by Terry Tyler
He knows that his hearing was damaged by whoever hit him on the head. Maybe there will be someone he can see about that; it's probably only temporary. He strains to hear what his companions are talking about, tries to join in, but after a while he grows tired of the general buzz of indignation, the half-heard theories about what is to happen to them, and lies down as best he can, wishing there was room to stretch his legs out. There are books in his pack that Kendall packed for him, but he doesn't think he could concentrate right now.
He told Rocky to stay away from him, but his former friend sits just behind him, entertaining those near him with vastly exaggerated tales of his eventful life. Rocky's is the only voice that rings out, clear and audible; according to him, he took down the gangster who ran Hope 9, which is why he had to flee. His audience laps up his words.
The afternoon drags on, hour after hour. Dylan's stomach begins to growl with hunger just as another announcement is made, but he doesn't catch it. He panics; what if it was something important? What if he misses his number? Has it already been called? He stares at the speaker, frowning, willing the voice to repeat the instructions.
"They said it's dinner time," Stella says, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. "I know, I wish they'd speak more clearly, don't you?"
"I can't hear properly," he tells her. "They hit me on the head―everything's muffled."
"Don't worry. We'll look after you. Won't we, Arlo?"
"Yes!" Arlo shouts, close to his face. "We-will-talk-to-you-very-loudly-and-slowly!"
Dylan laughs, and ruffles the boy's hair.
He remembers someone doing that to him. Years ago, when he was a child, but he can't remember who.
Dinner turns out to be baked potatoes with either cheese or baked beans, and a small square of cake. Some around him complain, but Dylan doesn't care. The meals in Hope 9 were so bland that he stopped seeing food as anything other than sustenance a long time ago.
Night has fallen by the time they return to Hut A.
He doesn't hear his number being called, but Stella pulls at his hand.
"Hey―PX1649―Dylan, that's you! You've got to go to Hut G."
He smiles at her, levering his aching body from its uncomfortable position on the floor, and feels a surge of something just a tiny bit more positive. At the very least, he will be out of that depressing room, which is beginning to smell bad. Farting and unwashed clothes.
If he impresses these test people, he may end up in a better place. Maybe with Stella and Arlo?
Outside Hut G, a guard directs him to one of two doors, and he finds himself in a white room; a white-coated man sits at a desk. Elsewhere in the room are two armed guards, a woman in a tracksuit, a running machine and a high chair, of the type one would sit on at the dentist, facing a screen.
"PX1649 Dylan Hall," says the man in the white coat, looking up at him without smiling. "Coat off, on the running machine, please."
When he looks at the dashboard of the running machine, he can't find the 'on' button. He searches, feeling under the dashboard, pressing a few random buttons. That panic rises up again; he starts in shock as he feels a hand on his arm.
It's the tracksuit woman. "I said, I'll turn it on and monitor the speed as you go. Did you not hear me?"
He forces a smile. "Yes―yes, I did, sorry." The machine starts moving, and the motion makes his head hurt, where they hit him. Who should he tell about this? Or should he keep quiet?
The running belt goes faster and faster, and he's struggling to keep up; his balance feels skewed, his legs weak, and his head is pounding. Just when he thinks he's going to have to jump off or ask if it can be stopped, it slows to a halt.
Tracksuit Woman is at his side, though he didn't hear her approach. "Okay, now I'm going―to―test―your―pulse."
She's talking to him as if he's a bit slow.
"It's okay, I can hear you perfectly fine. I just didn't know where the controls were."
She gives him a smile as thin and watery as the sauce in the Nutri-Smartmeal.
Next, he is told to sit in the dentist's chair. A curtain is pulled around him, enclosing him into a space, just him and the screen. Tracksuit Woman tells him to sit still, and she fits a band around his head. He touches it and finds that he can't get it off; it appears to be wired to something at the back of the chair. She pulls his hands away, and the room goes dark.
