by S G D Singh
“Those yours?” he asked Adam. “They got legs for you, too?”
“Just the arms, unfortunately,” Adam said. “Easier to control where I am that way, right? Put me down in that chair.”
Nadifa winced as he leaned forward awkwardly and nearly dropped Adam, letting him land too heavily in the chair. Adam seemed to hardly notice as he wriggled expertly into the harness, tightening the buckles with his teeth while Nadifa stood by, wondering if he should offer to help or turn away.
“Now,” Adam said, and he hit a couple switches in the torso with his chin that set the arms in motion, and then rubbed his metal hands together. “Let's get these fucking chains off and get the hell out of here, shall we?”
Nadifa looked down and realized he was standing on heavy iron chains that attached the arms to sturdy bolts in the wall, and jumped back, horrified. “They keep you chained up down here? Like some dangerous animal?”
“We're all chained up down here, Nadifa.” Adam didn't even look up from what he was doing. “Only some of us can see our chains, that's all.”
The guy wasn't right in the head, Nadifa decided.
He listened to Adam's instructions, following the rusting chain to the wall, where it met a bolt that looked indestructible. Turning, he followed it back to where it attached to the back of Adam's torso contraption, which was also attached to the chair, which was bolted to the floor.
“This doesn't look breakable, Adam, I gotta tell you.”
“Everything is breakable,” he said cheerfully, pointing one metal finger at the monitors and then up at the ceiling, where a dark orb hung like some alien eyeball. “I just haven't been left alone long enough to figure out how to break it before tonight.”
It turned out that with a wrench, a screwdriver, and some wire retrieved from a utility closet down the hallway, Nadifa was able to pry and smash open the six metal loops that attached the torso to the chair. Throughout the bone-jarring contact, Adam never stopped smiling.
“Tell me about your prison camp,” he said once he was free, stretching his metal arms above his head and wiggling his fingers above the computer keys.
Nadifa outlined the fields and underground bunker where the captives were kept. “There's an electric fence,” Nadifa continued. “It's got a gate that opens for a few seconds whenever a delivery vehicle arrives, which isn't often.”
Adam held up a hand, his other flying across the keys. “A gate?” His eyes scanned every screen, blond hair flopping across his forehead as he searched, and Nadifa tried to keep up with him.
“If I'm right—and I usually am,” he said, “no one is watching what happens at that camp. Survivors will be too focused on saving themselves to remember us. Let me see if we can at least… oh, shit.”
“What?” Nadifa tried to figure out what Adam had seen to make him stop his search and lean back.
“Tell me about the guards at the prison.”
“The Klexters? They're armored. Complete bodysuit, helmet, the whole nine. They carry these huge, futuristic-looking guns. They're—”
“Have you ever seen their faces?” Adam was leaning over the keyboards again, his pale eyes scanning the screens.
Nadifa shook his head. “No, their helmets are—”
“How many are there?”
“At least two at a time when we see them,” Nadifa said. “Which isn't often. We think they leave at night, cause—”
“They never leave,” Adam said. “From what I can tell, I don't think they're human.”
“Wait, say that again.” Nadifa straightened as a photo of a Klexter filled the screen. His chin was raised, mountains and blue sky behind him. It looked like an advertisement.
“Some kind of military robot, I think.” Adam wiggled his hand and Nadifa looked again at the technology so advanced, he'd never seen anything like it. “Remote controlled or programmed, I can't tell.” Adam's hands were two blurs over the keyboard. “What I'm saying is, I could turn the fence off and let everyone escape. Here's the list of codes and passwords”—he held up a piece of paper the printer had just spit out—“but my guess is those guards are activated any time the gate starts opening or someone attempts anything that triggers their programming.”
“Robots.” Nadifa reached to run a hand through his hair, then stopped as he remembered what was left of it. “Is that even possible?”
“Possible?” Adam turned to look at Nadifa. “Anything is possible with these people. They have unlimited funds and unlimited insanity.”
“And these robots… could they torture a person and hang them in a tree outside the fence?”
Adam shook his head. “No, I'd say that's beyond their programming.” He pointed a metal finger at the Klexter's weapons. “They'll use those. With perfect precision, I'm guessing. Probably would dispose of the body, too. Unless you saw it happen, the person would simply disappear. Or I'm reading the data wrong, which is highly unlikely.”
Nadifa stood silently behind Adam's chair, remembering Ray's mutilated body, and how the Klexters walked away from Darnell as if they didn't see or hear him.
Adam's metal hands continued to dance across the keys, and he said, “I'll keep looking… fuck. There is some seriously twisted shit here. Stuff even I couldn't imagine, and I've seen things that'd make anyone with half a conscience want to peel off their white skin and jump into a vat of acid.”
Nadifa tried to read over Adam's shoulder, but saw only meaningless numbers and graphs of percentages. The screens changed at a dizzying speed.
“What else can you tell me about the camp?” Adam asked.
“There's an underground train that leads from here to it and back. The gate opens twice a day.”
“On it.” Adam nodded. “What else?”
“Just like you said—people disappear,” Nadifa told him, shaking his head to clear the memories of grieving families and people who grew sick and thin, having lost the will to live. He needed to focus on the present if he was going to find Ayeeyo.
