Captives

by Jill Williamson

  Mason looked up at the ceiling and located a vent. “Must be air-conditioning. Papa Eli told me about it once. It used to be everywhere before the Pandemic.” He also noticed a bright yellow camera looking down from the corner of the ceiling. “I wonder if they implanted these numbers while we were in the hospital.”

  “Pull me to the door,” Jordan said.

  “What?”

  “Come on! Get me close.”

  Mason got up and dragged Jordan’s chair over to face the door, cringing as the metal legs scraped over the floor. When Mason got him close enough, Jordan lifted his leg and kicked the door.

  “Jordan.”

  Jordan kicked the door again. “Open this door, you bowels of a dead skunk!”

  “Jordan, stop,” Mason said.

  But Jordan kicked again, growling this time.

  Mason sat back down and watched Jordan kick the door a few more times. Even though Jordan was nineteen years old, he had a tendency to act like he was five. “The enforcers are well aware of your displeasure.”

  “Good.” Jordan lifted his feet and kicked the door so hard that his chair tipped back. It paused on two legs for one second before gravity won out. Mason winced as the chair slammed against the floor. Jordan kept his chin against his chest and managed to keep his head from hitting anything.

  “Feel better?” Mason asked.

  Jordan eased down his head. “No.” He slammed his feet against the door, one at a time, like he was running.

  What was he trying to accomplish? “You do realize the door swings inward?”

  “Shut up, dog face.”

  So Mason did. He could think of nothing helpful to say anyhow. His pulse was still throbbing in his ears; it had been since the first gun had fired. Shock, no doubt. His body trying to compensate for the horror of seeing so many killed. He thought over the stages of grief that he’d read about in his psychology book. How could shock not be one of them? And when would he start denying that any of this had taken place? “Why are we alive? Why kill some of us, but not all? I don’t understand.”

  Jordan let his legs fall limp and turned his head, craning his neck and rolling his eyes up so he could see Mason. “Think she’s okay?” he asked, his voice a low croak.

  Mason didn’t know if Jordan meant one of his sisters, his mother, or his wife.

  “I mean, she’s already pregnant. So they wouldn’t hurt her, right?”

  Ah, Naomi, his wife. “You saw them take the women?” Mason asked.

  “The enforcer said the women were going to bear children for the Safe Lands. Do you think all of the women? And whose children, huh, Mason?”

  Mason cringed. Surely, they didn’t intend to force the women … Only monsters would do such a thing. Almost as unsettling: the Safe Lands enforcers, though violent with their gunfire today, hadn’t bothered Glenrock in seventy years. Why now? And why were he and Jordan so important?

  Mason thought through what had happened. “The last thing I remember … Papa Eli!” Please, Lord, let someone have helped him. Mason looked at his hands. They were clean. No blood. “Someone washed my hands.” He held one out to Jordan. “I was trying to stop Papa Eli’s bleeding when I got shot.” His eyes stung, his vision clouded. He coughed and sucked in a breath.

  “Hey!” Jordan said. “None of that. We have to keep it together. My dad’s dead too, but do you see me crying? Huh? We’ve got to get out of this place, find the others. As hard as it is … buck up.”

  Jordan’s dad? Elder Harvey dead too? “What if there are no others? And why didn’t they kill us?”

  “I saw them loading the women and kids into one of those trucks. And I heard an enforcer say they wanted the young people.”

  “But why?” All Mason truly knew of Safe Landers was that they were inflicted with a terminal disease that stemmed from the original virus that had entered the world’s water supply and caused the Great Pandemic. According to the stories Papa Eli had told, the Safe Lands had started as a haven for the uninfected because of the clean water coming from the mountain. But when the waterborne strain mutated into a bloodborne one and Safe Lands leaders neglected the warnings from doctors and continued to engage in wild living, many people left, which was how the outlying villages had come to exist, keeping close to the clean water, but far from Safe Lands’ dangers. Papa Eli had warned the people of Glenrock never to marry a Safe Lands national or they’d become infected.

