by Emma Pullar
‘Sky,’ I feel a jab through the thin mattress, ‘is that you up there?’
I lean over the bunk, hair dangling. I’m met with Andia’s worried face.
‘What are they doing?’ I ask, nodding towards the line.
‘Showering, I think.’
My stomach throws acid up my throat. I don’t want to stand naked in that line. It comes down to which I would rather be, embarrassed because I smell bad or embarrassed because my body is exposed? I sigh, grab the comb from my bag and scramble down the bed. I swing my left foot onto the first rung and my toes don’t touch metal as I expect. Black material is draped over the rung. I reach down and lift it. It’s a new uniform, an ugly black jumpsuit. I quickly remove my necklace and shove it in the jumpsuit pocket. I wonder why I still have it. They didn’t check me for weapons or contraband. Strange. I guess they expect the guards to do that before escorting new scrubs to Rock Vault. Crow didn’t bother.
Once at the bottom of the ladder, Andia and I use the bottom bunk as a washing basket and dump our clothes there before joining the queue. I cross my arms over my breasts and shuffle along. This is degrading, worse than Showcase.
‘What do you think we’ll be doing today?’ Andia whispers over my shoulder.
‘I don’t know.’ I say and I don’t.
As we reach the front of the line, my overwhelming anxiety about using the communal shower is not in keeping with the task at hand. A male scrub with dark rings under his eyes hands me a slither of soap, dripping water over my arm as he leaves the shower. I resist the urge to look down, consciously keeping my eyes on people’s faces. I don’t know why I feel inclined to check out men’s genitals and compare other girls’ breasts to mine, but I do. I step into the spray. I squeak when the rust-tinged water hits my skin, it isn’t freezing, but I wasn’t ready for it to be so cold. I rub the soap in my hands, then lather and rinse my goose-pimpled body as fast as I can, mindful not to knock my elbows into the female next to me.
Once clean, I follow those already showered to a dry area. Wet footprints walk in but don’t walk out. I stand next to Andia, wondering why there are four of us lined up along the wall. A shaft of air hits us, hotter than desert wind. I gasp and a few of the female scrubs smirk at me. The heat feels as if it will flay my skin from my bones. It stops just as quickly as it began and we shuffle away to make room for the next lot. Andia and I tug on our scrub jumpsuits. I brush my stringy, soap-washed hair into a high ponytail.
‘Greetings,’ Dove strolls towards us, he’s the only person in the whole place who consistently wears a smile.
‘Morning,’ I say in unison with Andia, who grins at me, before she remembers where she is and her frown returns.
Churning and popping noises come from her direction.
‘Where do we have breakfast?’ Andia asks Dove, holding her stomach to stop its protest.
‘Breakfast? What’s that?’ Dove says.
‘The first meal of the day, you know, breakfast?’ says Andia, blue eyes wide with alarm.
Dove stands with his hands by his sides, shoulders square, his face plain.
‘We – don’t – eat – breakfast,’ he says, in a tone that suggests Andia is hard of hearing.
‘What do we eat, then?’ Andia asks, confusion tracing lines across her brow.
‘Vegetables,’ Dove replies.
‘I mean, when? I’m starving!’ she blurts out.
Dove looks Andia up and down and says.
‘You are not.’
I can’t help but find this exchange amusing. Dove answers everything robotically. Is he some sort of cyborg? Instead of mutilating people they’re being turned into a new type of artificial intelligence?
‘Are you in charge?’ Andia asks, heavy frown on her brow.
‘No. Central are in charge,’ Dove replies, wry smile on his pink lips.
Andia clenches her fists. The happy-go-lucky laid-back Skel is losing her patience. Her frustration abates with the sudden commotion around us. Everyone is dressed in their jumpsuits and standing in rows of ten. Dove nods to us and we move to the back of the group and stand perfectly still. Dove stands at the front.
‘Affirmation!’ he shouts.
The scrubs link arms in one movement and I hurry to copy. They hold their tattooed wrists and a chorus of droning voices echoes into the shower-soaked air.
