Disclose

by Joelle Charbonneau

  Her voice cracks on the final phrase. Finally, the sounds of muffled weeping are all that is left when the song is gone. After several minutes, those fade and I uncover my face and stare into the darkness, trying to keep fear and doubt over all I had done at bay.

  Maybe I should have stayed safe in Chicago. Maybe Atlas was right about not needing a better truth to tell in order for people to pay attention. Maybe I should have listened to my father and gone with him to try to forget everything I know to be true. To forget what my mother died for.

  Stop. I swallow hard against the tears.

  This was my idea. My choice.

  It had to be me who got captured. Dewey and Atlas were both longstanding members of the Stewards. And Atlas had the tattoo on his arm. The Marshals would have recognized it and tried to force him to give up the location of the Stewards’ Lyceum. Not to mention, he was more skilled at fighting the Marshals. He would have a better chance of getting someone away from them than I would. And both of them would be considered a greater threat by the Marshals than a girl with a couple of spray cans whose government identification and cover story made them believe she was new to the city.

  There is no changing past decisions. I can either become what Instructor Burnett and the other Instructors want me to be or I can keep fighting.

  They wanted me to take an oath. Fine.

  “I swear,” I whisper into the flat pillow. “I will be a faithful citizen. That I will get out of this place. That I will put my country’s interest above my own and set the truth about our country free.”

  Over twenty-four hours has passed since I allowed the Marshals to capture me. I’ve learned where the people who have disappeared have gone. That’s the answer we were looking for and I’ve found it. I’ve taken photographs that people need to see. Since there is no way to know where Atlas is or if he has figured out how to get me out of this place, I have to start figuring out how to do it myself.

  Thirteen

  The blast of a horn jerks me awake and I almost fall off the edge of the narrow bed trying to sit up. By the time I blink away the haze of sleep everyone else is already sliding out of their beds to get ready for whatever the Instructors are planning.

  There are no toothbrushes in the bathroom. No one else standing at the trough of sinks in the bathroom appears to care about the lack as they splash water on their hands and faces and hurry out to make room for the next person to wash. I use my finger to rub the worst of the stale, cottony film from my mouth and am headed back into the dorm room when the next horn sounds. I spot Dana in line and lift my hand to get her attention. She sees me. I know she does, but she doesn’t acknowledge the greeting.

  “Friend of yours?” Liz appears at my side. Her hair is wet and her cheeks are shiny pink.

  “Not exactly,” I say as Dana whispers something to the woman next to her. They both give me a strange look, then turn away. “Maybe not at all.”

  “Don’t feel bad. People do all sorts of things they normally wouldn’t just because they’re here.” The doors at the front of the room clang open and the line of women starts to move.

  Liz grabs my arm and pulls me into the line. “You don’t want to be one of the last to leave the dorm or they might run out of food before they get to you and you’ll end up hungry.”

  “Really?” I look back at the tired faces of the women shuffling behind me.

  “Don’t worry about anyone else,” Liz says. “You think that sounds mean.”

  “A little,” I admit.

  “That’s because it is. It’s also practical,” she explains. “Trust me. I was in the holding cells for three weeks. I’ve been here at the farm for almost two. I learned the hard way—do what you have to in order to survive, and screw the rest.”

  “Then why help me?” I ask.

  “You look like you might be useful. I want you to owe me.” She glances at me and I wait for the smile that will say she is joking. It never comes.

  She pulls her hair back with a piece of ripped fabric as we shuffle through the hallway and back into the humid dining hall. The screens above flicker. I look for the Chicago news feed as I’m handed a tray, then follow the line around the edge of the room to a line of carts. We are given a bowl of what looks like oatmeal, a small red apple, and a glass of water.

  I follow Liz to one of the tables and shovel the vaguely warm, congealed food into my mouth, not caring about the lack of flavor. As I eat, I watch the stories from back home march across the screen. Without the sound, I only have a vague sense of what most of the news spots are covering. There is something about the L, a heat advisory at the beaches, and the final days of Celebration of America that started three weeks ago on the Fourth of July and will be ending this week. My father used to love the patriotic festivities. Every year, he scoured the schedules to pick out the best parades, concerts, and fireworks displays for us all to attend. The best ones always happened in the first week, but there were other events that we enjoyed during the extended celebration. And all of it was made even better by the decorations Mom’s department created for places like City Hall.

  Last year, Mom refused to go to any of the events. Other years she’d pack coolers of food and drinks to bring to the parades and made popcorn for us to eat while we watched the fireworks. Last year, she stayed inside her studio and painted while Dad and I went off to enjoy the fun. I should have understood that something had changed. Would I be here now if I had asked her what was happening? If she had tried to explain, would I have understood why it was important? Would I have even listened?

  I almost drop my apple as the image of the Gloss office building appears behind the male news anchor. The caption says “Unusual surge in popularity for Chicago’s very own e-zine” but the announcer isn’t giving his typically plastic smile as he reads the story for the viewing audience.

  I start to stand and Liz yanks me back down. “What are you doing?” she whispers.

  “Sorry,” I say, looking back up at the screen, but the image has changed to the logo of the Chicago Cubs with the headline about a record-setting strikeout game. “I was just surprised by something.”