  “If they hurt Naomi,” Jordan said. “If they hurt my boy …”

  “What makes you so sure it’s a boy?”

  Jordan flubbed his lips. “It’s a boy.”

  Mason smiled. It was a bit forced, but even a half-hearted smile felt good at this point. “If you say so.”

  Reality suddenly hung heavily on Mason’s heart, and his eyes stung. He needed to think. The enforcers would be coming back any minute. And one had told Jordan that the women would bear children for the Safe Lands. Why? And what were the men to do?

  “Think Levi’s dead?” Jordan asked.

  The very idea brought another smile to Mason’s lips. “No way. Not Levi.”

  Jordan straightened his neck and gazed at the ceiling. “He’ll come for us, then. And when he does, we’re going to kill them all.”

  Mason had no doubt his big brother would bring fire and brimstone upon this place, but he searched for the right words to curb talk of more death. “That won’t change anything. It’ll only make you just like them.”

  “Don’t turn into Papa Eli on me right now, Mason. Just leave me to my murderous daydreams, will you?”

  The door opened then, whacking against the side of Jordan’s chair. Two people entered: Hale and Otley, the giant pierced bat who’d killed Mason’s father and uncle and Papa Eli.

  “How?” Mason stood, fists clenched. His heart throbbed within his chest. This man should be dead. “Papa Eli shot you.”

  “Takes more than one round to take me out, rat,” Otley said.

  Jordan kicked Otley’s leg. “Where is my wife, you son of a cockroach’s vomit?”

  Hale drew his gun, and Jordan stopped kicking.

  Otley bent over Jordan. “Your woman’s in the harem, rat. I intend to visit her myself.”

  Jordan’s face went red in the space of a breath. “If you touch her … If you even breathe on her …”

  “You’ll chase after me, and I’ll stomp on you.” Otley smacked Jordan’s face softly—slap, slap, slap—then walked to the door and turned. “Last chance for compliance, little rats. Become Safe Lands nationals. Give us what we need to create healthy children here. Refuse, and you’ll be sent to the rehabilitation center. You have ten minutes to decide.” He ducked out the open doorway, and Hale followed, closing the door behind him.

  Jordan screamed and pulled against his restraints, cursing and kicking until he ran out of breath.

  Mason sank down on the other chair. “I think we should comply.”

  Jordan turned his head to glare at Mason. “Are you crazy?”

  “Our best chance is to play along and see what they want.”

  “I will not become one of them,” Jordan said.

  Mason took a deep breath. “We’re not one of them—ever. But we can pretend to be. We can’t do anything from in here.”

  “If I can get that enforcer’s gun, I might be able to get us free.”

  “You’re secured to a chair, lying on the floor, Jordan. You can’t get anyone’s gun.”

  “I could get it.”

  And Mason’s father had always admired such foolish brawn over thoughtful logic. Mason glanced quickly at the camera then lowered himself to the ground and whispered in Jordan’s ear. “Listen to me. Violence against these people will only lead us to our graves. We have to think.” Mason inched a little closer. “Playing along will give us a chance at freedom inside these walls. Then we can find out where the women and children are being held, where to get weapons, and how we might get away.”

  “You’re a coward!” Jordan yelle
d. “You’ve always been a coward, ever since Joel died.”

  The words sent fire through Mason’s chest. “I sat by your brother’s side until his last breath. But all of you ran off to kill something. So who was the coward, Jordan?”

  Jordan’s voice came softly. “You used to hunt with us. You used to eat meat.”

  Mason clenched his teeth, then finally said, “Don’t start this. I never liked to hunt. I’m not a killer. Of anything. It was that way long before Joel’s accident.”

  Jordan turned his head so he could see Mason. “Naomi would’ve married him. You know that? She and Joel were close.”

  Mason huffed a silent laugh. “They both liked to climb trees.”

  “The kissing trees.”

