Authors: Kirstin Pulioff
The light darkened as
she approached the top. She found herself face to face with an imposing
doorway. Similar to the main gates of their camp, this door was heavy, with
thick metal studs, and topped by a red light. She rested her fingers on the
door, feeling the weight and the smooth groove of the wooden beams. She pushed
the door open, cringing as the creaks echoed throughout the room. Simone jumped
as it hit the back wall.
The air assaulted her
senses. An overbearing aroma of cigars and sweat thickened the air. Even with
shattered windows, the scent lingered throughout the corners, recycled with the
short gusts of wind. Her steps slowed, unconsciously as she walked toward the
shattered windows.
The wind shrieked
through, whistling sharply and rustling the papers. Under the windows, the long
desk held two work stations. Two straight back chairs tucked underneath the
desk, and paperwork fluttered beneath the weight of worn bricks. Simone walked
by, looking at the different boxes, charts, and red scribbles on the papers.
On the wall behind the
desk, a set of framed photos hung, evenly spread along the wall. The first
picture looked familiar. As she crept closer, she recognized it from camp. They
had the same picture hanging in their meeting hall, and in the orphanage,
although theirs had crumbled edges and small burned spots. This pristine
version jumped out, and for once she could accurately pick out people she knew,
and several hundred that she had never seen before. She saw the president
shaking hands with the farmers as their flag was first hung in the center of
camp. It had torn edges, and small burns, but as a symbol, it gave them hope
and reminded them of what they had survived. Her fingers traced the frame as
she moved to the next.
Her heart plummeted. “That
doesn’t make sense,” she said, grabbing the frame from the wall. Her stomach
turned, and the frame slipped from her grasp. The crash of the breaking glass
quickly brought her back to the present. She picked up the frame and shook out
the remaining pieces. A small drop of blood smeared the president’s face as it
smirked back at her.
This couldn’t be their
president. Not the one who protected them from the contamination, who
proclaimed the world to be a desolate waste beyond the confines of the few
remaining camps. This photo was recent, and the men wore polished suits, laughing
from atop one of the armored ration trucks.
She ran to the next,
feeling the pit fall out of her stomach. Swearing under her breath, the image
burned into her mind. It was the president again, behind his desk. Waving in
the background, a new flag stood, a golden globe surrounded with white stars on
a blue background. The same symbol as the charcoal drawings she saw at the base
of the tower. She looked quickly back to the first picture and saw their camp flag
hanging limp, a sad shred of its previous glory.
Before she could give
the photos another thought, a flash of movement caught her attention. Against
the far wall, a rectangular cabinet held six monitors. Three of the screens lit
up, showing wavy lines and fuzzy views of the camp. She knew the guards were
protecting them, but this level of surveillance seemed extreme. She wrapped her
arms around herself, trying to shake off this new feeling of violation, as she
watched the movements of her camp.
The first monitor
showed the interior camp. She watched Mrs. Hutchings walk the school kids down
the street, a tight line of children holding each other’s hands as they
disappeared, one-by-one, into the classroom. Her eyes slowed on the monitor
showing the farm boys working shirtless in the fields. The last focused in on
the main gates, showing a still picture of the door and guards. The other three
monitors were dark. Curiosity brought her fingers forward, twisting the dusty
knob beneath one of the other monitors.
The knob clicked, and
the screen came to life. The illuminated monitor showed things she had never
seen before. Simone exhaled. This was inside the factory. She had never
actually seen or heard about the inside of the factories. Most gossip stayed
out of the orphanage, and during the short time between bells, most people kept
to themselves.
Faces stared at her,
familiar, but blank versions of the women from camp. Squeezed together, elbow
to elbow, their arms blurred with their frantic pace. Piles of fabric
threatened to topple as a steady stream of guards removed the finished projects
and handed them new ones. The fuzzy screen did not hide the fresh stream of
tears running down Mrs. Booker’s face, or the pain behind her eyes. Simone’s
heart broke at the undeniable grins on the guards’ faces.
