Loop

by Ben Oliver

  Wren

  I read the warning a second time and a third.

  In a little over twenty-four hours I’ll be taken to the Facility and whatever happened to Group A will happen to me too.

  I turn the page and remove my hand from my head. I pretend to read the words of the novel while my heart returns to its normal rate.

  How the hell am I supposed to escape? No one has ever broken out of the Loop in its seventy years of existence. No one has even come close.

  It can’t be done. Wren’s note serves only as a forewarning of almost certain death.

  Alright, I think, if that’s what it means then that’s what it means. How much longer could you have remained sane in a place like this anyway?

  I swallow back tears and steel my resolve.

  When the Delay comes, I will be ready to capitalize on any opportunity to escape that may arise, but if there truly is no chance, then I will accept my fate.

  I close the book and turn to the screen.

  ‘Happy.’

  ‘Yes, Inmate 9-70-981?’ the screen replies.

  ‘Panoptic playback. Day one in the Loop. Time: 5:17 p.m.’

  ‘Right away.’

  The screen dissolves into blackness for the first twenty seconds and then comes alive as I cross the threshold into the prison. I hear my terrified, gasping breaths as I’m led along the corridor, followed by a guard with a heart trigger in his hands – a small cylindrical device that’s linked to the infinity-shaped explosive that’s just been implanted in my heart. I hear the soldier’s voice telling me to stop as he walks in front of me and opens my cell door. I’m shoved inside and the door is slammed shut behind me.

  Happy allows inmates to watch four minutes of memories on the screen every day. The cruel part is the memories can only be from your time inside the Loop. You are not allowed to see anything from before.

  I watch my own memory, watch myself looking from wall to wall, stumbling forward in the moment I thought I’d faint, feeling the coldness of the walls, looking through the tiny window to the yard.

  ‘Inmate 9-70-981,’ Happy interrupts, ‘you have two minutes of your daily allowance of memories remaining.’

  ‘Switch it off,’ I say, and the screen goes blank.

  Despite not sleeping the night before, I lie awake on my bed in the dim light all night, thinking about my life. Thinking about when I was eleven and my dad lost his job at the sky farms – the government was supposed to keep a fifty per cent human workforce but the number slowly got pushed back, year after year, until it was just twenty per cent. Thinking about when I was twelve and I bought an early twenty-second-century screen from a Junk Child selling her wares in the Black Road Vertical. I used the screen to pickpocket Alts who still used thumb-chip to transfer Coin. Thinking about when I was thirteen and I taught my sister to read. Thinking about the roof of the Black Road Vertical and the boy with the gun. Thinking about the death of my mum. About Wren. About dying.

  By the time exercise hour comes the following day, I feel as though I’m living in a dream. Everything feels slow and unreal, my thoughts are foggy, my movements clumsy and inexact.

  Again, Galen’s address is nothing but a blank screen.

  When the back wall opens, I am met once again by the horrible quiet.

  After a few seconds some of the Group B inmates call out to their friends from Group A, who don’t answer.

  ‘Luka,’ Kina says from the other side of the wall, her voice fragile and low.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why aren’t they back?’

  I want to tell her what Wren told me, I want to tell her that they are back, that the lucky ones are dead, and the others are in a state of silent insanity, but I can’t.

  ‘I don’t kn—’ I begin, but the quiet of the yard is interrupted by the sound of a body hitting the dividing wall on the other side of Kina’s yard. Harvey’s yard.

  ‘What was that?’ Kina asks.

  I don’t reply. The horrible thump and crunch sound comes again and I try to force out the image of Harvey throwing himself against the wall, breaking bones, splitting his skin open as he fights to kill himself.

  And I hear a similar sound from the other side of the Loop, the cracking of bone like a gunshot into the quiet. And then more, from all over, as if they’ve all received a signal that now is the time.

  ‘Luka, what is that?’ Kina asks.

  I don’t reply. I hear more worried shouts from Group Bs as the insane inmates try to break through the walls.