  “Jordan, stop.” But Mason closed his eyes, thinking of the one time he’d climbed those trees with a girl. Eliza. He’d been so young. He still felt bad about how things had ended between them. He shuddered at the memory.

  Jordan’s voice softened. “Sometimes I think, what if he’d lived? If he’d lived, then I wouldn’t have her. So I’m glad he’d dead, right, Mason? My own brother. I’m glad.”

  Mason squeezed his eyes tight before opening them. “You’re not glad he’s gone. You’re thankful to be blessed with a good wife. That’s different.”

  “I’d die without her. I can’t live without her.” Jordan broke down this time. No kicking the door. Just sobbing. “What if these maggots do something to her?”

  “Hey,” Mason stood and heaved Jordan’s chair up, grunting with the effort. Once the chair was on all fours, he walked around front. “You said no crying. You told me to buck up.”

  The door opened. Otley and Hale entered the room. Mason backed against the wall, fighting the urge to run at Otley. Anger won’t help. Anger won’t help.

  But Jordan kicked at Otley with renewed vigor. “Why don’t you untie me, fight me man to man, you doe-kissing, dog-licking pile of fish guts—you coward!”

  Hale drew his gun and fired. Jordan uttered a short cry, then his body went rigid. No bullets. No wires or rays. But Jordan lay silent and limp. How could that be? Hale unhooked him, kicked the metal chair aside, grabbed Jordan’s ankles, and dragged him toward the door. The last Mason saw of his brother’s best friend was his fingertips trailing around the doorframe.

  Bentzon stepped into the doorway, stunning gun drawn and pointed at Mason.

  “And you, little rat?” Otley asked, looking down on Mason. “Going to the rehabilitation center as well?”

  “No.” Mason had to do what he felt was right. And he couldn’t help anyone if he followed Jordan’s method. “I’ll cooperate.”

  Otley motioned to Bentzon in the doorway. “Take him to Registration.”

  Bentzon waved his gun at Mason. “Let’s go, shell.”

  Mason walked into the hallway. No sign of Jordan. He wanted to ask where they’d taken him but thought better of it. His words and actions needed to look compliant.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Bentzon transported Mason to a building the guard referred to as City Hall. On the third floor, they entered the Men’s Health and Wellness Department and went straight to the Donation Center. A guard gave him a plastic cup, then sent him into a small room with a shower-like stall and sink. Mason paced the floor as he tried to figure out why he’d been brought here. Bentzon hadn’t given any hint as to what happened at the Donation Center, almost like he assumed Mason knew. Based on what Jordan had said about the Glenrock women needing to bear children, Mason reasoned the Donation Center was the male’s version of the harem.

  Mason remembered something his mother once said: that, in the Old Days, doctors had been able to use different scientific methods to impregnate a woman. Those procedures had been lost over time, but he’d read about things such as surrogacy, artificial insemination, and in vitro fertilization in one of Mother’s medical textbooks. Based on the amount of technology inside the compound, the Safe Lands had likely regained that lost knowledge.

  Mason looked again at the cup in his hands. He couldn’t do it.

  The cup was opaque, so he put a little water and spit into it, snapped on the lid, and hoped it would at least be enough to get him out of the center. He carried the cup to the enforcer, who motioned for Mason to hand it to a man sitting at the front desk.

  Mason held his breath as he and the enforcer waited for the elevator, sure the man would discover his cheat at any moment. To his relief, the elevator arrived, and Bentzon pushed him inside.

  Mason was escorted down to the second floor and into the Registration Department, an open room with a counter at one end and a dozen desks to the left of it.

  The man at the counter had yellow and black striped hair. “I’m Dallin. I need to take your picture before we start. Can you back up against that wall and stand on those black footprints?”

  Mason saw no reason to refuse. Dallin used a rectangle of glass to snap a picture, then returned to his desk. “Have a seat.”

