by G. P. Ching
“Can’t find nothing,” one of them says.
The other three emerge from the cornfield, shaking their heads. “Clean.”
Reynolds shrugs. “Sorry to bother you folks.”
He turns on his heel to leave. It’s all been a misunderstanding. Everything is resolved. But when the one called Stanley walks past me to get to the door, the machine on his hip goes haywire. The alert is loud and all four men turn toward me.
Reynolds grabs the wand from his colleague’s hand, running it up and around my body. The beeping alarm hastens near my head and hands, the gauges on the box a flurry of spiking needles.
“What the f—” Reynolds murmurs, then composes himself. “Identify yourself,” he barks in my face.
“I’m Lydia.”
“Last name.”
“Lane,” Caleb blurts. “Lydia Lane.” Opening the drawer in the end table that supports the offending lamp, he removes a black leather square. He walks toward me, flipping the wallet open so that I can see the inside. My picture is next to the words Lydia Lane. This must be my English identity. He presses it into my hand, speaking volumes with the way his eyes tighten at the corners and his hand squeezes mine.
I wonder where the picture came from, especially considering I’m not wearing my kapp in it.
Reynolds removes a silver cuff from his belt and takes a step in my direction. “Lydia Lane, you are suspected of scamping. As such, you are required by law to accompany me to the nearest detention center—”
“What do you mean, she has to accompany you?” Jeremiah interrupts. Too fast, he moves for the officer, his chest out, his arms raised.
Reynolds reaches for the box on his hip, which I’m sure is some kind of weapon.
I shake my head. My heart skips in my chest. No! Don’t make it worse. Thankfully, Caleb grabs Jeremiah’s shoulder and holds him back. “Calm down, man. Everything’s going to be okay,” he says.
I’m relieved when Jeremiah seems to listen.
“You’re carrying a charge,” Reynolds accuses me.
“She was electrocuted,” Caleb says. “The lamp—”
“I heard you the first time. Unfortunately, that story doesn’t jive with the volts she’s registering.” Reynolds smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say.
“Okay, listen. That’s your story. I hear you. But the sooner we can get you back to headquarters, the sooner we can prove that’s true,” Reynolds replies.
“I’ll go with you,” Jeremiah says to me, but Reynolds holds up his hand.
“Sorry, she needs to come alone. It’s policy. Like I said, if everyone cooperates, she’ll be back in a few hours. But she’s carrying a charge, which means she has to be scanned for storage devices before you all can be cleared.”
The edges of my mouth turn downward. The last thing I want is to get Caleb and Hannah in trouble with the authorities my first day here, and for something that is potentially my fault. Hannah said wool caused static electricity. If I hadn’t been wearing the wool or standing so close to the lamp, maybe none of this would’ve happened.
“It’s okay. I’ll go,” I say quietly.
“But—” Jeremiah starts.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I don’t have any storage devices inside me. They’ll scan me and I’ll be back. It’s a minor inconvenience.”
“Smart girl,” Reynolds says. He snaps a silver cuff around my wrist.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“This is a containment cuff. Be aware that if at any time you try to escape, this cuff will be activated remotely and emit a debilitating pulse. A GPS inside the device will notify us of your location. Understood?”
I gasp, feeling threatened but nodding my head dutifully.
“Where will you be taking her?” Jeremiah asks.
“Crater City Government Energy Facility,” he says. “Come along. The quicker we get this over with, the better it will be for everyone involved.”
I can’t argue with his logic. I allow the officer to lead me to the squad car by the elbow. Before lowering into the backseat, I glimpse Jeremiah, Hannah, and Caleb huddled together on the porch, staring at me. Jeremiah’s face is contorted with worry, but Hannah’s and Caleb’s expressions are much worse. Their entire bodies are in on the frown, as if someone just died. As if this is the worst thing that could ever happen.
5
All my life, I’ve wondered what it would be like to ride in a car. I’ve seen them when Bradford Adams or Doc Nelson visited Hemlock Hollow, but I’ve never been inside one. Would it be exciting, like galloping on a horse or falling from the haymow?