She anxiously turned
the next knob. The new screen showed another room. Looking at the piles of
clothing lining the back wall, it seemed to be a storeroom. The piles towered
in the background as uniformed guards counted and made notes on their clipboards.
She looked down at her shirt and back to the screens.
Simone’s heart threatened
to beat out of her chest as she hesitated on the final knob. Her palm shot to
her mouth, covering her silent scream. Secured to a chair, a man sat still. Dark
welts opened on his chest. The trail of blood led down his body and over his
restrained legs. A small pool collected on the ground, rippled by the drops. His
head rolled forward, blank eyes staring at the ground. In the background, she
saw the stiff pleats of the uniform, and the exposed knife. The man’s chest
heaved as his head was yanked back by his hair, and the knife positioned on his
throat. Her fingers trembled as they quickly twisted the knob.
The bells ringing
throughout the day, the colonel and their rations, the factories and farms, the
hidden torture. She looked down at her sweater and felt the thick cuff the sleeve
where her number was sewn. As quick as the picture had shattered, so did the
guise of the camp.
Her mind clear, she
paid new attention to the muffled yells from below. Simone ran to the long
desk, hearing the metal squeak against the floor as she pulled out one of the
chairs. Standing on top the desk, she saw Christine. Pacing next to the barrier
of brambles, her friend’s voice echoed as a raspy sob. Simone bent down to grab
one of the bricks, and stopped. The soft edges of the brick wore beneath her
finger, leaving a layer of red dust atop the paperwork. She looked at the desk
and the dust, and swore. The clean desk, the bundled paperwork- this wasn’t an
abandoned tower. She wasn’t safe up there.
Simone swore again as
she clambered off the desk and toward to the door. A surge of panic hit her as
she noticed the red light. No longer idle and asleep, the red flashed a
warning. Thumping of footsteps grew louder.
The room around her
silenced as her options raced before her eyes. Too high to jump, too open to
hide, she settled for the one option left. Grabbing the brick off the
paperwork, she crouched against the far wall, feeling her fear turn cold.
The beige domed hat
appeared under a fog of cigar smoke, as the man entered the room. She lunged
across at him, connecting with the side of his arm. Her trajectory shortened as
her feet slipped on the scattered glass. Her wrists cracked as he grabbed them,
forcing the brick loose. It landed with a soft thud as he tossed her across the
room. Pain shot through her shoulder. She bared her teeth as he smiled cruelly
at her.
She knew him, or had
seen him before. His uniform matched the others that surrounded the camp, the
rigid pleats now showing a sign of use.
“Why are you doing
this? You were supposed to protect us! You said it was for our own good!” She
sputtered, sobbing. He came forward, his calm demeanor shaking her to the core.
His steps slowed as he stopped by the framed photos, putting the second one
back on its nail.
“It is for the good of
the people, our people. And we did protect you. We protected you from yourselves.
Your country was a mess. You were fighting against each other- poverty, drugs, narcissism,
commercialism. You name it, you destroyed it. Here, we keep things regulated. Your
lives are in line, you are productive and accounted for. There are none of
those other issues here.”
“There are none of
those freedoms, either.”
“Well, there is a cost
for everything. It’s a new world out there, number 277,” he said, nodding to the
cuff on her sleeve, He flicked ash to the ground. “It’s time you understood the
program.”
He opened a pocket
behind his colorful insignia, pulling out a small black case. Simone looked
closer at the patches, noticing the new presidential flag intermixed. A whimper
escaped her lips as his thick fingers flicked the end of a syringe, until a
stream of clear liquid ran. She pushed herself into the corner of the desk.
“This isn’t going to
work. I’ll tell the others.”
He stopped for a
moment. Then he laughed, and puffed stale smoke in her direction.
“If the others wanted
to know, they would know. The truth has always been there, hiding in plain
sight for those who wanted to see, and cleverly hidden for those too afraid to
believe. You’re not the first, and I am sure you won’t be the last to find
out,” he said, reaching down to grab her ankle. “In fact, we encourage it. We like
playing with our trouble makers.” He crept closer, his dark eyes gleaming.
“What happens to them?”
