No one helped him then, and no one would help him now as the closest thing John had left that even resembled family stood by, watching him get dragged away. Only Morgan fought for him, screaming in protest, pushing against John’s captors. But it was a fight she could never win, and John couldn’t stand to see Morgan in this much pain. He could feel the hot tears stinging his eyes, but he held them back the best he could, refusing to cry. They were already taking away his future, his hopes and dreams, they couldn’t have his pride too. He refused to break, even as they ripped him from the only person he had ever loved.
“It’s all right, Morgan,” John reassured his wife. “Everything is going to be fine.” Tears continued to stream down Morgan’s face as she went silent, shaking her head incessantly as her eyes met John’s. He smiled sweetly at her, willing his body to show a calmness he did not feel. “Everything is going to be fine,” he whispered to her again.
The guards led him down the drive to a small carriage, a prison on wheels with bars across the windows. John climbed into the small, dark wagon, the guards slamming and locking the door behind him. He heard the driver spur the horses forward, and the wagon lurched to life, taking him away.
He turned to look over his shoulder one last time, watching Morgan through the bars of his cage as she grew smaller and smaller until he could no longer see her at all.
“You incompetent bastard! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“I did what you asked. It was a small case lot, there were very few viable low-profile samples to choose from. Results can only be switched with individuals who were tested within the same time frame.”
“Whose place did he take?”
“Whose do you think?”
“And you have already confirmed this?”
“Yes. I checked as soon as I heard about the arrest.”
“He should not have been an option in the first place! He is not a fitting replacement!”
“I didn’t know it was him at the time. I make a point of not looking at the names anymore. I just found someone from Southend with no family connections like I always do.”
“Jonathan Hunter is not exactly a low-profile civilian. The whole point of switching the results was to keep attention away from us.”
“I did what I was told. Nothing more.”
“Do you honestly expect me to believe you had no idea he would be arrested? What, are you finally beginning to grow a conscience? Because I seem to remember, when I recruited you for this little side business in the first place, you were more than happy to participate so long as you were well compensated for it.”
“This is fixable. We tell them there was a mix up at the lab and have him re-tested. Once his tests come back clean, they will have to release him.”
“And then what? If we suggest there’s even a small chance someone’s results could be a mistake, then you put the legitimacy of the whole screening process into question. We can’t risk the Elders looking closely at our operations and we can’t afford to retest every imbecile who doesn’t like their results. No, you will keep your mouth shut.”
“You’re just going to let him take the fall for this?”
“If I have to.”
“Better him than you, right?”
“Don’t be crass. You’re the one who switched their results in the first place.”
“Don’t you dare put this on me! This is not my fault!”
“Fine, it’s not your fault. Do you feel better now? Does the idea of just being a pawn make you feel absolved of your sins? Tell yourself whatever you need to sleep at night, but believe me, if you breathe a single word of this to anyone, I will make sure everyone thinks it was your fault. I will ensure every ounce of blame is assigned to you and you will spend the rest of your life locked away in the asylum with the rest of the criminals.”
“Everyone will forget about this soon enough. He’s not a blood relative of anyone important.”
“That’s the only reason why you’re still here. In the meantime, I intend to make the best of the situation.”
It is far more merciful if, instead of imprisoning degenerate offspring for their crimes or letting them starve because of their stupidity or watching them wither away from untreatable ailments, we prevent the unfit from continuing their kind in the first place. The moral principle that states “all criminals must be punished” also applies to the sterilization of man.
-Council Address, reign of the Council, Year 41
Emerson Asylum for the Unfit and Criminally Insane seemed to rise from the trees like a dark cloud as the carriage approached, an old brick building that looked as if it had a sad history even before the settlers of Haven had arrived. Someone had whitewashed the exterior long ago, perhaps in an attempt to make the place seem less dreary, but now the white paint peeled off in large strips as if the asylum was a dying snake shedding its skin.
There were more boys in the prisoner carriage with John now, making six in total. Just a few more unfits the guards had picked up on the way. The ride here had taken almost the entire day and the sun was beginning to set now, casting a red glow on the landscape.
They rode past the main entrance around to the side of the building, where the guards escorted them out of the carriage and through a pair of large, heavy iron doors. More guards with guns waited outside the doors, looming menacingly over the prisoners as if daring them to run.
If I was going to run, now would be the time, John thought to himself. The entire asylum was surrounded by a massive chain-link fence with barbed wire running along the top. The forest lay beyond the fence. Even if John could make it to the trees without getting shot, there was nowhere to go. Nothing around for miles and miles.
The guards led them into what they announced was the processing chamber, a large windowless room covered floor to ceiling in dirty cracked tile. The entire floor sloped slightly down towards a large drain in the center. John and the others were ordered to line up against the far wall and strip. John shivered slightly in the ice-cold room as he undressed. He stood naked while the guards poked through their clothes.