  And then the meaty slapping sound of impact from Harvey’s cell is replaced by the sound of scrambling hands and feet and then the warning sirens as one of the drones from the centre pillar comes to life. ‘Inmate 9-71-343: cease your activity and return to your cell.’

  But Harvey doesn’t stop; I can hear his ragged breaths and the skidding, slipping rustle as he climbs up and up. And then Kina screams.

  ‘Inmate 9-71-343, this is your final warning. Cease your activity and return to your cell.’

  ‘Oh god, what’s wrong with him?’ Kina screams. ‘He’s trying to get into my yard!’

  From where I am, I can’t see what she’s seeing, but it’s clear that Harvey, or whatever is left of Harvey, has reached the top of the dividing wall.

  And then more drones are rising off the pillar, training their laser pointers on to more and more inmates who are trying to climb the walls, trying to get to those of us who are still sane.

  Restless murmurs and frantic questions start to come from the Group B inmates, but everyone falls silent when the first drone’s cannon fires a single dart into Harvey. We all listen as the scrambling sounds grow silent, the hallucinogenic drug working into his system, the tranquillizer weakening him until he can’t hold on. The wet smack resonates thickly around the Loop as his body hits the floor.

  And then a second drone fires somewhere to my right. Then a third and fourth almost simultaneously. The bodies fall. Six, seven, eight of them. And then we are in complete silence.

  ‘He-he was smiling,’ Kina says, finally. So quietly that I almost don’t hear it.

  From far in the distance I hear the electronic hum of other drones approaching.

  The buzzing grows louder and the whispers and murmurs around the exercise yard begin to grow in volume once more. I follow the sound and then I feel my body going into shock. Every breath I suck into my lungs feels weak and ineffectual as I see, approaching the prison at high speed, coffin drones.

  I lean against the wall as the strength threatens to leave my body. I watch as the coffin drones lower themselves into the yard.

  ‘Hey,’ I hear a girl call out, ‘hey, what the hell is going on? What is this? Someone answer me!’

  Her shouts are accompanied by more and more voices demanding answers, screaming out to anyone who might be watching via Panoptics or listening via the mics in our rooms. No answer comes.

  After a minute or so, the coffin drones lift into the sky with black body bags gripped in their metallic talons.

  Harvey, my friend, who had suffered through the torture of the Loop with cerebral palsy, is dead. All of the Group As are dead.

  I can only hope that their passing didn’t hurt, that they’re free now. I slide down the wall until I’m resting on my haunches, watching the drones grow smaller as they fly their cargo into the distance.

  The inmates are still screaming, demanding answers, demanding to know what happened to the Group As.

  Eventually, the only sounds coming from the yard are the quiet sobs from those of us who have lost friends today.

  Even Tyco is silent by the time the alarm sounds.

  Back in my room, I pace, waiting for Wren. She’s late. I tell myself she’s been late before. I keep waiting, but she doesn’t show. It’s only when the energy harvest comes that I accept the fact that I won’t be seeing her today.

  The harvest is hard to take tonight. When it ends I’m sure that I will never recover. I lie on the floor for two hours. />
  When I finally have the strength to crawl into bed I find that I can’t sleep. I’m worried about Wren, I’m worried about tomorrow, I’m worried that this is my last night on earth.

  The wake-up call comes half an hour early, at 7 a.m., and I don’t think I slept at all.

  An announcement tells me that I will be boarding the Dark Train in thirty-one minutes.

  I sit up slowly and try to focus. I’m so exhausted that it takes a full minute before I can blink away the blurriness.

  I select my breakfast, but I’m not even sure what buttons I’ve pushed as I play scenarios in my head of what might have happened to Wren. Did they decide to silence everyone who received the files to their Lens? Is this to do with the rumours of the war? Or did they find out about her warning notes to the inmates? Is she locked up in the Block?

  Then I play scenarios of what might happen today, after I board the Dark Train.