"Now I'm going to show you a series of images. You don't have to do anything. Just look at them." Again, she speaks up close to his ear, slowly, articulating all the words with unnecessary emphasis.
The chair is comfortable. He sits back, relaxes; on the screen he sees a field. A country cottage in a beautiful garden; for some reason, this one makes his eyes water. An elderly couple walk hand in hand. Children play. He sees flowers, butterflies, lakes, small animals. Enchanting, all of them. Bees collect honey. Hares box. An army of ants march.
The images change, darken; his shoulders stiffen. High walls against a grey sky. A motor racing track, in the rain. A car crashes, bursts into flames. Now there's woman crying in a shabby room, men fighting in a bar, people jumping out of burning buildings, a dark tunnel, a war-torn city, a man with his arm shot to bits―a woman being decapitated―a mushroom cloud over a city―he cringes back in his seat, shuts his eyes, and the lights come up.
Dylan looks around, completely disorientated, and the curtain is drawn back. Everything is as it was. The man at the desk looks at data on a screen, the guards hold their guns.
"You can step down now, Dylan," says Tracksuit Woman. "That's all. Report to Dormitory F, and get some rest."
She doesn't even look up.
"What happens now?"
Tap, tap, on her screen.
"Your data will be analysed."
"What for?"
"Please report to your dormitory, and get some rest."
He remains there for a moment, but decides further questioning will not achieve anything, so he turns and walks out.
Hut F is filled not with beds but thin mattresses with quilted covers, packed closely side by side, separated only by a narrow lane just wide enough to walk between them. He sits on one; at his side, a man lies on his back, staring at the ceiling.
"Hi," Dylan says. "Have you had your test?"
The man doesn't look at him. "I'm in here, aren't I?"
Yes, it was a stupid question.
He tries again. "What did you think of it?" No answer. "Anyway, hi, I'm Dylan." Still no answer. "What's your name?"
"PX1546." The man rolls over, away from him.
Morning.
Breakfast is Oatrition cereal and tea so weak it might as well be warm water.
Dylan hopes to find Stella and Arlo, but he can't see them in the sea of heads. He sits at one of four long tables. No one talks to him. He tries to listen in on some of the conversations, but the acoustics in the room are so bad that he can only catch the general gist of what people are saying, judging it by their facial expressions rather than hearing the words.
He sits back to let the food go down just as a loud noise sounds through the hut, like a klaxon; it hurts his ears.
A voice booms out.
"The following numbers are to report to Hut H. If your number is not called, you should remain seated."
The room is silent. Dylan listens hard as, one by one, people stand and leave the room, but he doesn't think his number is called. Four men sitting at his table get up, looking pleased with themselves. They've been chosen first. Selected. They must be okay, then. Safe.
Across the room he sees Rocky stand up, grinning round at his new friends, shaking their hands. Stupid idiot. How does he know what he's being called for? How do any of them know?
When the announcement ends, Dylan shows his wrist to the woman next to him. "Did they call this one?"
She shrugs. "I don't bloody know, I can't remember them all, can I? What are you, deaf?"
A man across the table leans forward. He has a kind face. "Don'
t worry, mate. If they did, and you didn't hear it, I daresay they'll come and get you soon enough. I'll listen out for it, okay?"
Dylan smiles at him gratefully, but they don't call his number and no one comes for him. He looks around the room. Only men are being called. Not the older ones, though, or the teenage boys. Just the strong types, like Rocky.
From his backpack he pulls out one of the ancient paperback books that Kendall so kindly packed for him—The Firm, by John Grisham—, but when he starts reading he finds that he can't bear it. He feels jealous of the characters for living in a world without Hope Villages and megacities. For doing interesting jobs, having family, feeling useful, not being scared to say what's on their minds.
He puts it away, just as someone slaps him on the back.
It's Rocky, holdall over his shoulder.
"Hey, bro! Just had to nip back and say goodbye―shall we call a truce? No need for bad feeling, is there?"