“You all know why you’re here!” a guard shouted. He was a tall and broad man with a long, bright-red scar running from above his left eye down to his chin, his scruffy face completely bald wherever the jagged line touched. The other guards stood at attention as the scarred man spoke, their hands folded behind their backs, and their eyes staring straight ahead. John guessed this man outranked them.
Scar-face paced in front of the line of prisoners, examining them as he did so. “You are here because you are dirt. You are here because you are not fit to live amongst civilized people. Not fit to work, not fit to reproduce. Hell, you’re barely fit to live. That’s where I come in. I am here to fix you because you unfits are all the same,” he sneered. “Useless, unwanted pieces of garbage. Stupid, unevolved, worthless savages who need to learn your place in civilized society.”
The man standing directly to John’s right let out a derisive snort.
Scar-face stopped pacing and turned towards the prisoner, and before John knew what was happening, smashed his elbow into the man’s face, catching him square in the nose. The man doubled over, his hands covering his face, blood pouring from between his fingers. Scar-face hit him again, this time in the stomach, causing the man to drop to his knees, coughing and sputtering for air as he spat out the blood that now filled his mouth.
The other patients in the lineup backed away as the guard continued to beat the naked man now doubled up on the floor, kicking him in the ribs again and again, and John wondered if Scar-face would stop before the man was dead. Apparently, this was a fitting punishment at the asylum for speaking out of turn. It didn’t matter if you were defenseless, outnumbered, or naked.
John’s body stiffened and he clenched his hands into fists. The sound of boots hitting flesh echoed in his head, almost deafening.
The beating finally stopped, and Scar-face turned back to the patients. “Consider th
is your first lesson,” he shouted to the room. A few of the patients flinched at the guard’s voice and he smiled, apparently pleased with himself. Every patient in the room was now staring at his own feet, too terrified to make eye contact with anyone. All except John. He glared steadfastly at Scar-face, unafraid. This man was just another bully, a tyrant who beat unarmed men to feel powerful.
As Scar-face turned, he did a double-take at John. John knew this act of silent defiance could earn him the next beating, but he didn’t care. Adrenaline pumped through his body; his fists clenched so tightly he could feel his fingernails digging into his palms.
“Is there a problem here?” the guard sneered in John’s face.
He had the same smug smile as George. The same haughty superiority John encountered countless times in Northridge. But this was not Northridge. Or Southend. The hierarchy here was completely different and John’s position was already fixed at the bottom. He could stand up to the guards now, but to what end? All that would get him was a beating every day until he was either released or carried out in a body bag.
John could hear his father’s words repeating in his head. Head down, eyes down, don’t make a scene. John looked down, silently submitting.
“That’s what I thought,” Scar-face said smugly, eying John up and down. “I thought I told you to remove all of your clothing,” he barked. John hesitated for a second, unsure what he meant before realizing the guard was staring at his hand. At his wedding ring.
“Remove your ring now,” he shouted.
John tried to memorize the way it felt on his finger, the weight of it. He wanted to cling to it, the last shred of who he was before he entered the asylum. Instead, John slowly slid it off his finger and handed it over.
Scar-face took the ring and threw it behind him at the pile of clothes in the center of the room, the ring bouncing against the tile as it rolled away.
“Keeper Peters,” Scar-face shouted.
“Yes, sir?”
“It reeks in here. I think the patients could use a bath.”
The man called Peters sighed. “Yes, sir.” He reached behind him where a large coiled hose hung on the wall. It took two guards to get it down and hold it in place, while a third began to spin the enormous vertical wheel valve next to it. The walls around them seemed to groan and clank ominously as the pipes rushed with water.
The water hit John with amazing force, pushing him back against the wall and then onto his knees. It was freezing, the shock of it squeezing the breath from his lungs. He sputtered and choked for air as the icy torrent continued to pour over him, again and again. The water finally stopped, and John and the others remained curled on the floor for a second, violently shivering as they all gasped for air, relieved it was finally over.
Then the water hit again. John’s chest screamed out in agony as he fought the urge to inhale since each breath only filled his lungs with water, choking him even more. He tried to use his hands to shield his face, but every time he tried to move, the force of the water knocked him back.
“Are you all clean yet or do you need another go?” A few of the patients wheezed or coughed in protest. Others desperately tried to crawl away, afraid of being hit with the hose again. John couldn’t speak or move, so he remained on his hands and knees, fitfully coughing up water as his body continued to shiver involuntarily.
Several of the guards laughed, and the sound echoed off the tiled walls and floor, ringing throughout the entire room. One shouted at John and the others to stand up and get dressed as he threw a pile of gray jumpsuits onto the wet floor, the uniform of the asylum. One by one, the patients rose shakily and stumbled over to the pile.
John was at the back of the line, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. The clothes they had arrived in were still piled in the center of the room, now soaking wet just like everything else. He could see a glint of silver sitting next to the pile. His wedding ring. Would he be able to get it without being noticed? It seemed doubtful. It’s just a ring, John tried to convince himself.