  Be ready, I tell myself. If you see an opportunity to escape – take it!

  My screen begins to beep and informs that I’ll be exiting my cell in five minutes. I haven’t touched what’s in front of me. Turns out it’s porridge, and it has turned to thick gloop in the bowl. I put it on the conveyor belt to be taken away.

  ‘Happy?’ I try, hoping that whatever is going on with the omnipresent system might have fixed itself.

  The screen flickers a few times. ‘Yes, Inmate 9-70-981?’

  ‘What’s going to happen to me at the Facility?’

  ‘Everything is as it should be.’

  ‘That’s what I thought you’d say.’ I look to the floor and take a deep breath. ‘Happy?’

  ‘Yes, Inmate 9-70-981?’

  ‘I really fucking hate you.’

  I tighten the Velcro on my shoes and wait by my door.

  The one good thing about Delays is being able to walk out of the Loop. It’s hard to explain the sense of elation I get from just this simple act. Freedom is a privilege that can only be truly appreciated when it’s taken away, although today it’s hard to find enjoyment in anything.

  The timer counts down to zero, a harsh klaxon sounds twice and the hatch in my door slides open.

  This is it, Luka, I tell myself. Wait for your chance. Be ready.

  A guard, dressed all in black and wearing a riot helmet, peers inside. He gestures for me to come closer.

  I step forward and he points a cylindrical tube of metal at my chest. A green light on the top of the device turns red, and I hear a series of beeps inside my chest. The weapon in the guard’s hand is now connected to the infinity-symbol implant in my heart; if the guard’s hand comes loose from the tube of metal, a small explosion will rip through my chest and I’ll be dead before I hit the ground. They call it a dead man’s switch.

  The riot guard unlocks my door and pulls it open. He points with his free hand towards the entrance to the Loop and follows four or five steps behind me until we get to the gate.

  Big yellow letters over the entrance read:

  INMATES! CROSSING THIS POINT WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION WILL CAUSE IMPLANTS TO DETONATE

  I stop and the silent guard moves to a panel on the wall. He removes his glove and presses his thumb against the scanner. He then turns and gestures for me to exit the Loop.

  Every time I’ve passed through these doors my heart has skipped a beat. I picture the infinity loop running through my heart. I anticipate a problem with the system, a mis-scan of a fingerprint, an indifferent guard whose mind is already on after-work drinks or that weekend trip to the country.

  But I pass through unharmed, and into another short corridor which leads to the platform. The Dark Train waits, an almost imperceptible electronic hum as it hovers three centimetres above the six rails of the track below. Half the doors to the tiny, one-person carriages are already shut, the inhabitants waiting inside to be taken to the mass Delay.

  The guard points to the first open carriage and I walk towards it, climb inside and on to the uncomfortable moulded-plastic seat.

  A screen in front of me comes to life and demonstrates where I should put my hands, and Happy’s voice comes over the speakers.

  ‘Good morning again, Inmate 9-70-981. Please place your hands into the spaces at either side of your seat.’

  I’ve done this before, so I know the drill. I put my hands, up to the wrists, into the circular gaps on each side of me and feel the three layers of grips tighten around my forearms to prevent any attempt to escape.

  This is when the guard is supposed to come over and shut the hatch, leaving me cut off from the outside world with no windows to see where I’m being taken, but he forgets. He turns and walks back into the Loop.

  He’ll remember, I think. He’ll come running back any second.

  But he doesn’t. I’m left sitting in my carriage, listening to the hum of the train, waiting to see what happens next. A few minutes later, a girl walks on to the platform. I don’t know how, but immediately I know that it’s Kina. Her dark hair is shaved almost to the scalp (inmates’ hair is shaved on day one) and her dark eyes are almost black, but despite this they seem to glow against her brown skin. She’s short and skinny and intrinsically tough-looking. Her eyes meet mine and she smiles.

  ‘Hi Luka,’ she says, nodding her head as though we’ve just passed each other on the street.