Dylan stares up at him, hating him, longing to shout out that this man is a fucking evil murderer―then he'll punch him in the gut, break his nose, press his thumbs into his eye sockets like he's seen them do in films, and fucking Rocky, bro, will never be able to lay eyes on another woman, ever again―
"I'll take that as a 'yes', then, mate!" Rocky slaps him on the back. "Anyway, I've been chosen for work overseas―how 'bout that?" He grins round, clearly aware that he has the attention of everyone else in the immediate vicinity.
"Doing what?" asks the kind-looking man.
"Working in industry, they said." Rocky shrugs his shoulders, carelessly. "I don't give a shit what―I'll be out of this fucking crap-hole of a country, that's the main thing! One of the guys, he reckons it's going to be south, 'cause they're behind us with this megacity lark. Like, in Greece and Turkey they're still being built, so he reckons that's what we'll be doing." He laughs. "Bit of proper work, decent wages, and I can get a tan and go swimming on me days off!"
" ... no sense ..." says another man. " ... enough labour in their own countries ..."
"Hey, I dunno, it's just what this fella reckoned. Or could be the Middle East, who knows? I don't care, as long as it's away from here!" He grabs Dylan's hand with both of his, shakes it, and says, "Anyway, I'd best be off. I really am sorry for everything, but―"
Dylan jerks his hand away. "No, you're not. You don't care about anything, as long as you get what you want. Never have done."
Rocky laughs, a little more nervously this time; he stretches his arms out, cracks his knuckles, and says, "Well, I tried. Fuck you, then, loser―see you around. Not!"
He strides away, across the room and out through the door.
The man who challenged him says, "... dickhead," then turns round to continue his conversation with the person on his other side.
The other man, the kind one, says, "I'm getting worried now."
Dylan frowns. "Why? I mean, yeah, me too, but why now in particular?"
"'Cause they've only taken a certain type of men, of a certain age. Look at the rest of us. Older fellas, young lads, women and children, and nerdy types like me!"
But he doesn't look nerdy at all. Intelligent―maybe it's the glasses?―but not nerdy. Perhaps he's just trying to make Dylan feel better.
"Three people from our community who made blitz were taken first of all―I've spoken to a couple of others who said that the same thing happened," he continues. "I haven't got any skills―I've been in a Hope Village since I was little kid, so my education's shit. I escaped five years ago, and I've just been surviving."
"D'you think they're going to send the rest of us back to Hope Villages?"
"I hope so, mate, I hope so. 'Cause right now, I reckon that would be the best thing that could happen to us."
All of a sudden Dylan feels more frightened than he has ever felt in his whole life.
Chapter 34
Government Village, MC5
The clean sweep continues, through Lincolnshire, across the Midlands, down to Bristol and into Wales. Holding stations are packed to bursting, planes waiting to take the 10/A units to their new work sites. Payments from the recipient governments have been received, delighted as they are to gain such a cheap workforce.
Meanwhile, his teams move into the south and east of the country. Wasteland communication, however basic, means that word has spread, but mostly they have nowhere to run. This morning he will watch from the comfort of his office as the squads clear East Anglia, HQ of the Link network and home of the worst of the hippy type communities. He laughs. Probably be too stoned to notice what's going on―but they do make superior quality blitz out there, it has to be said. The squads know who to keep safe.
Back in the holding stations, the first Phase 10/B testing is about to commence, to select those who will be moved to the Thurso, Hadrian and Dartmoor research facilities.
Then, only the 10/C units will remain.
Chapter 35
Treatment
Lunch ends, and they are sent back to Hut A. The calling out of numbers recommences; another test, then back to your dormitory, same as before. This afternoon, though, Dylan spies mattresses stacked against Hut A's wall, like the ones in the dormitories; might they be waiting all night? There are not enough mattresses for everyone. As the hours roll by, people begin to claim them, and arguments break out, mothers insisting that adults should take them only once the children all have somewhere comfortable to sit or sleep.
