Clover

by Lisa Jade

  I return to the bunkers under the cover of darkness. Everyone’s already asleep. It’s so late that even the stragglers who often stay up to talk are motionless in their beds. The room is still and silent, almost unnervingly so. As I pick my way between the bunks, nobody stirs. They’re so utterly exhausted that they don’t even flinch as I stumble around the room.

  It’s with some hesitation that I fall back onto my own bunk. I don’t want to sleep just yet, but the sun will be rising soon – and without at least a little sleep, tomorrow’s work will be infinitely harder. My blanket is damp, and as I lift it to my nose I realise it smells faintly of mould. I guess I haven’t been airing it out properly.

  I shove the blanket aside and pull my hoodie over myself instead.

  I haven’t check Jensen’s transmitter in a long while. He may have said it would have a six month charge, but I’m frightened of the damage it might receive. Carrying it in my pocket isn’t the best of solutions, even if it is the safest place. There’s nowhere else I can stash things that the Guards won’t quickly uncover.

  I delve into the pocket of the hoodie. Nothing. I reach into the other side. Still nothing.

  My stomach plummets. Oh no. Did I lose it?

  I sit up and search frantically, even daring to rip at the lining of the jacket in hopes the device fell in there. All I find is the hook securely fastened to a seam, and a broken metal loop hanging loosely from it.

  For a moment, I can’t breathe. How can I have lost it? This is my most precious possession. If it fell out of my pocket, then it could be anywhere. In the bunker, on the dirt tracks. In the knee-deep muddy fields. Panic threatens to overwhelm me.

  Wait. I took my jacket off to throw over the logs, didn’t I? Perhaps the transmitter is still in the cart, or on the floor of the storage unit. If so, whoever unloads it in the morning is bound to stumble across it.

  I’m on my feet in an instant, pulling the jacket on and lowering the hood over my eyes. I can’t leave this. If it were anywhere else I might risk it until tomorrow – but it’s going to be fairly conspicuous on the dirt floor of the unit, or against the wood of the cart. I can’t leave it until morning. I need to go and get it.

  I approach the door to the bunker slowly, treading as softly as I can. Creeping in after a long day is one thing, but if anyone happens to roll over just in time to see me slip out, I’m done for. It’s one of the more ironclad rules at the Mill. Wandering around outside of hours is strictly forbidden and if they catch me, I’d consider a beating to be getting off lightly. A lengthy stint in the Mines would be a more likely punishment.

  Nothing’s changed outside. It’s still pitch black and absolutely silent, save for the rain overhead – at least at first. A moment later, a strange, high pitched noise rings out from between the bunkers.

  I follow the sound and quickly uncover two teens pressed against the side of the closest bunker. They’re moving together in a curious manner, their lips locked tightly. In spite of myself, I scowl. Breeders. This must be how they excise their interest in the opposite gender; sneaking out at night for hurried courtship in the shadows.

  Still, they don’t notice me, so I keep walking. If it comes down to it, I can always use them. Claim I was out here to investigate a strange noise. Whether that would work is highly doubtful, but it’s worth keeping in mind.

  I reach the storage quickly without seeing anyone else. Heavy rain is still coming down around me, disguising the sound of my footsteps and heavy breathing. Although my leg still feels heavy from the thick coating of mud, I’m suddenly happy for the poor weather.

  I push open the door to the storage unit, surprised at its weight. It hadn’t felt this heavy when I was pulling it shut just ten minutes ago. As it slides on its guides, something catches, emitting a loud screech. I lower my head and wait for the sound to stop echoing. It’s only when I’m sure nobody’s around that I step inside.

  Just as I thought. I see it. The remote transmitter is on the floor, lying near the wheels of the cart. It stands out like a sore thumb, but that’s okay. I found it. I sink to my knees and reach under the cart, stretching out my fingers to scoop it up.

  “Girlie.”

  Wirrow’s voice is low and grumbling, not all that threatening, and yet it still sends panic shuddering through me. I jump at the noise and hit my head on the undercarriage of the cart – but there’s no time to react to the pain though as I’m dragged out from under it and thrown hard against the wall.