‘I am here because Central has spared me. Saved my life from the clutches of the Dark Angel. I belong here. I live to serve my city. United for the greater good. We kneel so others can stand in glory on our shoulders. The system works.’
I glance at Andia, her face twists with shock. I can see her thoughts as if they are written on her forehead: Seriously? The scrub on my left drops my arm. My jaw sets. The system can suck my …
‘Come on, Skyla! Dove’s leaving.’
Andia drags me by the arm to the front of the crowd. The other scrubs do not push or curse as they are squashed forwards. They shuffle like zombies, ignoring everything and everyone around them. One by one, we crawl through the hole and out into the dark corridors. The scrubs file off in different directions. We follow Dove, his white hair like a beacon in a sea of darker heads.
Guards stride past, chests puffed up, inflated sense of importance sneering though their smug faces. They barge through the crowds, forcing scrubs out of their way. Anyone who doesn’t move fast enough is thrown up against the wall. I stick close to the dirty walls, I don’t want to bump into that guy Fingers. I can guess why that’s his nickname and the last thing I want his fingers all over me again or worse, inside me. Head down to avoid unwanted attention, I glance up at intervals, checking the face of every guard that passes, hopeful. Not Crow. Not Crow. Not Crow. Sigh.
The mass of bodies moving around disorients me. I’ll never find my way back to the sleeping quarters and really, I don’t want to. I want to find a way out.
Every passage looks the same as the last but soon my surroundings feel familiar. We turn another corner and Dove waits outside a door. A door I’ve seen before. I don’t want to go in, the swinging corpse of a woman hanging like a gutted pig is still fresh in my mind. I swallow hard. I’m starting to wonder if I actually survived Sib’s attack. Maybe I didn’t, maybe this is Skel Hell. I thought my life was bad before. What’s that saying? ‘Out of the desert and into the quicksand.’ That’s what’s happened and I’m slowly sinking.
‘On Sunday, the butchers take their recoup day, which allows us to do a deep clean.’
Dove speaks in such a way that anyone would think we are taking a tour of beautiful gardens, instead of cleaning up the carnage from the savage butchering of human bodies.
‘Do we get a recoup day?’ Andia asks, a hopeful look in her deep-blue eyes.
‘No.’
‘No,’ I mutter. This place is Skel Hell, for sure!
The illuminated factory hasn’t changed since I threw up over by the back benches. My legs turn to elastic as Dove leads me, Andia, and seven other scrubs down the metal staircase. My teeth chatter and my breath creeps out in wisps of smoke. There aren’t any hanging cuts of meat. There’s a large, white door on the far wall, the “meat” must be in there. I submerge in a hot bath of relief. Dove passes out latex gloves. The scrubs snap them on and hurry over to a nearby cupboard. They grab buckets filled with bottles and cloths and sprays. They split up and set to work, while me and Andia struggle to wiggle our fingers into the gloves.
‘Follow me.’
We walk with Dove towards the other end of the cold factory. He stops in front of a tall metal cupboard. The door squeals and moans as he pulls it back. A strong smell of ammonia leaks out. Dove sets down three buckets. I watch him fill each one with supplies; spray bottle, mask, brush, cloths, and a large bottle with a skull and cross bones on it. Each time Dove drops something into the bucket his white arms flash at me. Neither wrist is marked.
‘Why aren’t you branded like the rest of us?’ I ask.
I’m hopeful he won’t clam up toda
y. He seems talkative. Well, as talkative as he probably gets.
Dove thrusts a bucket handle at me. I take it and my arm is yanked down by the weight; it’s heavier than I expected.
‘There’s no need to mark my skin,’ he calmly explains. ‘I would be instantly recognised if I set foot outside.’
‘You’ve never been outside?’ I ask, astonished.
‘Oh, you’re surprised? How nice to see that emotion,’ Dove smiles so wide I can see his pink gums above his crowded teeth. ‘I was born of two normal-skinned Skels, they were surprised too … so I’m told.’
‘Where are your parents?’ I ask.
‘Dead, and yours?’
‘Dead.’
