by Corrie Wang
“Fine.” I roll up my sleeves. “You called dibs? Hurry up and get yours.”
Breaker tilts his head to the side and considers me. “All right, then.”
With no caution in his advance or anticipation in his eyes, he comes straight at me almost like some kind of horrible reanimated dead body. I’ve seen something like this before, but there’s no time to remember when. Instead I grab the ball from the boy that murmured at me and bounce it once. It comes back true. Then I chuck it into Breaker’s face.
Even his yelp of pain is nearly silent. The ball returns straight into my waiting palms. Breaker holds a hand to his nose. Blood seeps through his fingers.
“Don’t do it,” I murmur to the second biggest of the group.
This male has an amoeba-like pattern of black marks on his face. He doesn’t listen any better than Breaker. Fists raised to protect his face, he charges. The ball nails him in the groin. He instantly keels over. It works as beautifully as Liyan and the mercenaries always told me it would. Why have I been wasting my time doing anything else?
Scooping the ball up, I hold it out in front of me as I back my way through the crowd. If you could hear dust settling before, now you can hear dust being made.
“Stop him,” Breaker whispers.
More Sixteens move in, but I easily dodge them. Then I am through and running to Twofer. He throws his arms wide, bouncing, waiting for me. The Little with the big head mimics him. I’m a dozen feet away.
“Fight!” Motor shouts. “Fight!”
No sooner does the room register his words than everything changes. The park view flicks off, and the wall screen becomes a brilliant white. All the males drop into a crouch. I skid to a stop as the two guards hurry back in. One has a mug of what smells like tea. The other has a Taser out in front of him.
“Everybody, out!” he barks at the Littles.
Two Five flings a small hand out to me. “Glori!”
“No,” I cry.
Muerte said if I found Twofer, I should take him and run. But where? When Grand and Liyan mused about what other cities might have survived the Night, the scenarios they dreamed up were always horrific. Look what happened to us, after all. But we didn’t have to live in a city. Considering all those empty houses we passed on the way to the Fortress, what did it matter where we went?
Yet if I grab Twofer now, then what? Steel blast doors and concrete-block-thick windows and no way out. And worse, no Sway. He’d be trapped here. Maybe always. I am only here because of him, and as much as I love Two Five, this isn’t an either-or scenario.
Holding hands with both a guard and the male with the large head, Two Five looks back at me over his shoulder. Helplessly, I do nothing but watch him leave.
When the doors close behind the Littles, I turn on Motor.
“Why did you do that?” I fume.
He shrugs and adjusts his glasses. “Doc said to keep him updated. Duh.”
As I move toward him, intending to squeeze every last drop of sour smugness from his face, a booming voice fills the room.
“STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN.”
The words grow louder with every repetition. Around me the males crouch tighter to the floor, covering their ears with their hands. Compared with all the previous silence… I drop to my knees. Curl over. I’m certain my ears are bleeding. It’s so loud, yet it’s never-ending.
Minutes and then more minutes pass. There is only the voice.
“STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN. STAND DOWN.”
Finally, it stops.
Doctor’s calm voice fills the room. “What do we do at the Fortress?”
“We listen,” all the males chant together.
“And?”
“Do as we’re told. Always. Without question.”
The doors open. Two different tan-uniformed guards enter. Except they’re not different. I recognize them as well. The one shot me with a dart gun. The other’s thigh felt the bite of Mama Bear. He has a knife wound. That doesn’t allow him an afternoon off?
If anyone knows where Sway is, they do. But I don’t know what to do with that knowledge.
Motor points both at Breaker and at the male with the swirls. As one guard drags them away, the other takes a slim cocoa-colored bar from his pocket. Hershey’s. After unwrapping the foil, he breaks off a single piece and hands it to Motor. It’s been years, but I’ll never forget the scent of chocolate. It must have been cryovacked, because it doesn’t even smell. The doctor said with the right motivation, Motor was his most helpful ward.