“Every day, almost, at least one of us goes missing, and no one sees a thing.”
“I think I know where they are, at least if they're alive,” Adam said, snatching more papers out of the printer and passing them over his head to Nadifa.
“This is Dr. Kaiser's so-called research center on Level 10.” Adam tapped the blueprint-like maps in Nadifa's hand. “Specializing in furthering the domination of the Master Race through human modification. Think Dr. Mengele meets advanced technology. I live in what his minions call the Freak Wing with four other kids of people in the organization. But I've heard rumors about another wing. Not pretty.”
“Pretty or not,” Nadifa told him, “we can't leave them down here.”
“Wasn't planning to.” Adam turned to Nadifa, frowning. “Dude. I've lived it. I want to get them out more than anyone. But you need to prepare yourself for the worst. They're probably not alive anymore. Dr. Kaiser doesn't fuck around when it comes to a new toy, I can tell you that with certainty.”
He waited until Nadifa nodded, blinking back his tears, refusing to think of Ayeeyo at the mercy of some crazed mad scientist.
Clapping his robot hands, Adam snatched another page from the printer and held it up in victory.
“Lift me up there,” he said, pointing at the ceiling. “We'll avoid zombies in the vents.”
“You should sleep.”
Hanna looked up to find Zahi standing over her. Somehow, the girl's headdress remained perfectly arranged in neat folds around her head and neck. Hanna ran one hand over her own destroyed hair and sighed.
“What's the matter?” Zahi said. “Never had to sleep on the ground before? Miss your horse-hair mattress?”
Hanna looked down at the seven bullets she had left and winced, rolling them in her palm.
“Something like that,” she said. How do you explain to someone who's been imprisoned and scheduled for fucking extermination by your own father how sorry you are? Lukango was right. Sorry doesn't cut it. Sorry is a
fucking insult. Only dying while trying to make things right could help. Just a little. Maybe.
Looking at the bullets in her palm, Hanna didn't care if she lived or died. She'd felt dead most of her life, if she was honest with herself. Insignificant, like an ornamental object useful for nothing. Empty. But not now. Now her mind was clear.
Once she burned this place into nothing but an empty crater, she would be more than happy to fade away herself.
“Your brother might be alive, you know,” Zahi said, lowering herself to the ground at Hanna's side.
Hanna sniffed.
“You don't know Nadifa like I do.” Zahi sounded so confident, so sure of her cousin. “If there is a way to survive, he'll find it, Hanna. He has determination like no one I've ever seen. When the rest of us were barely surviving, he was exploring and making maps, even when everyone told him it was useless, that there was no possible way out. He'll find a way to survive the night. And then we go in at eight, and we bring them both back. And then we get the fuck out of this place.”
Hanna shook her head. Once everyone had gathered in the orchard, Lukango and Darnell had pulled Zahi aside, and told her about the zombies. They had tried—and failed—to convince her to stay behind when they went after her cousin in the morning. She knew, but she couldn't understand.
“You didn't see these things,” Hanna said. “These zombies. They're like mindless, decomposing hunger. And we don't know how far it spread. We don't know what we'll be facing in the morning.”
“All the more reason you should get some rest,” said Zahi. “Look, it's simple. You're almost out of ammunition. And I promise no one will wake you up when it's time to leave, so if you don't sleep now, you'll be stuck here on the wrong side of stopping any of this.”
She handed Hanna one of the threadbare blankets, her gaze severe, until Hanna took it and lay down. Every bone in her body ached with fatigue and Hanna knew if she closed her burning eyes, she'd be asleep before she took her next breath.
Zahi stood, turning to join the others, then stopped.
“Hanna?” she said. “They told me what you did. First warning Nadifa yesterday and then… the rest of it. Thank you.”
Don't expect any fucking gratitude, Lukango's voice echoed in her mind and Hanna felt insane laughter bubbling up within her again.
Zahi's expression was fierce. “We aren't guilty of the sins of our fathers.”
Hanna turned away from her. “Don't. Thank. Me. Ever.”
The next thing she knew, Mike was snapping his fingers in Hanna's face until she opened her eyes, squinting in the bright sunlight. She groaned, every bone in her body aching.
“Rise and shine, Knuddelbär,” he said. He pointed west. “Ablutions that way. Subway opens in just over an hour.”
Hanna found herself alone in the orchard. She stood, folded her blanket over one shoulder, and followed the sound of running water to a stream beyond a row of blueberry bushes. She nearly threw herself into the narrow stream, her thirst taking over every rational thought. Hunger followed, and finding the blueberries not ripe at all, Hanna picked as many cherries as she could carry, stuffing the fruit into her mouth and pockets while she hurried back to the tunnel, its darkness like a gaping mouth in the morning sunshine.
The stench underground had changed while she slept. Where the night before it had been a mix of unwashed humans and cattle waste, now the air was filled with something charred, destroyed by flame. Smoke burned Hanna's eyes and throat and she coughed as she followed the sound of raised voices through the empty room of benches and vending machines, down the corridor, and into what remained of the dormitory.