  ‘Kina,’ I reply, mimicking her nonchalance, and we both can’t help laughing as the flustered guard rushes over to slam my carriage door shut.

  I laugh in the silence and the darkness of the carriage for a long time. I laugh because the guard forgetting his duties was funny, but more than that, I laugh because I got to see Kina; I got to see the face of my friend.

  ‘Kina Campbell,’ I say out loud, and then I laugh again.

  To know what my friend looks like, to be able to picture the way she smiles with only one side of her mouth, and her brown eyes, means the world to me, and if I have to die today – at least I have this.

  I realize that for almost a full minute I have forgotten about Wren, but as the silence slowly kills my humour, all thoughts lead back to her. I hope she’s OK. I hope she’s home and safe with her family.

  It’s another hour before we begin to move. The carriages are soundproof and windowless, and without being able to see where I’m being taken it’s hard to even figure out which direction we’re travelling, but it’s only fifteen or so minutes before we’re slowing to a stop at the Facility.

  Again, I have to wait as the inmates are escorted one by one off the vehicle. It feels like hours that I’m left alone, and this white silence only quickens the gestation of my worries about Wren and my fear of the Delay.

  Finally, the door to my carriage is opened and the guard scans my chest with the trigger. Once the device in my heart is armed, the arm restraints are released.

  I step out on to the concrete platform and I see the Facility; the enormous black dome with ‘F-459’ painted in great white characters over the ten-metre wide entrance. The building itself looks the same, but rather than the space in front of it being empty like usual, there’s a snaking queue of inmates winding from the entrance all the way to the platform. Some of the line-up I recognize from the Loop, others I don’t recognize at all; most of these are older prisoners, who must be inmates from the Block.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

  ‘Shut up,’ the guard replies. ‘Hands behind your back.’

  I barely hear the guard; I’m transfixed by the sheer amount of people. I haven’t seen a genuine crowd in over two years.

  ‘I’m going to give you one more chance!’ the guard yells, going from calm to agitated in a heartbeat. ‘Do not resist or I will light you up, am I understood?’

  I turn to the officer, surprised by his intensity. ‘OK, OK.’

  I put my hands behind my back and feel the coiled cobalt that was implanted into my bones become magnetized. My wrists pull together with irresistible force and slam into each other behind my back.

  ‘Join the queue,’
the guard tells me. He pushes me forward, I stumble and only just keep my balance. I make it to the end of the queue and stand behind a broad-shouldered woman of about forty.

  ‘Do you know what they’re doing to people in there?’ I ask, keeping my voice low.

  ‘School trip,’ she replies, her mad eyes roving around as she looks over her shoulder at me. ‘Best behaviour or you’ll wait on the bus while the other children visit the museum.’

  She has obviously lost her mind in the Block, but I try one more time. ‘Do you know what’s going on?’

  ‘Talk to me again and I’ll eat your heart,’ the woman says, turning around to face me. She has one eye; the other is a mass of scar tissue. She breaks into a toothy grin and a wheezing sound escapes her mouth. It takes me a while to realize that she’s laughing.

  I turn my head away from her, hoping that she’ll lose interest. I look down the line and see a tall, skinny bald man twitching violently and cowering as if he’s being attacked by birds that only he can see. Not far ahead of him is a man on his knees laughing hysterically at the dirt. Near the front of the queue an Alt woman from the Block is spitting over and over again and muttering a nonsensical incantation.

  What the hell happens in the Block?

  I scan the queue and see that there are guards every five metres or so, standing poised. They all have heart triggers in their hands and Ultrasonic Wave – or USW – guns at their sides. About halfway down the line sits an enormous military tank. I’ve never seen anything like it in real life.

  Is this it? I think to myself. Is this the moment to try and make a break for it? If I can somehow rally all these people quickly enough, if I can somehow let them know that they’re sending us in here to die then maybe we could – together – overthrow the guards, get hold of their weapons? Escape.