  The Guard looms over me. There’s a strange look in his eye, like he’s just smelled something particularly unpleasant. When he speaks, he sneers.

  “I should’ve known you were up to something. Sneaking back here.”

  “I-I just wanted to…”

  My head’s spinning, fear running rampant in my veins. I can’t think of any excuse that won’t sound totally made up. My hand instinctively tightens around the transmitter. As long as he doesn’t see it, I stand a chance of getting out of here relatively unscathed.

  “I… thought I’d forgotten to shut the door,” I say limply. He chortles.

  “Nice try, kid. That explains why you’re scraping around on the floor. Are you going to tell me what you were really doing, or should I just assume the worst?”

  I swallow hard, my mind racing. There’s nothing. No valid reason for me to be here in the early hours of the morning. I think of the two strangers embracing in the darkness, and the excuse I’d come up with when I saw them; but even that won’t explain why I’m here now. And with every passing second, Wirrow’s face is contorting. He’s growing impatient.

  “Not gonna confess, huh? Fine then.”

  In an instant he’s grabbed hold of my arm, forcing back my fingers to reveal the transmitter tucked against my palm. His eyes narrow – but luckily, he has no clue what it is.

  “What the hell is this? I’m pretty sure none of the Guards gave you this. Or did you steal it?”

  “No! I didn’t steal it.”

  “Then why do you have tech like this? Do you know what we do to thieves around here?”

  My blood runs cold at that. Yes, I do know what they do to thieves. I’ve seen it happen. A lifetime in the Mines, plus a thorough beating for good measure. My fingers curl around the transmitter again. I need to call the others. I need help.

  Wirrow tries to wrestle it from me, and though I cling on for dear life I can feel his anger building. His free hand sinks to his waist, and the shock baton that’s threaded through his belt loop.

  I wrench the transmitter from his grip and take off running, barrelling through the door and taking off down the mud track. It’s still pitch black outside and the rain is obscuring my vision. The mud makes me slip and I’m not entirely sure whether I’m heading towards the Guard towers or deep into the heart of the Mill – but it doesn’t matter. I just need to get somewhere, anywhere, so I can scan my own DNA and call for the others. I just need five seconds of relative peace; after that, I’ll deal with whatever happens.

  There’s no time to rest. Already I can hear Wirrow behind me. He’s a half-step out of reach and I imagine he daren’t use the baton in this rain – but he’s still there, his thundering footsteps making the ground shake underfoot. He shouts something. It’s not for my benefit, though, as a split second later something whizzes by. They’re firing. The Guards at the towers have me in their sights as I sprint helplessly toward the fields. Why the fields? I’m not sure. Perhaps there’s a slim chance of peace amongst the wheat. Maybe there’s an abandoned tool I can snatch up to defend myself.

  But even as I run, I know it’s pointless. Even if I manage to send the transmission, they’re still going to catch me. Pan might be a social genius, but even she won’t be able to recover me from the mines. I’m done for.

  One of the bullets grazes my side and pain blossoms across my ribs. It’s not a direct hit, but the shock is still enough to make me miss a step and fall. I slip in the mud and roll down into the ditch near the dirt track, where I j
ust about manage to prop myself up on my elbows before Wirrow catches up with me.

  “Nice try,” he sneers, “but it’s over, girlie. Shame. You could’ve been a good one.”

  He bends down, snatches the transmitter from my hand, and throws it to the ground. For good measure he stamps on it – and with a sickening crack, it shatters. Nothing remains except shards of plastic and metal, indistinguishable from one another. I bite back on the insults that threaten to force their way out. I want to scream at him, hit him, demand he let me go.

  But I can’t. Because that transmitter was the only way of contacting the others, even in the most basic of ways. Now it’s gone, and there’s nothing I can do.