In Officer Reynolds’s vehicle, behind the protective plastic that separates the front from the back, I don’t feel excited. I feel claustrophobic, like the doors are collapsing in on me.
The other Green Officers drive away while Reynolds punches letters and numbers into a screen on the dashboard. Is he entering information about me or where we are going? The engine rumbles to life, much quieter than the Adamses’ car, but then this one looks newer. Instead of a wheel, Reynolds uses a stick with a knob to guide the vehicle as we back from the driveway and gain speed. It’s not unlike our buggy but faster, much faster. The rush of scenery beyond the window makes my head swim and my stomach turn over. I press my fingers over my lips.
“I’ll never understand how you people live offline. But then, you’re probably used to this in Willow’s Province,” Reynolds says, bouncing in his seat and making adjustments to keep us on the uneven pavement. The road here is riddled with potholes. Debris pings against the car and windows. An especially large bump knocks me against the car door.
I lean across the seat and vomit my fast food onto the floor mat.
“Hey! Aww, hell!” Officer Reynolds glances over his shoulder. He presses a button, and the plastic divider stows itself in the seat back. With his free hand, he digs into a compartment in the dash and hands me a towel.
“Thank you,” I say. The material is strange with fibers that grip my skin. I rub it between my fingers before wiping my mouth with it. “My head is spinning.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you get carsick?” Looking annoyed, Reynolds presses a button to his left.
My window lowers half an inch, and a breeze chills the sweat on my forehead. The rush of air sweeps away the smell of sick, and I mop up the mess as best I can. “I’m sorry,” I say. “It must be from the electrocution.”
He squints at me skeptically. “A few more miles to the grid. Just leave those on the floor for now.”
I lean against the seat and close my eyes. Eventually, the jostling becomes more sporadic and the scattering gravel gives way to a smooth hum. The car jerks one last time and then I don’t hear the wheels anymore. I open my eyes. Out the window, cars of all shapes and sizes whiz by us, hovering over narrow strips of steel rather than full stretches of pavement. To be sure, there is a road far below us, the kind I am familiar with, but up here in “the grid” as he calls it, layers of traffic speed high above the earth. Even I know cars can’t actually fly. It’s an illusion only diminished by the occasional glimpse of the silver mesh that I assume supports whatever technology holds us to the grid. The roads merge and separate at such high speeds, I have to wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. Above and below us, hundreds of vehicles are nothing but colorful blurs and flashes of light.
“This was not in the book,” I mumble to myself.
“What’s that?” Reynolds asks.
“I’m feeling better,” I say to him.
“Good.” Reynolds types something else into the keypad on the dash and grabs a fresh rag before turning his seat all the way around. I have no idea how the car drives itself, but I don’t dare ask. He leans over the divider to collect the rag I’ve left on the floor, wrapping it inside his own.
“Normally I wouldn’t risk lowering the divider, but something tells me you’re not the violent sort.” He laughs a little, eyes darting ove
r my slight frame. A strange defensiveness tugs at me, but I dismiss it.
“I’m not violent. I’ve done nothing wrong,” I say.
“If you’re telling the truth, we’ll know soon enough.” He disposes of the dirty towels in a receptacle in the passenger side door. “Problem is, little girls like you tend to get taken advantage of. A boy will come along and pressure them into doing something they know is wrong. Who can blame them for giving in? Maybe they’re hungry. Maybe they want to help their family.” He gives me a knowing look.
I stare back, blankly.
“Hmm,” he grunts. We ride in silence until the car slows, merging with a full-sized stretch of pavement as we enter a city of silver towers. Officer Reynolds takes the control stick again and stops the car in front of the largest building I’ve ever seen. Glass, steel, and concrete climb toward the sky and disappear into the clouds. My door won’t open from the inside, so I wait as Reynolds exits the vehicle and walks around to open it for me.