‘Mine might as well be dead,’ Andia says, joining the conversation only after she’d familiarised herself with the items in her bucket. ‘I’ll never see them again and even if I did, they wouldn’t speak to me. Not now.’
‘What did you do to land yourself in here?’ I ask.
Andia rubs her arm and averts her eyes.
‘I had a fight with a host.’
‘You had a fight?’ I smirk.
Andia in a fight, I’d never have believed it.
‘It was an accident!’ She crosses her arms.
‘An accident?’ I smirk, ‘How can a fight be an accident?’
‘It was!’ Andia says, exasperated. ‘I didn’t get selected and so I asked to try on my friend’s MHF outfit, and she refused,’
‘MHF?’ Dove asks.
‘Meet the host family,’ I explain. He nods to signal he understands.
‘We fought over the dress,’ Andia says, eyes still on the floor. ‘It got damaged and … she got accidentally punched in the face.’
I laugh.
‘Yeah, I accidentally punch people in the face all the time.’ I mock, trying to keep my sniggers from developing into a guffaw.
‘I didn’t mean it.’ Andia wrings her hands, ‘It was my first offence. They couldn’t decide what to do with me. The girl’s nose was broken, not fixable, I’d ruined her pretty face and so her host family didn’t want her anymore, damaged goods, they said. She lost her host privileges and I was sent here.’
Andia hangs her head and mopes off to make a start on the back benches. Andia has always been passionate about becoming a host, too passionate for her own good, it would seem. I give my attention back to Dove.
‘Why aren’t there more like you?’ I ask.
I hope I’m not being intrusive. Dove is odd but seems kind. The last thing I want to do is offend him.
‘It is unknown what causes this skin pigment. If I were to procreate, my children would probably be the same colour as you, or your friend over there,’ he points to Andia.
‘What if you reproduced with a Morb?’
Dove stops digging out supplies in the cupboard and stares at me. My bucket becomes heavier the longer I hold it, I hoist it up in my arms.
‘That is forbidden. My skin may be light, but I’m still a Skel. Your hair is light,’ he nods towards my head, ‘lighter than any Skel I’ve seen, maybe you are like me.’
‘I’m not like you!’ I say with a sharpness I didn’t intend. ‘My grandfather said I was always outside as a small child, my hair bleached in the sun.’
Dove’s stare shoots straight though me, he thinks I’m lying to him. He slams the cupboard door shut.
‘They wanted me to reproduce,’ he says, carrying on as if the previous words about hair colour were never spoken, ‘as an experiment … unfortunately, my seed is dead.’
Dove leads me over to the bench next to Andia, who scrubs in a circular motion, arm bent; she presses down hard and I remember she used to clean down some of the machines at the factory; she worked various jobs, unlike me. I wasn’t interested in knowing how to do everything. Dove takes out the spray bottle and a cloth. I copy.
‘Your seed is dead?’ I ask.
‘Yes, I cannot reproduce.’
‘Oh.’
Lucky you, I think. If I couldn’t reproduce, I wouldn’t be in this mess right now. I soon wonder what kind of mess Dove had got himself into in the past. He’s so compliant, I couldn’t imagine him breaking laws. Yet the scar on his face, from temple to chin, would suggest otherwise.
‘Why are you in here?’ I ask, hoping he will explain the scar.
‘They believe my skin would burn and blister outside. It’s safer for me in here.’
Dove continues to scrub. Head down, I’m faced with the top of his messy white hair. What he said doesn’t ring true. I think of another question to try and get him to look me in the eye.
‘Why don’t the guards blab about you?’ I say, spraying my half of the bench top, more than I need to.
‘People who don’t question, never find answers,’ he says, without looking up.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say and I really don’t.
‘They believe that I am High-Host. I’m told High-Host families have been known to bleach their skin,’ Dove says. Putting away the sprayer, he rummages through his bucket. Unsuccessful in finding what he’s looking for, he walks round to me and pulls a scrubbing brush from my bucket. I grab his wrist.