“Chocolate?” I say to Motor. “Chocolate is your motivator?”
As the other males in the room slowly come back to a sitting position, Motor ignores me and crams the candy into his mouth. A few cast scornful looks at him. Everyone else is too shaken to bother. My ears ring. Yet I can’t help but notice that as the guard leads Breaker out, he whispers something to the nearest male. Moments later, a boy roughly Motor’s age turns to me, smiles blankly, and in a singsong voice murmurs, “As they say, Walk-In, to be continued.”
It’s then I know where I’ve seen males like these before. The weird lack of emotions. The tattoo marks on the Sixteens. They remind me of those two younger mobsters that tried to attack me in the tunnel. They had that exact same glazed look in their eyes. Everyone here speaks with the same disinterested calm that Rage uses. Sway said no one knew where the mob came from. But maybe that’s not true anymore.
“Motor, is this where they make the mob?”
I expect a blank stare. Or a comment about how dumb I am. But as chimes sound and Motor’s tongue probes his teeth for every last taste of chocolatey sweetness, he pushes up his glasses and whispers one little word.
“Duh.”
4:59:00. 4:58:59.
The Fortress is where the mob comes from.
And they know who I am.
And they have my brother and Sway.
Realistically, that means the friend who is coming for me, in just under five hours, can only be one of a few people. Chia or Rage or Jackal.
Although I tell myself it’s not important, that I need to focus on figuring a way out, instead my brain picks at how this is all possible. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced all these males came from my grand’s old labs. Except maybe fees didn’t make these males. Maybe the males did.
Or tried to.
Judging by Breaker and the other Sixteens, whoever began the process clearly didn’t get it right. But they must have kept trying. Why they stopped at the Nines, I don’t know. But maybe it explained why our fees were snatched six years ago. The males needed help getting the baby-making process right.
Regardless, as the chimes sound again and recess in the yard leads to recess in an enormous screening room replete with lush red velvet curtains and reclining chairs, the only other thing I know for sure is that I should have taken Two Five when I had the chance. Because as the seats fill with males around us, the Littles are noticeably missing. Luckily, so is Breaker and the Sixteen with the swirl pattern on his face.
My timer now floats on Motor’s armrest.
“Can we please get rid of that thing?” I whisper, interrupting him as he goes on about why our seats are exactly the best seats in the theater.
“How you gonna know when your friend gets here?” he huskily replies.
“How will I know,” I automatically correct. “Trust me. I’m sure I’ll know.”
“Congratulations. So, anyway…”
As ordered, Motor hasn’t left my side. But he is not a silent shadow. It’s like his betrayal in the yard was so second nature he’s not even aware he should have the courtesy to at least act guilty. Instead he cheerily goes on about how great life is at the Fortress. I’ve already learned that Sway and I arrived on something called weekend day. That the meal he likes best is yellow. An
d the classes he particularly excels in are all of them.
It’s like he’s waited his whole life for someone to talk to.
Actually, he probably has.
Yet as the overhead lights dim, no matter how I pry or interrupt, he refuses to say another word about the mob or where they might be keeping Sway or the Littles or precisely how many doors his keycard can open or how many guards the Fortress has on staff.
The movie screen lights up.
“What the hill… ?” I whisper only to be shushed immediately by the row in front of us.
It’s the same kind of cartoons that we watched back home. Either the Fortress didn’t enforce single-sex viewing the way fees did, or else the males in charge thought the mouse in shorts was a male and therefore audience appropriate. How they explained the character’s high-pitched voice, so clearly a fee’s, I don’t know.
When the mouse cartoon ends, a new title screen comes up. It’s so pink, it hurts my eyes. An excited murmur goes through the theater.
“What are the Powerpuff Girls?” I whisper.
“Only the best thing ever.” Motor sighs. Elbows on knees, face in hands, he smiles as three squeaky-voiced fees fly across the screen. “They’re heroes. Superheroes. Buttercup is my favorite. I’m gonna be just like him someday.”
