Defect (2 page)

I focus my breathing and clear my mind. I can feel the table underneath me. I focus on the sensations. I can feel the gown, stiff and scratchy across my skin. I can sense the woman
sitting beside me. I hear her steady breaths. In and out. She shifts in her seat, and I peek open one eye to see her hunched over the data terminal, concentrating on the screen.

“Is that it?”

She startles at my voice and hits a button on the side of the machine. She stands and looks down at me. I prop myself up on one elbow and wait for her to answer.

“Wait here.” She heads for the door and steps into the hall, closing it softly behind her.

I wait for a few minutes, again wondering what would happen if I tried to leave, but before I have time to really consider it, the woman returns. There is a man with her. He does not look pleased.

“What’s happening?” I ask when they approach the table. She presses my shoulder down so I’m lying flat again.

“Be still. You need to focus this time,” she says like it’s a warning.

For the first time, I notice the syringe the man is holding and watch uneasily as he flicks the vial of cloudy liquid it contains. He uncaps the needle and pushes up on the syringe until a bead of liquid appears at the tip. I swear I see a smirk on his lips as he brings the needle to my arm. My heart hammers unevenly in my chest, and I feel the needle bite into my skin. I begin to feel its effects and drift into forced relaxation.

The woman ensures the electrodes are still secure and goes to the machine. I turn my head and watch as she turns the dial to its highest setting. A jolt whips through me, chattering my teeth together. I bite down and taste blood, warm and salty on my tongue. I quickly swallow it down.

This time there’s a buzzing pain that builds behind my eyes. I smell something burning, and when I finally close my eyes, visions of swirling dark storm clouds bounce around inside my head, which now feels empty.
Guard your mind.
It seems important to remember that, although I’m not sure why. I repeat the words over and over in a small part of my brain, the only part I still seem to have control of, before I slip away completely.

The machine clicks off, its buzz fading into the background, as I slowly gain consciousness. I am dizzy and nauseous from the drug, but can feel the hazy effect wearing off.
 My body is numb, and my eyelids are heavy. I remain perfectly still on the table, the bright lights overhead warming me. I can hear talking in the room, and though I know it’s likely about me, I can’t bring myself to focus on what’s being said.  

I lie still with my eyes closed, drawing shallow breaths. A man’s voice barks an order, and footsteps retreat into the distance.

I hear voices again, only this time it sounds like there are many more. I realize if they think I’m still asleep, they’ll talk freely in front of me. I keep my eyes closed and force myself to concentrate on the voices until they come into focus.

“She failed the mindscan.”

I wonder what it means to
fail
the mindscan. I had never heard it put that way before. Did it mean I was a Reject?

“Do it again,” an unfamiliar male voice says.

“We did sir, on the highest setting.” The woman speaks this time.

“Her brain activity never dropped. Her heart rate and breaths per minute increased only slightly, and even then, she was able to get them under control,” the man who stuck me with the needle says nervously.

Their eyes prick my skin. I remain perfectly still, afraid to do the wrong thing, afraid I somehow already have.

“She’s Britta Sterling’s daughter.” The words hang in the air. What does my mom have to do with this? Papers rustle, and I imagine it’s my file changing hands.

No one answers. My knees begin to shake, and my mouth goes completely dry. I feel a needle at my arm again, and I gasp when the rush of cool liquid hits my blood stream. If the first injection was to put me to sleep, this one is clearly designed to wake me up. My eyes blink open slowly against the light that seems to have grown brighter above me.

“Eve, can you hear me?” the woman asks.

I turn my head toward her voice and try to focus. Spots dance in front of my eyes. I try to speak, the word
yes
forming in my throat, but when I open my mouth, only a small moan escapes my lips. I feel like I’ve been out much longer than the few minutes it seemed.

My eyes adjust, and I scan the bodies standing over me. There are five people in the room now. The original woman and man who administered the scan are now joined by an older man in a crisp military uniform, a plump woman in a gray smock dress and a guy only a couple of years older than me
, wearing camouflage pants tucked into boots and a T-shirt stretched tightly across his frame. I am being watched. The effect is daunting.

They all wait for me to do or say something. I keep my face completely composed and stare right back at them, unblinking. The woman takes my arm and pulls me up so I’m sitting on
the edge of the table. I swing my legs over the side, and when I’m sure I’ll be steady on my feet, I drop down until my bare feet touch the floor. Now that I’m standing in front of them, I feel small, inconsequential. I can sense they’re deciding what to do with me. Determining my fate.

My gown gapes open in the front, showing everything
– or lack thereof – but rather than pulling it closed, I stand there defiantly.

The older man in the military uniform – O’Donovan,
as the badge on his chest says – looks me over the way a man looks at a woman. I fight the urge to shield myself and instead stare straight ahead.
They can only take what you give them.
And I will not give them the satisfaction of having any more power over me than they already do.

The plump lady steps forward. She opens the gown farther and pokes at my ribs. “Nothing to her, so you won’t want her, Will,” she says to the guy about my age.
While the rest of their eyes harden and look me over for weaknesses, Will’s eyes are locked on mine, looking troubled. I watch him for too long, until the lady pokes a finger at me again. “You speak?”

I swallow and look away from Will. “I do.”
I’m surprised by how composed my voice sounds. My insides are flipping around like fish trapped on the bottom of a boat. “Am I a Reject?” My voice rises despite my best attempt to keep calm, rational.

The woman who administered the test shifts her weight. “There are a tiny percentage of people whose mindscans don’t work properly. You are not a Reject, but you also cannot be declared as passing.”