  “I don’t care if a snake slithered up your pants. You stay seated until they tell you to get up,” she whispers. “If the Instructors start looking at you, they might notice me. If you want to survive this place you have to keep it together. I plan on getting out of here someday. Do you?”

  The music fades and the screens change to once again display the oath that was said yesterday.

  “Yes,” I answer, as Instructor Burnett appears on the dais and we all rise to our feet. “I’m going to get out of this place.”

  “Then play along and blend in. It’s the only way you’ll ever get your chance.”

  Instructor Burnett puts her hand over her heart. She waits until we all mimic her, then the oath begins. Liz says the words in a loud, clear voice and shoots an annoyed look my way when I move my mouth, but don’t give voice to a single word. Maybe the best way to survive is to go along with the program. To do what they say. To pretend to believe what they believe. But everything I’ve read says that is how the road that brought us here began. People pretending what is happening is okay. Willing to let things slide because it is easier than rocking the boat and risk sinking with it. Maybe it is smarter to lie low for as long as the battery in the GPS recorder lasts and hope Atlas finds a way to get me out of here—to become something I have been fighting against in order to survive.

  When the oath ends, I take my time lowering my hand, so it isn’t as obvious that I am not executing the strange salute that Instructor Burnett and the others perform. Finally, Instructor Burnett says, “Adhere to your oath and be proud of the work you do for the good of our country. Each day is one day closer to being redeemed. I wish you a productive day.”

  There are only the doors at the front and the two that lead to the dorms in the back. Each is flanked by Instructors. If I could get the ear cuff off without alerting anyone, I doubt I
could escape from this building without getting captured. There has to be another way and I have to find it.

  “Don’t be in too much of a hurry,” Liz says as I start to follow a group heading for the exits. “If it isn’t raining, it’s better to be in the middle of the line. The ones in the front end up working the fields farthest away. They’re the last ones to get water when the Instructors remember to give it to us. The back of the line typically ends up working in the gravel pit near the mine.”

  “There’s a mine?” I ask quietly as I follow Liz’s lead and hang back to let others move in front of us in line. “What for? Coal isn’t used in the US anymore.” It was one of the facts touted by science teachers every Earth Day.

  “How can you still believe that anything you learned is true? If you’re that naive, maybe I don’t want you to owe me,” she says as we step somewhere into the middle of the line. She waits until we pass an Instructor holding a metal rod raised—ready to strike—then explains, “The mine isn’t operational. It’s just used to store stuff. At least that’s what it looked like the one time I was there. I don’t plan on going back.”

  They sky is still dark when they march us out into the humid air. The partial moon still glows white against the black night. The dim gold-and-pink shimmer only at the edge of the horizon, hinting that sunlight is on the way as we trudge single file down a dirt road that runs beside a bunch of buildings. Instructors travel on the road beside us in small, roofless golf carts. A few others wield their black metal rods and riding crops from electronic Segways—the kind that groups use when they are taking the Michigan Avenue tour of Chicago. Several groups at the front are directed by Instructors to head for a series of structures. The rest of us are told to keep moving.

  As we walk, Liz quietly identifies the buildings some of the other subjects are heading toward. Some, like red-and-white wood chicken and cow barns, I could have figured out on my own. I try to remember the others as she mentions them, in case they are important.

  The white buildings behind the dorms and the arena are the kitchens.

  Storage is in the wood and stone buildings just beyond those.

  And the small blue windowless building with the green roof, far in the distance, away from all the others, houses both the infirmary and the morgue.

  “No one that’s gone to the infirmary has come back during my time here, so don’t do anything stupid.”

  Good safety tip, I think as the sky grows brighter and we keep walking. The cool damp of the early morning disappears as the sun rises higher. Sweat drips down my back. After what seems like forever, teams of Instructors break us up into groups—six of us for every two Instructors.

  Liz and I stick together in a group with a much older woman and three men. The men all are at least twenty years older than me and all need to shave. The tallest of them stares at the Instructors with a small smile as they give us instructions for pulling off the top of the vibrant green corn stalks.

  “It’s too early for tasseling,” the tallest man says.

  The male Instructor turns his head. “Did you say something?”

  “My grandfather was a farmer. It’s too early for . . .”

  A metal rod cracks against the back of the man’s knees, sending him to the wet ground where the female Instructor whips the rod down on his back. I was watching the male Instructor, so I never saw her move.

  The man on the ground pushes up and slowly climbs to his feet, still wearing the same small smile he had before he went down.

  “Your concern for the country’s food supply is to be encouraged. Talking out of turn is not,” the male Instructor says before the female can strike again. “Planting started earlier in this section of the farm. Tasseling the other fields will begin in a week or two, so this is a skill you will need to learn well.”

  Once they run us through the process twice, we are led into the muddy row in between cornstalks and told to start.

  Grab the stalk with one hand. Then get a firm grip of the top of the plant with the other. Bend the top section down. Pull the top off without damaging the rest of the stalk. Then move on to the next.

  Grab.

  Bend.

  Pull.

  Grab.

  Bend.

  Pull.