“A tiny flying fee?” I ask.
He did have the bulbous eyes down. I’d give him that.
“What’s a fee? And no, I’m not gonna fly. Duh. I’m gonna be a hero.”
I snort. “Last I checked, heroes didn’t rat on their friends for chocolate.”
“And last I checked”—Motor frowns, even as he remains absorbed in the screen—“males who get sent downstairs don’t come back up.”
I freeze. Did Motor just tell me where Sway was? He shoves up his glasses, oblivious to the dirty fingerprints he leaves on the lenses.
As offhandedly as possible, I snort and say, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Half glancing at the timer, Motor whispers, “One hour and eleven minutes ago you told Doctor you weren’t going anywhere without Twofer or your friend Sway. If that Little in the yard was one of those names and the other one isn’t here, then he must be downstairs. Du-uh.”
My entire body tenses, as if it might run to Sway without my permission.
“What happens downstairs?”
“They correct males with attitudes.”
“Correct them how?”
Motor laughs at the screen and shrugs. “The angry kids wake up blank. The sarcastic kids wake up dull. Everybody wakes up… less them.”
More than the fear of the doctor coming, this explained all the males’ lack of emotions. The Fortress was “correcting” them. But if the eventual goal was to turn them into the mob, why make them less angry or violent? Jackal had plenty extra of both those qualities and he rose through the ranks perfectly fine. Although I can’t imagine he’s easy to control.
As if on cue, Breaker walks in. A bandage is neatly taped over his nose. Blood still flecks his sweatshirt. His expression is even more remote than before. I know, because he takes a seat at the end of our row and proceeds to stare at me. Unblinking.
“See?” Motor rasps. “Downstairs.”
“How do I get there? And don’t you dare say I take the stairs down.”
Motor’s eyebrows rise up above his large glasses. “You said it, not me. But you don’t wanna go there. Last week, I told on Adventure for selling his dinner milk. When he found out it was me, he gave me two purple nurples and threatened to kill me.” He snorts. “I told on him for that, too. That’s why they moved me from the bunks to my new room.”
“What happened to Adventure?”
“I dunno.” He shoves up his glasses and looks back at the screen. “No one’s seen him since.”
Just like Sway.
4:05:00. 4:04:59.
Chimes. Cartoon recess goes straight to dinner meal. Motor pushes me so we’re first out of the theater. Breaker is right at our heels.
“Hurry,” Motor says, though I need no encouragement. “First cuts of meal are the biggest.”
The cafeteria is an airy room of high ceilings, stainless steel, and warm blond wood. At the center of the steepled space is a “meal station.” It’s shaped like a cube with rails for trays running along the outside. Matching steel-and-wood tables and chairs ring the cube in concentric rows. Running along the outside of the room are honey-colored wood cabinets.
Again, I scan the room for Sway.
Again, there is no sight of him.
Inside the cube, dressed entirely in white, are the two oldest males—never mind people—I have ever seen. With shaking hands, one slices into a square block of red-colored substance that kind of resembles Liyan’s homemade tofu. If it was made of blood. The other elderly male puts the slices on plates and hands them to us. At the end of the line are tall glasses of milk.
“What is this?” I ask, sniffing the red lump.
The substance wobbles unappetizingly.
“What do you think it is?” Motor snorts. “It’s dinner meal.”
“Yeah, but what is it? Like, what is the food that the meal is made out of?”
He shakes his head, exasperated. “It’s red dinner meal. Duh. For breakfast there’s flakes and milk. For dinner there’s meal. Pink dinner meal. Green dinner meal. Don’t even get me started on brown dinner meal. Eat fast. Flakes and milk are portioned out, and you can only get one. But dinner meal they let you get seconds.”
“Yeah, but who would want to?” I ask.
Motor snorts laughter as he takes two dishes of meal and a glass of milk.