“What is this place?” I ask, staring straight up at the endless column of mirrored windows. The entire street is lined with these tall steel monoliths.
“The Crater City Government Energy Facility, CGEF.”
“This place controls all of the energy for the entire city?” I ask.
He looks at me strangely. “City? As the capital of The Green Republic, this is the headquarters for our nation. The entire country’s power supply is controlled by the people in this building. I’m surprised you haven’t had the tour. Usually, they parade all the kids from the area through by the third grade.”
I rummage through my brain for a suitable response. “I was homeschooled,” I say. It isn’t a complete lie. Amish stop going to school after eighth grade so they can learn a trade for Hemlock Hollow. For the last three years, I’ve trained as a seamstress with Martha Samuels. It is a type of homeschooling.
Officer Reynolds shoots me a sideways glance. “Homeschooled?” He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “I guess Willow’s Province does things their own way.” He points toward two glass panels and moves behind me as I walk toward them. I try not to startle as the doors open for me and a vast atrium of polished white floors and silver furniture greets me with a blast of cool air. A woman with hair so blond it has a lavender tint, smiles at Officer Reynolds. He flashes his badge. She nods. Two green-uniformed security guards stand behind her desk, bored-looking expressions on their faces. They barely acknowledge us as Reynolds leads me to a set of shiny metal doors and pushes a round button on the wall.
We enter a small room when the doors open. An elevator! We learn about these in school, but it’s my first time in one. He pushes a button labeled 3. I’m disappointed when I can’t tell if we are moving. I assume we are because Reynolds stands back with his arms folded, staring at the doors.
“Lydia, I’m going to be honest with you, since you seem like a nice girl. There’ve been a couple of scampers in the past who’ve tried to hide storage devices inside their bodies. They put off numbers like you. If you’ve done something like that, tell me now, because the people in the clinic will find it, one way or another. You won’t like their way, Lydia. Trust me.”
“I don’t have anything to hide, Officer Reynolds. How can I prove that to you?”
“You don’t have to prove it to me. You prove it to them.” He points his chin at the doors. “All you need to know from me is that we take energy seriously around here. If there’s something I should know, you need to speak up.”
I shake my head.
The elevator opens. He leads me down a sterile white hall of closed doors to the fourth room on the left, our footsteps echoing around us. Oddly, the door has no knob, just a plastic panel that says Biolock. Officer Reynolds places his hand on it and light passes under it from fingertips to palm. With a metal-on-metal grind, the door swings open.
A muffled moan drifts from the room next door. I stare in the direction of the sound and am haunted when it comes again. I can’t tell if it’s the cry of a person or an animal, but someone or something is clearly in pain.
“Don’t mind that,” Officer Reynolds says. He gently ushers me into the room, hand pushing gently between my shoulder blades. I balk and swallow hard when I see what’s inside. The cold steel of an examination table reflects the overhead light. From a cabinet to my right, Reynolds retrieves a thin cotton tunic and tosses it on the examination table. “Undress and put this on,” he orders. “Dr. Konrad will be in to see you in a moment.”
I nod. This is a clinic and I’m in an examination room, which means the sound from next door was not the moan of an animal but of another patient. My stomach clenches.
Reynolds leaves without saying goodbye. The lock engages with a dull grind. Only then does the reality that I’m trapped, alone, inside a locked room, fully register.
With shaking hands, I do as I’m told. I undress, folding my clothes neatly on the chair, and don the paper-thin wraparound tunic. I tell myself that the person I’ll be seeing is a doctor, like Doc Nelson. A doctor is trained to examine the body. But tears well in my eyes. I’ve never been sick. This doctor will be the first to examine me. Will he need to touch me? I don’t know. I tug the gown over my knees as low as it will go.
I’ve barely finished dressing when the door opens swiftly, without the courtesy of a knock, and a stoic man enters the room. His mouth is a tight line, his eyes as gray and soulless as any I’ve ever seen. He is older, maybe in his sixties, and the lines on his face are not smile lines like my father’s, but tracks commemorating years of stressful living. I fold my arms across myself.