‘Yes, but a host could never get their skin this white …’ I reach out and touch Dove’s arm with my other hand, running my fingers down his milky skin. He doesn’t back away. His arm is so soft, like silk, as if it is made from the feathers of a dove. How is that possible when he works in a place like this? He should be covered in rough skin, shouldn’t he? ‘My friend, Bunce, is sensitive to sunlight,’ I say, releasing his wrist. ‘He was never in direct sunlight for long and his skin quickly got used to the outside, but then he’s not nearly as white as you.’
‘Skels and High-Hosts aren’t sensitive to sunlight,’ Dove says, as if he already knows this to be true.
‘Everyone needs shade from the sun,’ I explain. ‘Anyway, he’s not a Skel, he’s Morbihan.’
White eyebrows lower, pinching together like a fluffy cloud above Dove’s pink eyes.
‘You’re mistaken, the Morbihan have never ventured outside.’
‘This one did.’ I shrug. I don’t expect him to believe me.
‘I don’t sense that you are lying,’ he says.
‘Why would I lie?’
Dove studies my face, pink retina like a laser scanning for deceit.
‘What happened to him?’ he asks.
‘He changed.’
I spray more of the strong chemical on the bench surface and begin scrubbing a large bloodstain.
‘He didn’t change, did he?’ Dove’s soft voice becomes the lightest of whispers, ‘he was cured.’
I stop scrubbing and stare at him.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Bins,’ says Dove. I flinch at the sound of the old Morb’s name. ‘He talked in his sleep about a serum to cure the obesity or rather, stop it before it starts, everyone thought he was crazy … It exists, doesn’t it?’
‘It did, it’s gone now.’ I reply.
‘I see.’
Dove pours something the same consistency as sand onto a dark mark on his side of the bench and uses the wire brush to gently work it into the stain. I change the subject. Talking about the serum could get me into trouble.
‘Why would they choose to keep the Morb race going, rather than clone you? The Morbs can’t even walk and they rely on artificial organs, it’s a struggle to keep them alive.’
‘I am but one man. The DNA samples they used to create the Morbihan included many different sequences, it would not have been the same with me.’
‘So, if they cloned you, the white race would all look the same?’
‘Yes, all like me. Morbihan were a triumph for Central. They’re highly intelligent and that’s useful but tampering with nature always comes at a price.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘The walls whisper …’ Dove says, his lips turn up at the corners. ‘This place holds many secrets but the walls don’t ke
ep them. Walls have never stopped secrets from being told.’
I watch Dove scrub a black smudge in a circular motion. The toxic chemical smell brings water to my eyes. Head full of fuzz, I slip my mask over my nose and mouth and continue to scrub my part of the bench top. I’m struck by a burning question.
‘Would you leave this place if you could?’ I mumble through the mask.
Dove shrugs.
I probably won’t get any more information out of him today. I sense he’s told me a lot, by his standards. I weigh Dove up. He is older than Crow, not by much, early thirties maybe, and he’s a little unstable … not that Crow isn’t. Dove’s smile doesn’t seem fake. I’m not sure … a forced optimism? More than twenty years without ever seeing the world outside would make anyone crack up. There’s a reason Dove took me under his wing. He wanted me to bump into him, I know it. Did the walls whisper to him about me? Did they tell him I’d escaped once before?
My ears are assaulted with the high-pitched screech of the siren. Andia clamps her hands either side of her head. I pull down the mask and shout over the noise, but my voice gets lost, swept away with the wailing. It’s louder than ever. Dove shakes his head. He can’t hear me. A dozen guards spill down the metal steps and surround us. I search for Crow, craning my neck above the huddled scrubs. The black arms and legs of a jumpsuit flail above a dozen guards, the body is carried high above their heads like a sacrifice. The siren drops away, replaced with a girl’s screams. My ears are ringing but I can still hear her cries.
‘Please! Please! I won’t do it again. I promise. I promise …’
I vigorously rub my finger against the outside of my ear until it pops and the muttering surrounding me becomes crisp. Deep voice close to my cheek.
‘I will come to you on the fourth night.’
Crow has already started walking away, marching in rhythm with the rest of the guards, up the steps and out of the door, carrying the young girl with them. My eyes meet Dove’s.