  More Guards quickly arrive, and as they chain my wrists and feet, I don’t bother to fight back. Even if I do, it won’t accomplish anything. Even as they talk amongst themselves and decide to throw me into the Mines for the rest of my days, I can’t bring myself to react.

  It really is over.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Guards don’t let me see my last glimpse of daylight. It’s still pitch black outside when I’m thrown down the nearest tunnel entrance and the door’s slammed shut behind me, immersing me in total and complete blackness. For a moment, panic overwhelms me. I don’t know where I am. It’s been so long since I’ve been in the Mines, and they’re expanding their reach every day; I could be ten miles or more from the nearest person. Suddenly it hits me just how alone I am, tiny and helpless in the unending maze that surrounds me.

  Everything hurts. My head hurts from the underside of the cart. My arm hurts from wrestling Wirrow for the transmitter. Moreso than that, my side hurts. The bullet may not have hit directly, but it’s still done some damage. If I were in the city, I’d patch it up and carry on. But suddenly, it’s painful. Perhaps because of the barely held-back sobs shuddering through my body. I curl myself into a ball and lock my arms around my knees, drawing them up to my chin like I can hide myself completely. Like if I could just squeeze a little tighter, then maybe I could fall into myself and vanish entirely. How I wish that were true.

  How did I let this happen? Back in Thorne, I was in my element. Nothing was bad enough to make me give up. In that mind-set, I’d been so sure I could do this. A few weeks. In and out. But I was wrong.

  Two weeks in the city hadn’t been enough to rewrite a lifetime of habit. My fear of the Guard is so deeply instilled that I’m still shaking from the confrontation with Wirrow. The memory of his face twisted in anger is enough to send my heart racing. The daily grind is normal to me now. Even the threat of punishment suddenly seems ordinary, even a little mundane. Like I’ve never known any different. I look around, taking in the darkness around me and feeling like I deserve it for everything I’ve done.

  It won’t be long now. Soon enough the Cull will come around, and without the transmitter’s data, Jay and the others will be helpless to stop it. They’ll try, no doubt; I don’t imagine they’d step back and allow it to happen. But because of my failures, it’ll happen anyway. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands of kids will be snatched away. They’ll have their memories wiped just like mine must have been. They, just like me, will end up as nothing more than blind, unthinking followers. Never asking questions, never wondering what’s beyond the chain link fence. The thought makes me angry – but for once, the anger’s not directed at the three leaders. Not even at Maynard, though the thought of her smug face makes me furious. The rage is directed at myself, at the fact that even after everything that’s happened, I still haven’t changed at all.

  Faces flash in my head. Pan with her clear, pretty eyes. Jensen, clever and quick. Jay, who looked more and more like a mirror every day I knew him. They really trusted me, didn’t they? And I let them down.

  Jensen never explained how the transmitter would work if it were broken. Would they receive a message to say it was shattered? What about the battery? How long will they wait for me before they realise that I’ve failed at my task? I’d begged them not to come after me. I’d assured them that I knew what I was doing. I got over-confident – and now, I can’t fix it. Now, there’s nothing left but pitch blackness and a sore, aching body.

  Something shifts in the shadows. There is something else. A lifetime of being trapped in the Mines. My greatest and until recently, only fear.

  It’s with grim acceptance that I climb to my feet, ignoring the stabbing pain in my side and the thumping in my skull. If the Guards catch me curled up like this, it won’t end well. My legs quiver with the effort it takes to keep standing, but I ignore it. I can hear them now. A half dozen heavy footsteps echo their way through the nearest tunnel, moving slowly closer. Behind them, the sound of clattering chains. They echo the sound of my own. I’m shackled wrist and ankle, forcing me to shuffle along the rough, uneven floor. I won’t have much chance to run – and with the entrance locked securely behind me, there’s nowhere to go.

  Small, handheld lamps light up the cavern around me, revealing a large, round chamber that splits off in several directions. The Guards eye me curiously, perhaps remembering my face from the last time I was here. For a moment they seem to think I’ve signed up for another stint – but then their eyes sink to the chains on my wrists, and their expressions change. Any trace of familiarity vanishes.