“What happens now?”

She looks down, as though
she’s considering how to tell me. “
Defects
,” she emphasizes the word, “are taken to the testing center in Ward A, where we try to discover why the technology failed.”

Defect
. The stories come flooding back. Whispered rumors on the playground at school. Simon’s older brother was one of them. A Defect. He was kept in the compound for endless psychological testing, as they tried to uncover what was different about his mind.

She looks back up at me. “
Defects who show certain abilities are taken to Ward B and trained to become guards, to work at the compound patrolling the fence and doing other jobs under the direction of the military.”

“What are we even discussing this for? She won’t make a good guard. Take her,
Dorie,” O’Donovan says and turns to leave.

After a second, Will drops his eyes from mine and follows O’Donovan out of the room
. I’m unsure whether he’s relieved or disappointed that he doesn’t have to take me.

Dorie
grips my arm and pushes me forward. “Move.”

I stumble toward the door, nearly tripping over my own feet. I clutch the door frame and hold myself there. “Wait. It can’t be right. Do it to me again,” I turn back to face them, pleading.

“There’s no use, Eve. The mindscan is never wrong. And with the results you received – there’s no denying your fate.” What does that mean? What are my results?

Dorie
pries my fingers from the door and shoves me forward. I pull the robe closed in front of me and let her move me farther along, down the hall, deeper into the compound. 

I picture my mother in the waiting room being pulled aside and told of the news. I can see her eyes fill with tears and imagine her taking the news silently, nodding to their words. Words like diseased
,  and incurable. Defect. They are just words though. They will not define me.

*
**

 
 An uncomfortable fullness in my bladder wakes me from a deep, but restless sleep. I shift on the bed, badly in need of a bathroom, before realizing my ankles are tethered to the footboard. Momentarily forgetting about the need to pee, I survey the length of my body. I’m wearing scratchy grey cotton scrubs that I have no memory changing into. I seem to be in one piece, yet feel woozy and weak.

I look
over the rest of myself and become aware of new aches and pains. I’m certain I’ve been prodded and poked and shudder at the thought. My arms are bruised with track marks. The skin is tender and purple, puckered up where it met countless needles.

My eyes travel along my arm and stop at the new tattoo across my wrist. It’s a barcode with the number
5491
in block lettering underneath. The black numbers are raised and red, as if my skin is rebelling against them. I am marked as a Defect, a constant reminder that I can never go home.

My head throbs. I clench my eyes closed and curl up on my side, trying to lessen the insistence in my bladder. I try to recall the series of events between walking into the compound with my mom and ending with me in this bed. I’m strapped to a hospital bed in what I can only guess is a mental ward. My stomach grumbles loudly, forcing me back into awareness.

I breathe deeply, willing myself to stay calm. Freaking out, hyperventilating and giving into the gravity of the situation will get me nowhere. If I stay calm and look at things rationally, I’ll have a much better chance of surviving this nightmare.
They can only take what you give them.
They will not take my sanity, my inner strength.

The first order of business is a bathroom. Surely someone will come by soon to check on me. And then I can figure out where I am.  Having taken stock of my injuries and various discomforts, I survey the room around me. Faint light seeps into the edges of the room from the narrow windows near the ceiling, like we’re underground. Row after row of hospital beds with sleeping women line the room. Some are old, their gray hair scattered across their pillows,
and some closer to my age, their faces smooth in sleep. I look at the bed across from mine, and dark eyes are looking back at me.

“You’re up,” she whispers after a moment of studying me in silence. I watch her without answering. Her hair is black and frizzy, like she stuck her finger in a socket. Her face is expressionless. “I’m Willow,” she says.

“Eve,” I say. “How long was I out?”

“Two days,” she says without hesitating.

Two days? Lying in this dungeon for two days without food, without water? It seems unimaginable that much time has passed. My throat is dry and cracked. My hollow stomach shrinks into my ribs.

The doors to the dormitory swing open and a thin nurse with silver hair seems to glide across the room, as though her feet barely touch the floor. She pulls a cart in behind her, letting the door swing closed. The clicking sound once it closes tells me there’s some sort of locking mechanism in place. The cart is topped with steaming bowls of broth
, and my stomach clenches in anticipation of something warm to fill it.

She parks the cart and comes to my bed. “There she is.” She helps me sit up against the back of my headboard. “Next time you won’t need so much – little thing like you –
you were out longer than we expected.” She brings me a cup of broth, but stops before handing it to me. “Think you can keep this down?”

I nod, my mouth watering. She offers it to me
, and I wrap my fingers around the warmth of the cup. My hands are shaking as I bring it to my lips. I manage a small sip. It glides easily down my throat, washing away the bitterness. It tastes like tree bark and something salty. I take a bigger gulp and the nurse turns to walk away.

Willow takes her cup of broth and downs it in one gulp, keeping her eyes on me. The others begin to wake and look in my direction. It’s like I’m the shiny, new toy in the room. I choke on a gulp of the broth and cough.

“You’re lucky we have Susanne today. She’s the only one who treats us like we’re still human,” Willow says, nodding to the nurse.

After the broth’s been distributed and the empty cups collected, Susanne begins to unshackle us, one by one. I rub my raw ankles and pull my knees to my chest. “What happens now?” I ask Willow.

“It’s shower day.”

We’re herded down the hall
– single file – with two guards leading the way and two behind us. We’re taken into an open room with water spouts along the walls, every few feet or so.