  The Instructors watch, rods in hand, as we repeat the process over and over. The sun grows brighter and hotter. My shoes sink into the thick, sticky mud. The backs of the sneakers rub against the my heels and my shoes almost come off when I yank them free in order to move from one stalk to the next.

  I have no idea how long it takes to finish the first row. Sweat trickles down my forehead like a faucet with the handle not quite tightened. In between stalks I wipe my forehead against my sleeves. Minutes later, I need to do it again.

  On the way to the next row, I spot several men in other groups who have taken off their shirts and women who have removed their pants and wrapped the fabric around their heads like hats to combat the heat. Remembering that I have a support tank on, I start to pull my own shirt off, only to hear a loud whistle from down the row. I look over at Liz who shakes her head. “Don’t,” she mouths.

  Her sweat-coated clothing clings to her, but as hot as she must be, Liz hasn’t so much as rolled up a hem. Neither has the woman working farther down the row. Since they have been here longer, I keep my shirt on and get back to work.

  My mouth is dry.

  Grab.

  Bend.

  Pull.

  A dull ache throbs at the base of my skull.

  Each stalk takes me a bit longer to get ahold of the plant with my sweaty, sore hands. Each step takes an extra few seconds to travel and when suddenly there is a breeze, I stop altogether and lift my face to the stingy swirl of air. The leaves rustle and under it all I hear voices chanting.

  I step into the stalks, close my eyes, and try to make out what they are saying. The sounds of the corn drown out most of it. But every few seconds I catch a word or two.

  “ . . . faithful . . . greatness . . . accomplishments . . . elected leaders . . . above my own.”

  “Again!” a faint voice calls, and the chanting starts over with the words “I swear.”

  The oath. The Instructors in the rows next to ours are having people repeat the oath while they work. I wish the GPS recorder could capture audio. If so—

  “No stopping!” demands a male voice.

  I jump back into the row and see the male Instructor stepping out from the small yellow canopy tent at the end of the line. The tent is one of many that have been erected at the ends of the rows since the sun reached the peak of the sky. We work in the direct sun. The Instructors get refreshments in the shade. As the Instructor comes back down the row, he flicks his metal rod to extend it and I quickly reach for the next stalk.

  The minutes seep together in a haze of sweat and heat and fatigue. The breezes that I relished soon feel like the enemy—taunting with the hope of relief before quickly taking it away.

  We are herded to the next row and I understand why Liz warned me against removing my clothing. The back of one of the men in our group glows an angry shade of red as we spread out to resume our task.

  With each stalk, my mouth grows drier. To distract myself, I contemplate escape plans in case Atlas can’t get inside the farm and is waiting beyond the fence. My being relocated from Chicago before being rescued was never part of the plan, but I know that won’t stop Atlas from finding me. After we agreed that I would allow the Marshals to capture me, Atlas took me to North Avenue Beach. Moonlight danced on the gently lapping waves as we walked across the sand. When we reached the water’s edge, Atlas said, “My dad used to bring me here a lot when I was a little kid. We spent so much time underground that he wanted me to have a special place that on difficult days would remind me why this country is worth fighting for.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I told him.

  His strong fingers found mine. “I wanted to bring you here—to see you in this place,” he said, leani
ng close. “You need to know that to me you’re part of what I’m fighting for. No matter what happens, I won’t let them have you.”

  I picture the way Atlas looked in the moonlight. The warmth in his eyes. I can almost hear the sound of the water.

  Stupid! Thinking about the lake reminds me of my thirst. The Instructors have water. I’ve seen subjects come by to exchange the Instructors’ empty canteens for new. If the Instructors wanted to give us water, they could.

  Since no water appears to be coming anytime soon, I paint a picture of Lake Michigan in my mind and try to imagine myself there as I work. The water is dozens of shades of layered blue as the sun reflects off the surface. The people at the water’s edge, standing in the low, white-tipped waves as they roll onto the shore. The ripples along the top from the wind that skims along the surface. Cool. Wet. Refreshing.

  A strangled whimper pulls me back from my useless imagination. I turn and see the older woman in our group stagger forward, sway, and then crumple to the ground.

  “Help!” I whisper, my throat too dry to shout as I hurry down the row to the woman who is lying still as stone.

  She’s breathing, I think as I kneel next to her on the cool, moist ground. I can see the rise and fall of her chest as I roll her gently onto her back. Under the streaks of dirt and sweat her face is flushed; her lips dry and cracked.

  “Get back!”

  I scramble to my feet and retreat several steps as the male Instructor hops on his Segway and rides down the row toward the unconscious woman.

  “Do you need help?” our female Instructor calls from the tent. “I can page Operations that we have an unresponsive.”

  “No need.” He comes to a stop, uncaps his canteen, and pours a stream of water onto the fallen woman’s face.

  What a waste of water.

  Horror and humiliation wash over me. The Instructor dumps another stream of water onto the woman and she starts to sputter. Her eyes flutter. She slowly licks the water off her lips. Pouring water on her face instead of putting the canteen to her lips and encouraging her to drink was cruel. Instead of recognizing that immediately, I saw the trickle of liquid and wished I could have it.