  A broad-shouldered female Guard looks me up and down with impunity. Her expression softens a little when she sees that I’m bruised and bloody, but she shakes it off and pushes a pick into my hands. The tool is heavy, much heavier than the axes I’m used to using – but there’s something familiar about it, too. I’ve done this before.

  As I’m pushed into the rows of other workers, memories of the time before rush back to me. The unending darkness, barely being able to see ahead of myself. I swing the pick overhead and groan at how the weight rips at my shoulders. Suddenly, I remember the sixth month. Lying sprawled on my campbed, unable to move from the pain in my muscles. Something tells me it won’t take six months to get to that point this time round. Back then, the Guards had allowed me some small amount of leeway. Perhaps they’d understood I was a volunteer. Maybe they just didn’t care. But that won’t happen this time.

  I can feel eyes on me. Guards mutter amongst themselves, wondering what I must have done to get thrown down here. Nobody was told that I’d be coming. I suppose I didn’t exactly allow them time for warnings.

  I steal a glance at the Mill workers to my side. Even in the darkness, I can tell that their faces are thin and drained, their eyes devoid of all life. Many are little more than walking corpses working on autopilot – anything to distract them from twelve hours a day of constant, endless pain. I don’t blame them, but that doesn’t mean I want to be one of them. I try flashing a smile at the skeletal-looking man beside me. He doesn’t even flinch.

  Okay. Other workers, not so great in the way of company.

  It doesn’t even matter that it’s the early hours. Down here, it’s always dark. The world could be burning over our heads and we’d know nothing about it. They probably work shifts. I try to think back, try to remember if it was shifts the last time. But it was four years ago, and though I try, no clear answer presents itself.

  It’s several hours later when someone blows a whistle, and a great sigh goes up around me as the others lower their picks. I drop mine unceremoniously to the floor. We’ve found nothing of value, or at least nothing we can spot in the half-darkness. Realistically, I know that not every clump of dirt will contain something valuable – coal, gems, strange minerals used for science. But finding nothing of any remote interest makes it feel like wasted time.

  As we slink deeper into the darkness, I remember that they don’t sleep in bunkers. Some do, of course, but for the most part we’re here as punishment; and that punishment is never being able to see the light of day again.

  I step into a small cavern filled with camp beds – but unlike the ones I’m used to, they’re not laid out in perfect rows, allocated and numbered. No, they’re crammed int
o the space, each one taking up only a fraction of the space they really need. Workers slump down onto whatever seems to be nearest. I briefly wonder about food, then push the thought aside. Maybe they let us starve down here. I don’t know. I don’t really care anymore.

  Someone catches my eye. She casts a diminutive figure, just a scrap of a child with wild-looking hair and wide, glaring eyes – but she still waves at a nearby bunk. As I watch, her cracked lips draw back to reveal a half-toothed smile.

  She speaks as I sit down.

  “Hey. You’re a new one, entcha?”

  Unbelievably, she has an accent; oddly clipped and lazily-pronounced, with a casual twang I can’t place. I can only imagine it’s intentional – I’ve been everywhere around here, and I’ve never heard anyone quite like her. Still, I’m happy to have someone to speak to, even if she is several years younger than me.

  “Yeah. Just got thrown down.”

  “Betcha not feelin’ good, huh? Noticed you limpin’ around earlier.”

  Her eyes sink to my side, to the cut there. Now the light’s a little brighter I can see a strong red line against my hip. There’s a little blood around it, dried against my skin and matted into my jacket – I tenderly touch the area, then pull my hand back with a hiss.

  “Hmm. Got grazed by a bullet.”

  She seems impressed. For a moment that unnerves me, but then I remember where I am. These people are mostly considered criminals in the eyes of the Guard – these are the people who’ve snapped in the past and flipped out, who’ve dared to question things. I feel a small rush of admiration for the kid.

  “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Sara.”

  “Noah.”

  “Pleased ta meetcha, Noah,” she grins, “Do you need some help getting patched up?”