Always drink your milk.
I wonder where the males get theirs from. Grand told me all the cows died after the Night, but that they were harmful to the environment anyway, which was why she and her lab techs made our milk from a soy base. Just as I put a glass on my tray, I am jostled from behind by Breaker’s friend. The Sixteen with the amoeba-like black marks on his face. Only now they’re not black marks anymore. They’re oozing, raw burns. It looks like someone took a hot iron poker and traced the previous pattern. The welts are raised and inflamed.
“Downstairs?” I murmur to Motor.
“You think?” he dryly replies.
Only after he’s gone do I realize the male dropped four little pieces of paper on my tray. Single words that look like they’re all cut from separate books.
milk
the
drink
don’t
I mentally rearrange them as I follow Motor to a table. Each iteration tells me the same thing. I glance around the room. Every Sixteen is staring at me. Their glasses clearly pushed away. Don’t drink the milk. Understood. Yet I’m so parched, I’d drink my own bathwater—and at home we used ours a half-dozen times—and I wish I knew if this was a beneficial message or a harmful one. Because I can’t imagine after the yard that Breaker’s crew wants to help me.
Still, when we sit, instead of drinking, I cut and taste a tiny piece of red meal. Its flavor is identical to how it looks—squishy, bland, and lukewarm. No wonder Motor would do anything for a bite of chocolate. Yet he hovers over his plate like the meal is as delicious as Liyan’s kimchi stew with preserved greens. Watching him take a hearty drink of milk, I reach for my own glass. But then he looks around and spits the liquid onto his second plate of meal and mixes it in.
“You don’t like the milk?” I ask.
“It makes me itchy.”
I glance at the timer, which is floating above the cafeteria door we came through. It’s been five minutes since we sat down. All the males from the theater are here. But no Littles.
“What’s on the agenda after dinner meal?” I ask.
“What’s an agenda?” Motor asks, bits of meal flying out of his mouth.
“It’s like a schedule.”
“Oh.” He shoves up his glasses. “Why not say schedule, then? Bedtime’s on the thing.”
“Agenda. Isn’t it too early
for bed? It can’t even be dusk yet.”
Motor’s brow furrows. “What’s dusk?”
“You know, pre-dark.”
Again, the blank look.
“Motor, how long have you been in here?” I ask, exasperated.
He rubs at his eye beneath his glasses, then pushes them up again. “My whole life.”
“But, I mean, you’ve been outside. You’ve left this place, right?”
He pokes at his red meal. “Duh, where would I go?”
Before I can reply, milk and red dinner meal crash down onto Motor’s head. The Sixteen with the facial burns is standing over him, an empty tray in his hands. His now empty glass of milk in Motor’s lap. His plate of meal broken on the floor.
“Hey, watch it!” I push back in my chair as Motor’s lip quivers.
“I work here,” the male says calmly.
I try not to look at his oozing face. “Good for you. You okay, Motor?”
Motor stands up, his arms held out at his sides. He is covered in milk and meal. The Sixteen’s expression is emotionless and vague. He looks back to the cafeteria workers.
“Motor spilled his meal,” he calls. “Permission to take him to the restroom?”
“Permission granted, Maximum,” one of the cafeteria workers croaks.
The other worker slowly gets a mop and bucket from a slim cabinet inside the cube. And yet, Doctor doesn’t come. Motor looks back over his shoulder at me as Maximum leads him away. They stop near the cabinets that run along the room. Maximum opens a few until he finds a stack of neatly folded gray sweat suits. The rest are all empty.
You can’t always protect everyone.
“I’ll be right here,” I say.
The moment Maximum and Motor are out the door all the males in the room silently point at the opposite exit door. A murmur goes through the room.
“Breaker has a gift.”
I glance from the ancient cafeteria worker with the mop to the door. Another murmur goes around. This one whispered more urgently.
“Go now.”
Since I really have no other options, I do.
