the afternoon shift," Teddy said. "I would cook more, but they won't give us fresh supplies until next week."
Bray furrowed his brow. "I thought we each got our own food supply."
"The food is for the house. They'll give us a little more now that there are two of us, but we'll have to share until next week."
Bray felt a sting of anger as he realized he was using the man's meager stores. "Bastards," he muttered.
Teddy looked around, as if Bray might have invited a demon into their home. "Don't say that too loud," he warned. "They'll punish us both."
Bray didn't tempt fate twice. Looking out the open doorway, he saw a few people walking by, watching with interest. They were curious. He knew better than to trust anyone besides Kirby and Cullen. Lowering his voice, he asked Teddy about the guard's statement. "The guard mentioned your old roommate. What happened to him?"
Teddy stopped sipping abruptly, as if the soup had burned his tongue. "He was killed."
"What did he do?"
"He didn't work fast enough." Teddy's face went grim. "I'm hoping you will last longer than he did."
Chapter 40: William
"Our ancestors built some fascinating things," Amelia said, a wistful look in her eyes as she closed one of the books at which she and William had looked, a book filled with pictures of strange devices and miraculous buildings.
"They certainly did," William agreed. "The pictures are incredible."
"You'll get much better value in the books if you know the words that go along with the pictures. Soon, I'll teach you to read." Amelia stood, taking the top half of the book pile and handing the rest to William. "Will you help me put the books back?"
"Sure," he said, in the same agreeable tone he'd kept since the other day.
He took the pile of books and followed her, glancing around the room at the other Gifted, who studied quietly at the desks along the windows. Tolstoy and Rudyard were downstairs, as they often seemed to be.
As Amelia walked ahead of him, he heard the faint jangle of her keys in her pocket. He watched the folds of her robe, catching an outline of the key ring. He'd been paying special attention to everything—which keys she used, and which keys unlocked which doors.
More than once, he'd glanced cautiously at the pocket in her robe, wondering if he could sneak in and fish them out, tuck them into his pants. But too many things worked against him. She'd certainly feel it. Even if he could do it without her noticing, one of the other Gifted might see.
Even if he got the keys, then what?
As soon as she found the keys missing, Amelia would hunt for them. It wouldn't take long to figure out that the boy she'd been spending time with had acted on a foolish idea. And then he'd be punished, thrown into the same dark cell as his friends, or maybe pitched from one of the two balconies he'd seen downstairs.
That ruled out his second idea.
He had thought about ferreting away her keys and getting one or two of them off—maybe his room key, for starters. But she'd notice that, too.
Frustrations.
And so William continued playing his part, carrying the books next to Amelia as he listened to the tantalizing jingle coming from her pocket, singing a tune of freedom he wanted so badly.
Chapter 41: Bray
Machines.
Incredible ones.
Bray couldn't help his wonder as he peered at the devices through the doorways of the buildings on the city's eastern side, following Harold and a line of other Field Hands. Some of the machines were as large as Bray himself, comprised of various tubes and pieces of metal, and devices that looked like the belts people wore on their waists—looped in circles, wrapped around circular pieces of metal, or connected in other ways he couldn't see. Some looked as if they were attached to tables, with gadgets and metal devices atop their surfaces.
"That device is called a lathe," Harold explained as he pointed at one machine through a doorway. "They use it to work on wood."
Bray nodded as a few men and women veered from the path, taking their places inside the room, under the Head Guards' direction.
"The women work there, too?" Bray asked.
"No one is spared a day's labor," Harold said matter-of-factly.
Continuing, they passed another building with smaller, plentiful devices. Bray watched a few slaves take places in front of several machines attached to tables, with pedals at their feet. He saw large sheets of fabric draped inside the room.
"The sewing rooms," Harold said. "Our weavers produce clothes much faster than someone doing it by hand in the wild. It is a good source of trade."
"I understand," Bray said.
"You probably felt the heat of the glass houses in the beginning of the path," Harold said.
Bray nodded, recalling the intense swelter from inside those buildings.
"They are heating them up for the next round of production. They will cook our glassware, some windows, and some other things to trade."
Bray nodded, glancing over his shoulder at a few trolling guards, who were clearly listening.
Finally, they arrived at a building with no walls. Tall, wooden beams supported a raised ceiling, allowing some ventilation on what had turned into a scorching day. Far ahead of them, Kirby and Cullen veered into other, similar buildings, separated.
The building's open room had been arranged into three makeshift aisles. On the right of each aisle sat the wagons filled with the morning's harvested corn. On the left sat large, wooden bins with wheels, separated by groups of two.
"Let's hurry and find a spot," Harold said, heading down an aisle and toward the building's outskirts. "If you get a station by the edge, it's cooler."
Bray watched the other Field Hands take spots all around them, filling the aisles. Guards paced back and forth along the building's edges, supervising the Field Hands. Harold took an ear of corn from one of the wagons, demonstrating as he placed the corn on the side of his hip.