  Mason sat and tried to relax. If someone was coming to capture him for his faulty sample, they likely would have arrived by now. And acting like a nervous wreck wouldn’t gain him much acceptance amidst these strange people. “Um, Dallin, how did your hair get that way?”

  “The To Dye For salon,” Dallin said. “He comes up with the best mimic looks. Now, I’m going to work up your identification, then you’ll take the task test, which will determine your schedule. Since you’re new to all this, let me explain. Each national must perform a task to help our city operate—a basic job we assign based on your test performance. We understand some tasks are desired over others, but all must be done to ensure the pleasure and survival of each national. Your test will generate a list of several tasks you’re suited for, and you’ll work each task for a six-month shift before rotating to the next on your list. After three years, you can retest and see if your list changes. If you find you love a certain task, you can apply to prolong your assignment in that area. But there’s no guarantee your request will be approved. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mason said.

  Dallin set a little black pad on the counter. “Press your right fist on the pad.” When Mason did, Dallin took away the pad and asked, “Do you have a last name?”

  “Our people identify with tribes. I’m from the Elias tribe.”

  “How about we make Elias your last name? Unless there’s another name you’d prefer.”

  “Elias is fine.”

  “Okay.” Dallin tapped on his computer screen, which was nothing more than a sheet of glass on an elevated base. He sat back in his chair and turned the glass so that Mason could see the surface. Mason’s picture, name, and number appeared like on TV screen. The words task, task director, task start date, region, and residence were displayed below.

  “This will all get filled in after you task test,” Dallin said. “I’m all done here, so you can sit at any station to test. Go ahead.”

  Mason moved to the nearest desk. The surface was black glass. Mason looked back to Dallin, not sure what he was supposed to do.

  “It’s a GlassTop touchscreen,” Dallin said, coming over beside Mason. He tapped the screen with his finger. A picture slowly faded from black into a bright blue. The words TaskTest 6.0 hovered in a white rectangle in the center of the screen. Dallin touched it with his finger, and the screen changed to a series of blanks.

  “Tap the screen to type in your name and number and to answer each question.”

  “Thank you,” Mason said, marveling at the machine. Clearly, the Safe Landers had managed to hold on to a lot of technology from the Old Days.

  The test was multiple choice, with questions about cooking, drawing, architecture, machines, cleaning, and teaching. Some questions Mason needed Dallin to explain before he could answer.

  Around question thirty, the test became more specific, as if the computer were starting to learn Mason’s interests. Most questions were now medical or mathematical in nature. Mason didn�
��t understand most of the math questions.

  When he expected question sixty-eight to appear, the screen displayed TaskTest complete. Please report to your test director.

  Mason walked back to Dallin’s desk.

  “All done?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dallin tapped around on his glass screen. “Huh,” he said. “You’re a smart guy. Got a list of high-level tasks. But the system flagged you since you’re an outsider, which means the task director general will have to approve your task list. That doesn’t happen very often. Let’s see …” He looked at Mason, then spoke to the enforcers, who were practically dozing in the waiting area. “Why don’t you take him to the cafeteria while I figure out what to do?”

  Mason followed the enforcers to a vast room packed with people and noise. Rich smells filled his nose. The enforcers took him through a line where he had to press his fist against another black pad before someone operating a glass screen would let him pass. Mason examined the side of his fist and found a small puncture, bloodless. Some sort of implant?

  The food was set out in long metal trays. There were so many choices, even for a vegetarian. Mason ate foods he recognized: green salad, peas, biscuits, sweet potatoes, rice, and two slices of pie—apple and one made of gooey nuts. When he finished, the enforcers took him to the tenth floor, then sent him in to meet the task director general.

  Mason pushed open the door and entered what felt like a modern palace. The room was furnished in black and red, with hardwood floors and windows that wrapped around three walls, exposing a vast view of the valley below. Mason felt like he was walking among the clouds.

  A large desk sat in front of the only true wall. A bald man stood beside it, blocking Mason’s view of the man sitting there. Mason closed the door behind him, drawing the bald man’s attention.