Light from the hallway illuminated a scene that made Hanna regret eating. The room looked like the inside of an oven, the blackened iron posts where hammocks once hung the only things remaining, like lonely tree trunks after a forest fire.
Hanna covered her face with her shirt.
The crowd stood in a circle around an older man Hanna had never seen before. He was on his knees, his head bowed, his arms hanging limply at his sides as shouts beat down on him, tangled up with each other. Somehow, Hanna understood, they were blaming this man for knowing about the fire in advance and saying nothing.
“Enough!” Lukango finally shouted above the others, and silence fell. Hanna wondered, not for the first time, how a boy who couldn't be more than eighteen commanded so much authority. “Instead of attacking one of our own,” Lukango continued, his gaze traveling over the crowd, his expression going cold as he saw Hanna, “let the man speak. Let him explain himself.”
Mike and Kevin crossed their arms in unison, and Mike said, “Okay. Explain yourself then, motherfucker.”
“I… ” The man embodied misery as he stared at the charred floor in front of him. Hanna thought he wouldn't speak, but then words began to pour from him as if he hadn't spoken in years.
“The day I turned eighteen,” he began, “I left home without telling a soul and joined the Marine Corps. Growing up in Indianola, Mississippi, we had next to nothing, and the armed forces offered the opportunity to learn a trade, earn a living, even get some medical benefits and a housing loan.” He shook his head. “I was sent to Beirut first. Then Libya,” he continued. “I re-enlisted for a second tour of duty in The Gulf, which was—”
“Skip to the part that helps us understand how you stand by and say nothing while twenty innocent brothers and sisters are burned to death,” Kevin said, and a chorus of voices joined in agreement. The man grimaced at the floor as if their words caused him physical pain.
“Once I came home, I had been gone more than ten years and I had issues,” he said. “It took me a long time to adjust to civilian life. And an even longer time to find a job I could keep. I was almost forty years old by the time I met Ava. Things were good with her. We moved to Colorado, where she'd gotten a job teaching, and I found work at a garden center hauling soil, keeping plants alive, helping things to grow. Helping things live instead of die. We had two beautiful children, Thomas and Patricia. We were happy. I was finally at peace… ”
Mike started to say something, but both Lukango and Zahi silenced him with a gesture.
“It was a spring night when it happened,” the man said. “A night like any other. I'd stayed late because we'd gotten a new shipment of seedlings and topsoil. It was almost seven by the time I walked out to my truck and said goodbye to a coworker. I wished her a happy birthday and a wonderful weekend with her grandkids and she gave me a hug. Well, some kind of white power skinheads happened to be driving by, and when they saw us, they decided… ”
The man sighed heavily, shaking his head, and no one said a word.
Hanna suddenly wasn't sure she wanted to know the rest of his story.
“I ignored them, but that only made them madder. They followed me, shouting all kinds of nonsense. Then they started slamming their truck into mine. I decided to drive straight to the police station, so I sped up, trying to get away from them, hoping they'd lose interest and leave me alone. Instead they sped up right alongside me, waving a shotgun and laughing, screaming their filth.”
He ran his hands over his face, sighing again. “Those boys ran their truck into a tree at seventy miles an hour. All three of them were dead on impact, the EMTs said. I made a report when the cops arrived, told them everything that happened. But later that night, men claiming to be with the police department came to the house. Ava opened the door, invited them in. I explained I would wait for my lawyer to join us on the phone, and… ”
He shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks onto the burnt floor.
“And?” Mike asked.
“I woke up here,” the man said, and everyone glanced around at each other. Zahi crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at the man.
“They had my family,” he continued. “They said if I ever wanted to see them alive again, I had to do what they told me to. I never thought… ”
“How long have you been here?” Lukango stepped forward and l
ooked down at the man until he finally looked up and met his eyes.
“Two winters, I think. I don't know… ” the man looked defeated. “I don't know anything anymore.”
“Were there people here last summer? Prisoners?”
Oh, God. Hanna hoped against hope. Please, no.
“Yes,” the man whispered, and Hanna felt her insides twist. “I never thought that… That they would kill anyone again. I'm… so sorry.”
Kevin stepped forward and crouched, getting in the older man's face. “You were here when they burned people alive last year, and you thought they wouldn't do it again? And then, what? You actually think after everything you know, they'll just let you and your family leave someday? Is that all you care about? Your goddamned self?”
Malik said softly, “Ease up, man.” Kevin glared up at him, but he stood a moment later, backing away from the man with a gesture of frustration.
“What is your name?” Zahi asked. Her voice was kind. The collective anger of the room was dissipating.
“Terrance Jackson,” he finally said. “I know I was wrong. I know that. It's just… I don't always know where I am. When I am. The cows, they've been my only companions for so long, and when it's time for them to go—for me to kill them—they play me tapes of my kids, horrible tapes… ”
“That's enough,” Zahi said, reaching out to Terrance and helping him to his feet. “You don't need to explain yourself further. We need to look forward now, not turn on each other.”
Zahi addressed the room. “We will not turn on our own for what oppressors inflict on us. We're all still alive. And we will get out of here.”