"This is the way I shuck it. Everyone has a different method. Grab the silks by the tassel at the top. Hold the layers of husk as you pull them down the middle, first one side, then the other. Then clean off the remaining silks, and break off the end." The man shucked the corn and pointed to a few bins on the other side of them. "That bin is for the cleaned corn. The other is for the husks and other parts which we feed to the animals, or compost."
Bray nodded, keeping a brisk pace as he worked on his corn. Teddy's warning from lunch loomed over him as he recalled the man's dead roommate. If he didn't keep up his speed, he'd be killed.
That thought made him think of Cullen.
Hopefully he kept his pace.
Chapter 42: Cullen
Cullen flinched as corn hit the bins all around him. He stared around him at the other workers. It seemed as if all of them were looking at him, waiting for him to mess up. His hands shook as he peeled. Every time he looked at a guard, they stared at him with waiting eyes. They wanted to beat him, like they'd done that first day, when they'd thrown him in that dark hole.
"You need to go faster," the man training him warned. "Or they'll pull you out of here."
Cullen nodded as corn thudded into a bin near him. Each noise reminded him of the echoes in the tunnels—the rats, waiting to gnaw his bones, or The Clickers, waiting to drag him away. The cell they'd stuck him in was worse. So much worse. So small, so dark. No way out. He could still smell the putrid filth of countless other rotting prisoners, forced into equal misery. If he stopped peeling, they'd throw him back there. Keep going. Keep going.
Peel.
Separate.
Toss.
Thud.
Cullen smeared some perspiration from his forehead, barely keeping hold of the corn between his slippery, sweat-covered fingers. The guards' stares bore into the side of his head. His ankle stung from the kick they'd given him this morning. Other parts of his body still ached from the beating they'd given him when they tossed him into the dark hole. The next time they threw him in, they told him he'd rot away forever. He'd die there.
I don't want to go back.
So small, so dark.
Peel.
Separate.
Toss.
Thud.
Chapter 43: Kirby
All around Kirby, men and women sweated through their clothing as they shucked corn. Kirby listened to some of the quiet conversation around her. Most spoke of children at home, or meals they would cook for the evening. Every so often, one of the Head Guards walked down the rows, making the conversations quieter. The Field Hands carefully avoided looking at the Head Guards, just as they had in the fields, but a few watched Kirby. Even a small break in routine could turn a monotonous day into a memorable one, and her entrance had been anything but quiet.
Jack seemed to take solace in his rhythm as he shucked. He reminded her of too many slaves in her homeland, who had fallen into a mindless routine, drowning their discontent by throwing themselves into their labor. They rose, they toiled, and they ate, but in all other respects, they were empty husks of corn, waiting for their jobs to consume them. She felt pity for these people, just as she felt pity for Jack.
But pity never got anyone anywhere.
Action did.
That thought made her think of Drew.
She snuck another glance around her, watching dirty hands work and mouths form empty, superficial conversation. It seemed as if everyone worked in tandem, keeping a speed that worked and from which they were afraid to break. All wore the same dirty clothes, sunburnt faces, and ruddy complexions. None wore any extra weight.
Her eyes were drawn to a skinny, disheveled man in the corner of the room, working quickly and quietly. Kirby's eyes passed over him before they returned. When she recognized him, Kirby fought to keep hold of her corn. Drew's cheekbones jutted out from his gaunt face. His eyes—once clear and blue—were sunken. Had she seen him in the wild, she might not have recognized him. A lump hit her throat as he looked up and met her eyes.
Drew was no ghost.
"What's going on?"
Movement yanked her attention elsewhere.
One of the Head Guards walked toward her aisle.
Not just any Head Guard.
Ollie.
A row of people turned their heads, avoiding his eyes. Kirby quickly put her focus on her work, but Ollie already had her in his sights. He strode with purpose, passing a few workers who quickly moved aside, sensing his anger.
Kirby clutched the half-shucked corn in her hand.
Thundering the last few steps, Ollie stopped in front of Kirby. Workers stiffened and froze. A last piece of corn hit the bottom of a bin. Jack took a nervous step away from Kirby.
Kirby slowly peeled the last few bits of silk from her corn, throwing it into the bin. Without pause, she picked up another piece, continuing to work while Ollie watched.
Ollie growled and got in her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," she said.
"You seem to be focused on everything but your work," Ollie spat. "Perhaps you aren't ready for the outside, after all."
"I am ready," she said, trying to keep her voice calm as she picked up another piece of corn.
"Perhaps you need another night in the long building. I can take you there, if you'd like."
Ollie looked from her face to her shirt, making no effort to disguise his lascivious thoughts.
She kept her face even as Ollie looked at her, but she didn't put down the corn. She shucked it, peeled back the husks, and tossed the remnants. She picked up another. The room around her was silent. She felt the scrutinizing gaze of every eye, every pair of idle hands. A few more guards sidled up behind Ollie, watching.
"Everything okay, Ollie?"
Ollie's lip curled. He wanted an excuse to use his ready fists, not that he needed one.
The room was a silent battlefield, waiting for an explosion.
A piece of corn dropped across the room.
That noise might as well have been a call for action.