The fabric stuck to John’s skin as he stepped into his jumpsuit and pulled it over his still wet body. It was all a single piece that fit too loosely, and John felt naked dressed like that, but he welcomed the warmth the garment provided. They were instructed to line back up against the wall once they were dressed.
John looked up as a new man entered the room. He seemed older than the others, with silver hair and dark gray eyes. The guards all stood at attention again, their backs slightly straighter and their chins held slightly higher this time. Even Scar-face joined the rank and file, staring straight ahead as his commanding officer passed. Scar-face may have been the leader of this little gang, but this man was the one in charge.
He walked down the lineup, inspecting the new asylum patients one at a time. Stopping at the man the guard had beaten, he asked, “What happened here?”
Scar-face shrugged. “Poor bastard slipped,” he said.
“You can conduct yourself any way you like in the terminal ward, Fisher, but in the temp ward you are under my jurisdiction and will behave accordingly.”
“Of course, sir,” Scar-face—or rather Fisher—replied, a slight smirk still on his mangled face.
“My name is Ezra Lee Carson,” said the man, addressing the lineup. “I am the Head Keeper here at Emerson Asylum. My fellow keepers and I are here to keep you safe and healthy while you await your procedure. The rules here are simple: no fighting, no stealing, no trouble making of any kind. I expect you to behave like civilized men, so if any of you are looking to cause trouble, I suggest you reconsider because the average wait time for sterilization right now is five to six months. And believe me, spending six months all alone down in the hole isn’t going to make the time go by any faster. Keep your head down, stay out of trouble, and we’ll all get along just fine, understood?”
A few muttered their assent.
“Good. In a moment a keeper will take you to your rooms. Remember which room you are assigned because that will be your home for the duration of your stay. We have already locked down for the night, so once assigned a room you are to remain there until morning.”
“You forgot to tell them about the reds,” Fisher said.
Head Keeper Carson ignored him. “The afternoons are yours to spend as you wish. We have a library on-site as well as a few other activity rooms, so I suggest you use this time to try to better yourself. There is also the yard, where you can enjoy some fresh air whenever you like. If you need something, ask one of your keepers,” he said, but judging by the expressions on the faces of the keepers behind Carson, John guessed that asking them for anything was not an option. “Any questions?”
“What are the reds?” one boy squeaked.
“What Keeper Fisher is referring to are the terminal patients. They wear red uniforms, so they can be easily spotted and identified.”
“That way you’ll know exactly who they are when they try to slice you open,” Fisher added.
“Gray means you’re in the temporary ward. Just passing through,” Carson continued as if Fisher hadn’t said anything. “But red means you’re here for life. We try to keep you temps separated from the lifers as best we can, but that is not always possible. While most of them are just your basic imbeciles, some of them are insane and dangerous. For your safety, I would advise you not to approach anyone in a red uniform. Not unless you want to look like Keeper Fisher here, which would truly be a shame.” Fisher scowled and glared at Carson’s back.
Carson smiled, and a few of the other patients seemed to relax, chuckling at Fisher’s expense. Carson had won them all over with his charm and eloquence. Except for John. He remained tense. Carson had just embarrassed Fisher in front of a room full of unfits. They would be the ones to pay the price for it later. He was sure of it.
“I want to clarify something right now.” Carson spoke less formally now, but his voice still commanded the attention of the room. “This is an asylum, not a prison. We are your keepers, n
ot your guards. You are patients, not inmates. A lot of people will try and tell you that being here, being an unfit, is a disgrace, but I don’t see it that way. I see a group of brave young men willing to make one of the greatest sacrifices a man can make to ensure the health and future of Haven. In my book, there is nothing more selfless or noble. On behalf of all of Haven, we thank you for your sacrifice.” A few of the men nodded back at Carson. If he didn’t have their loyalty before, he did now. “Becket,” Carson said, addressing a keeper behind him who promptly stood at attention. “Show these gentlemen to their rooms.”
Becket and another keeper showed the six men out of the processing room and down a long hallway, which they shuffled down in single file. The hallway was dark, lit mostly by burning candles hanging from the wall every few feet. A fluorescent light flickered from the ceiling above now and then, but most of them were burnt out. The asylum didn’t rank high enough on the resource allotment list.
They soon stopped at the first room and Becket pushed the door open. The last in line, John could not see far enough ahead to look inside the room, but he watched as the keeper shined his flashlight into the darkness. “Looks like we have two free beds in here.” The first two men in line were escorted inside and the keeper securely closed the door behind them.
The group continued down the hall in silence, stopping at every room to check for available beds. One here, two there, the line shortening with each stop until John was the only one left. They stopped at the next door, John waiting while the keeper went through the same routine of unlocking the door.
It was a small, dark room with no windows. Four dirty, torn mattresses rested directly on the floor. Two of the patients stirred at the disruption, squinting and shielding their eyes from the light while the third remained asleep. One free bed sat in the corner. “Here you are,” the keeper said, holding the door open for John.
Unfit Page 6