"Why ... young, strong bones ... fucking arthritis!"
"Get stuffed ... first served."
" ... giving up this mattress for that mouthy little brat ... another think coming!"
Dylan thought the atmosphere would feel better once all those Rocky-types were gone, but it's worse; he senses fear amongst the mothers, in particular. The men gave them the illusion of being protected.
For dinner this evening there are more Nutri-Smartmeals―a choice of vegetable chilli or 'beef' stew―and small packs of biscuits.
The people who complained about the jacket potatoes yesterday are now saying things like, "Bloody synthetic crap and Oativit creams―how difficult would it be to cook some spuds for us, like last night?"
Dylan sits with Stella, Arlo and the kind man, whose name is Tyler. He feels good with them; they have become his friends. Arlo is reading one of Kendall's books, while Stella and Tyler talk to the people nearby about what may or may not be going to happen to them. Dylan wouldn't mind joining in, but it's too hard. At one point Tyler engages him in conversation about his escape from Hope 9, and, mid-sentence, turns his head to look at something going on elsewhere in the room. When he does so, Dylan can't hear him at all.
He shakes his head, beats the heel of his hand to his temples, holds his nose and blows, hard, hoping to make his ears pop, but nothing helps. The side of his head where he was struck still hurts, badly.
Words filter into his consciousness, the same sentences, the same fears, expressed over and over; the optimism, the prophecies of doom, the theories:
" ... watching us ... down to how you behave in here ... show you're not scared, you get picked."
"... can't keep us ... human rights."
" ...no human rights, mate―old Mona Morrissey ... worst thing we ever did, coming out of the EU ..."
Just after ten p.m., when he has resigned himself to a night spent on this floor, forcing himself to stay awake, Tyler tells him that his number has just been called for testing.
"G'luck," mumbles Stella, curled up on her mattress with Arlo, half asleep.
As he clambers over bodies towards the door, faces peer up at him, inquisitive, envious of him for getting out of that chilly, depressing room even for just fifteen minutes.
Dylan walks across the lonely compound in the quiet, damp darkness, puddles lit up by dim floodlights. He didn't even know it had been raining. He looks out into the night, wondering what is going on in the rest of the world, wishing he was at Lake Lodge, far away in a warm country, in a tent under trees or a cosy little flat i
n a megacity, anywhere but right here, right now.
Why can't he be? What difference would it make to anyone, anywhere, if he just walked away? What harm could that do?
The guard shows him into the other door this time; here, a different man in a white coat sits at the desk, a different woman in a tracksuit stands nearby. The guards, though, all look the same to him.
"PX1649 Dylan Hall," says Desk Man, tapping at a screen. "You have a hearing deficiency, right?"
"No―I mean, I never used to have. But yesterday morning, on the way here, a guard clobbered me over the head with his rifle, I think, and that's what's caused it, I could hear perfectly before―"
"Yes, but I have to assess your current state of health, not how well you might have been in the past."
"But it might only be temporary―"
He's not listening. "In the cubicle, please."
Inside a tiny square room he must sit with headphones on, and click a button at his side whenever he hears a sharp 'ping'. Tracksuit Woman #2 tells him that his left ear will be tested first, then his right.
As the first half of the test begins, Dylan detects many 'pings', even some that are so quiet they hardly register. Aha; now he knows what the test feels like to his good ear, he can fudge it with the bad one. Just keep clicking the damn button.
When the second half of the test begins, though, he breaks into a sweat. He can't hear anything at all. His heart flutters in panic, and he clicks away in the vain hope that his taps correspond with the noises―but is he clicking too often? If he clicks when there has been no ping, will they suss him out?
Worst of all, he fails to hear the message at the end of the test, telling him to take off the headphones and leave the cubicle; all he can hear is muffled talking, as if through a closed door. So he just sits, wondering if it said there would be another test, until Tracksuit Lady #2 comes to get him.