“I’m Dr. Konrad. I’ll be doing your examination today. Please sit.” He turns to wash his hands in the small sink.
Ungracefully, I hop up on the cold steel table, smoothing the gown and tucking it under my tightly pressed-together knees. He snaps on a pair of latex gloves and does not make eye contact as he goes about pulling a steel tray to the side of the table and loading it with baskets of needles and tubes. “Arm,” he commands.
I extend my right. He swabs the crook of it with a brown liquid. The chemical stench coats my nostrils.
“Hold very still.” He ties a rubber band around my upper arm. It pinches my skin, pulling out the tiny hairs. “Make a fist.”
I obey. He unwraps a needle and connects it to a tube. Without saying another word, he grabs my arm and jabs the point into my vein. “Ow!” It’s a small pain but it catches me off guard.
Dr. Konrad’s thin lips grin in response. A tight smirk as if my pain amuses him. He’s enjoying this. I’ve never met anyone like Dr. Konrad. That thin smile makes my soul squirm and my skin prickle. I am afraid. I force myself to hold still as everything within me yearns to be free of his touch. I swallow.
My ruby red blood fills one tube, then another. It doesn’t hurt now that the needle is in, but the pressure is uncomfortable.
“Release your fist.”
I do. He swaps in a third tube and unties the band on my arm. Finally, he pulls out the needle and presses a square of gauze over the bubble of blood welling up. He tapes it into place. From the wall, he pulls down a black tool that looks like a small hammer.
“Open.” The end of the hammer lights up. He points it at my lips. I obey, allowing him to poke a flat wooden stick into every corner of my mouth. My ears and nose are inspected next. Then, he digs his fingers into my hair. From my head, his hands pat down my body, between my breasts, under my arms. Every inch of me. It happens so fast I have no time to protest. When he’s through, he unfolds two steel stirrups from under the table.
“Lie back and put your feet up.”
“Excuse me?” I cross my arms over my chest, hugging myself through the flimsy gown.
“Lie on the table and put your heels in the stirrups. I need to examine your body cavities.”
No! A shiver crawls over me, and I can no longer hold back the tears that stream down my cheeks. “Is there a female who can perform the examination?”
&nbs
p; Dr. Konrad’s lips return to that sinister smile. “This is a detention center clinic, not a hospital. We have a very limited staff. I’m the only doctor here today. Now, let’s get on with it.”
This can’t be happening. He pushes me down on the table and lifts first one then the other foot. He pulls apart my knees. I weep as he examines me in places I always thought only my husband would ever see. I want to melt into the exam table, to somehow become invisible and walk out the door. Mercifully, it doesn’t last long.
“Okay, sit up.”
I do, crossing my legs and tugging the gown down as far as it will go. With the heels of my palms I wipe the tears from my face. It wasn’t that bad. Nothing I can’t handle. I need to be strong. This will be over soon.
Dr. Konrad peels his gloves off into a garbage pail. “Follow me,” he says, not making eye contact.
“Should I get dressed?” I ask the back of his head.
“No.”
I follow him into the hall, leaving the door open behind me. I’m relieved no one else is there to see me in the skimpy tunic. I’m curious why there aren’t more patients, but then I remember what the doctor said. This is a detention center clinic, not a hospital. Any other patients would be locked inside the exam rooms like I was.
Dr. Konrad leads me to a chamber with a monstrous circular machine at the center that hums ominously. In the corner, a glass room faces the machine. It houses a desk, covered in blinking electronic equipment in various shapes and sizes, and an empty chair. An observation room, I suppose.
“Have you ever had an MRI?” he asks.
“No.”
Cold gray eyes meet mine. “We need to scan your body. I didn’t find anything during my assessment, which means you must have had the mechanism surgically implanted into you. This machine uses powerful magnets to make images of what’s inside your body. I must warn you, if the object is metal, this machine will rip it out of you and I’ll be patching you up on the surgical table. Tell me right now if it is.”