Ollie bent, grabbed her bin, and flipped it. Corn rolled in every direction as a she and Jack leapt out of the way. The bin clattered to the floor, sending more corn astray. In a big, stomping motion, Ollie took another bin, grabbed the bottom, and threw it, spilling scraps over the floor. Cobs rolled under Kirby's boots as she avoided them. A few people covered their mouths, or stepped further back, their sunburnt faces paling with fear.
"Pick it up!" Ollie roared, glaring at both Kirby and Jack.
Kirby said nothing as she bent down, righted the bins, and quietly picked up the contents. Jack helped. Ollie watched them work, until his angry, laborious breaths grew quiet. "One more time, and you're both in the cell!"
Kirby met Jack's frightened eyes, promising herself that she would apologize to him later.
She finished her work without so much as a glance in Drew's direction.
Chapter 44: Kirby
Kirby stared out the doorway of the small, dirty house to which she'd been assigned. A baby's cry drew her attention behind her, where Esmeralda, the woman with whom she'd been told to live, stood, consoling a crying child. Esmeralda's face was pale. Her long, dark hair, was tangled in knots. She had the frazzled look of a new mother, running on too little sleep.
"Shhhh…stay put Fiona," the woman whispered, holding the fussy baby tight.
A bubbling noise drew Kirby's attention to a small hearth, where a pot spilled over a fire. Esmeralda cursed softly and prepared to tend to it, balancing a squirming Fiona on her shoulder.
"Let me help you," Kirby said, stepping in and using a glove to remove the pot from the fire.
Esmeralda looked grateful. "Thank you."
"What are you making?"
"Cornmeal," Esmeralda said. "They allow us to make it for the infants, in between meals. We will eat it later. It will be a little change from the bread you had at lunch, at least."
"It looks like the water is ready. Where is the cornmeal?" Kirby asked.
"Over there, in a pouch next to the bed." Esmeralda pointed it out with her elbow, while Kirby dug through some meager rations. Several pouches of the same size, seemingly measured, contained grain and oats. Next to them was a larger sack containing some vegetables and some rancid-smelling meat.
"If you use about a third of the pouch, we should have enough for later," Esmeralda instructed.
Kirby poured a third of the pouch into the water, set the pot back over the fire, and stirred.
"The eating utensils are over there." Esmeralda nodded at a pile of dishes and smaller spoons on the ground. "They are difficult to clean, but I do my best. It has been harder with Fiona."
Kirby nodded. She knew the difficulties of having children, though she never had one. "Is the baby's father here?"
"I am alone." Esmeralda blinked something from her eyes as she cleared her throat.
"I did not mean to pry," Kirby said.
"I do not fault you for it," Esmeralda said. Regaining her composure, she changed the subject. "I did not think you would survive your beatings. I saw what they did to you that first day, and this morning."
"It was not the first time," Kirby said bitterly, wanting to add that it wouldn't happen again, even though she couldn't promise that. Outside, some guards barked loud orders.
"I appreciate the help with the cornmeal," Esmeralda said, as Kirby stirred the pot some more. Pointing to Kirby's face, she said, "You still have some blood and dirt on you. I have more water in a flask by my bedroll, and some towels to clean up, if you would like."
"Thanks," Kirby said, taking her up on the offer an
d using the towels and water to wipe the stains on her face, some of which had sweated off from a long day of toiling in the sun.
"The guards can be ruthless," Esmeralda said with a sympathetic glance.
"I have known many like them," Kirby said, without elaborating. She wasn't stupid enough to trust a woman she just met.
Looking past Kirby and out into the courtyard, Esmeralda lowered her voice. "They were angry about what you did to them. Not all fight back the way you did when you were brought here."
Kirby thought of Ollie's black eye and the bruises on his cheeks. She tried to take some solace in the few punches she'd landed.
Perhaps reading the angry look on Kirby's face, Esmeralda said, "Do not tempt them. They will do much worse."
Kirby finished cleaning, returned to the cornmeal, and stirred it a last few times. "Where do you work?"
"In the machine shops, normally." Esmeralda bent down and handed Kirby a few wooden bowls. "I was granted some time with Fiona. When the time is up, some other women will watch her, while I go back to work." She seemed sad. "I will miss her during the day."
"I understand," Kirby said.
"If you prove your worth after a while, you might be given a skilled job, like I have. They aren't easy jobs, but they are a break from the fields."
Kirby paused as she listened. "What do you do in the machine shop?"
"I make whatever pieces of metal The Gifted tell us to," Esmeralda said. "Rudyard relays the instructions. The Head Guards supervise. Sometimes it takes a while to learn how to produce things in the manner they want. But they treat us a bit kinder, if we work well, and fast. Perhaps you will get a job there, too."
"Perhaps," Kirby said, her mind already stuck on escape.
Spooning out a portion of cornmeal, Kirby handed it to Esmeralda, who took it gratefully. She was about to dole out another portion when Esmeralda stopped her. Outside, some people started heading back down the paths. She saw a few ducking in doorways, but she couldn't see the courtyard from where she was, ten rows back.
The Ruins Book 3: A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World Page 17