A soft click sounded as
he tapped the edge of the syringe again. “Some handled the medicine better than
others.” The twinkle in his eyes turned flat. “But either way, no one remembers
a thing. Now just stay still, this won’t hurt a bit.” he chuckled as the needle
scratched the surface of her skin.
“Never,” she snarled,
shoving him back. She kicked him between the legs and raced toward the door.
The air whooshed out as
her body smashed to the floor. Her palms and cheek struck the floor first as he
pulled on her leg, twisting her around until her bones popped. She bled from
the broken glass. The warm, metallic taste of blood pooled in her mouth as the
ringing in her ears erased the sounds of her friend’s cries. The brief moment
of shock ended with her scream. Fire raced through her. Her screams echoed
through the tower, trailing in her memory as the tower faded to darkness. Her
last memories were watching the black rubber of his shoes near her face, and
the putrid smell of burned flesh as the poker pressed into her.
His last words echoed in
her mind as she drifted off. “It’s for your own good. We’ll take care of you.”
***
White light blinded
her, straining her barely open eyes. Her fingers shot to her temples as painful
pounding threatened to break through. She jumped up, alarmed. Her fingers slid
over the smooth tape and soft gauze.
She reclosed her eyes,
willing herself to calm, waiting until the thumping subsided to nothing more
than a muted annoyance. Slowly, she reopened them, careful to keep her
movements slow.
The ceilings were white,
matching the walls, and a netted cloth draped over her, attempting to create a
screen of privacy in the open room. A creative ruse designed to create comfort
under the watchful eyes of the doctors and guards. Not as successful as
intended, she thought, noticing the looks as she received from around the room.
The severity of the
room softened as she saw her friend scrunched into the seat next to her. The
majority of Christine’s body lay hidden behind a stack of medical supplies
boxes, IV stands, and beeping monitors. Simone pushed herself up, flinching as
flames shot up her right hand, forgetting about the pounding in her head.
“Christine?” she
croaked.
She watched as her
friend’s eyes fluttered softly and settled onto her with a smile. “You’re up,
and ok,” she said, reaching for her non-bandaged hand. “You scared me.” She
offered a gentle squeeze and saddened smile.
“What happened? I don’t
remember anything.”
The chair squeaked as
she pulled it closer to the bedside, leaning in. “You don’t remember anything?”
Christine’s fingers trembled as she ran them through her hair, and lowered her
voice. “It was that tower. I warned you about it, I told you to forget about
it, but you couldn’t… or didn’t.”
Simone heard an edge to
her voice beneath her concern. “The tower?” she questioned, feeling haunted at
the familiar words. “I don’t remember anything about it.”
A look of relief washed
over her friend, and her eyes softened in an instant. “That’s probably for the
best. We don’t need to worry about that now. We’re just lucky the guards were
there to find you, and take care of you. Everything else will go back to
normal. No one will even notice after a while. And we’ll be busy soon enough
with the factory.”
“The factory…” Simone’s
voice slowly faded as her eyes drifted around the room, noticing a small group
of people looking over as they walked by. It seemed as if the room slowed, holding
its breath to watch her. A crooked smile darkened the guard’s mouth as he
checked off his paperwork, and nurses slowed as they walked past. Everything
seemed to slow, except for Christine. Her words tumbled out faster than Simone’s
mind could comprehend.
“No one will notice?
Notice what?” her voice quickened as she grabbed her face, feeling for other
bandages. What happened?” she asked, pointing to the gauze covering her
forehead, feeling the tender wounds wrapped beneath bandages on her right palm.
The doctor approached,
wearing a stiff, pleated white lab coat. He pulled a red pen out from his chest
pocket, hidden behind a blue and gold embroidered patch. His eyes twinkled darkly
under the florescent lights. “You gave us a scare, young lady,” he said, checking
the vitals on the machines. “Care to tell us what you were doing by that
tower?”
A quick glance from
Christine warned her. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
His red pen marked her
charts before continuing. “Your friend and the guards brought you in a week
ago. They found you near the old tower in the woods. You were lucky. The
contaminate levels in that area are still off the chart. It’s a blessing you
made it here when you did, and that we still had the old medication.”