The Slave Series

by Laura Frances

  A Watcher with gray hair is standing outside the factory, instructing us to take a medical mask from a large bin. They do this when a round of illness has begun to circulate, or when the smog is hanging too low. The Watchers wear masks at all times.

  Just before I walk through the glass doors, a group of young children pass on the street. I pause to watch them. Their faces are turned down, and their hands are folded in front of their bodies. A stern looking woman leads them, and Watchers flank either side of the line. They are heading toward the school building, where they will learn to read and do basic math—enough to be useful by age ten. I should look away. It takes me too long to tear my eyes from them and the gray-haired Watcher is looking at me. I dip my head and hurry inside to slip covers over my shoes.

  In the center of the long, narrow lobby is a solitary wall holding a map and a screen, with a small glass circle to the right. One by one we press our thumbs to the circle. When I press mine, Hall 13-Bathrooms appears on the screen. I sigh, then glance over my shoulder to see if anyone heard. Sighing is a vocal expression of emotion and I shouldn’t have let it slip. A boy stands behind me and his eyes immediately find mine. He can’t be older than thirteen. He has dull, blond hair and brown eyes that peer at me over his mask. Though I can’t see his mouth, I think he’s smirking by the way the corners of his eyes crinkle. I quickly turn away and walk toward Hall 13. If I were to acknowledge his behavior, he would make it a habit to express himself. For his own sake, I ignore him.

  I hate when I am assigned to bathrooms, but it isn’t because they’re nasty. I hate them because they’re boring. By mid-morning, I’ve scrubbed every toilet and cleaned all the sinks and showers. I try to fill the time checking for leaky pipes and tightening hardware, but whoever was assigned here yesterday did a thorough job.

  I stop before a hazy mirror that rests on a wall near a window. I can’t see my reflection, only a dark blob that sways when I do. No matter how hard I work to clear the glass, I can’t. I inch closer and scrape at the film with my thumbnail. Grabbing the chemical cleaner we use on toilets, I spray the glass, scrubbing with a rag until my knuckles are stiff and sore. Dejected, I drop the rag and cross my arms, glaring at the mirror. I stand in the silence of the bathroom and stare at the hazy glass until the door opens, and I jump. Grabbing the rag from the floor, I run it across the mirror once and walk away.

  Lunch is split into three shifts, and I am assigned to the first. I shuffle through a long line toward a counter where I will be served a bowl of oats; dry, cardboard-like slices of apples; and a glass of water. We are fed the same lunch each day. The cafeteria is large, with benched tables in rows of ten. I try to sit at a different one each day. This is one of the only things I can control, so I do. Today I sit at a table of young adults, all close to me in age. We eye one another without expression before taking off our masks and eating in silence. The room fills with coughs and sniffling and the sounds of spoons scraping bowls. Watchers stand along the outer edges.

  I lift the spoon and fill my mouth with flavorless oats. Chewing mindlessly, my gaze sweeps slowly across the room. Half of the Workers are asleep, many others staring at nothing and forgetting to eat. My eyes land on an old man who has fallen asleep with his face in his bowl of oats. His fragile body hunches over, his back rising and falling with heavy breaths. I look at him the longest. I think of what I would do, how I would help him. It’s a simple thing, waking him and wiping his face. But I can’t. They’ll think we’re conspiring. A lump rises in my throat. I hate doing nothing. I realize I’m glaring at a Watcher and quickly drop my gaze when his face turns to me.

  A young man at my table keeps looking at me. His eyes flick away the second I catch him, but I can feel his gaze as soon as I turn away. I wonder if he saw me glaring at the Watcher. I hope he isn’t an informant. Not that glaring is against the rules—officially. But Watchers aren’t bound by a list of rules. They can choose to punish a Worker for anything, without question. I peek at the young man again, and he is looking at his food, moving the oats around with his spoon. His face is thin, but not sunken. His hair is jet black and his eyes angled. I like the squareness of his jaw.

  He looks up and catches me watching him. For a second his expression shifts. It’s too fast for me to be sure, but it looked like humor. I look at my food.

  Someone on the other side of the room is snoring. My stomach clenches. They don’t usually do anything about us sleeping during lunch, but making too much noise invites trouble. I don’t want to look, but my eyes drift toward the sound anyway.

  A middle-aged woman is asleep with her head propped on her arm. Her mouth gapes open, and every inhale brings a rattling, harsh growl. I look to the Watchers standing near her. One of them has noticed. I can see it in the way he’s exercising his jaw. Another Watcher a few yards away has noticed too and is moving toward the sleeping woman. He lowers his rifle, and for a second my body goes numb, static filling my ears. But instead of shooting her, the Watcher nudges the sleeping woman hard in her side with the barrel. The woman jerks awake with a snort and looks around in horror. The Watcher leans to the woman’s ear and whispers something that makes her sit up straight and turn to her bowl. I look away.

  I feel embarrassed for the woman. Every wakeful eye was on her. I wonder how many children she has. Their nightmares must keep her up all night. I spoon the last bite of oats into my mouth and return my dishes. I feel heat in my cheeks as I leave the cafeteria. Will that be me someday? Sleeping in my oats or snoring, drawing the Watchers to me?

  3

  I’m one of the last to leave when the siren wails, and we are released to return to our living units. Ten minutes before seven, a group of female Workers entered the washroom covered in greasy, beige slime. I waited until they were done showering, then rewashed the drains.

  The heavy metal door leading out of the factory and into a back alley moans on its hinges. I hear footsteps behind me, and I’m surprised to see the young man from the table. I smile a little and hold the door. He takes it as we pass through. As soon as we’re outside, he removes his mask and shoves it into the pocket of his coat. I don’t understand why he would choose to breathe the thick air without a filter. I eye him, and for a moment we’re just looking at each other. His lips spread in a bold smile, and he adjusts the cap on his head, dipping it at me as he does. He disappears into the shadows, and I stand confused, watching him leave.

  It’s unusual for a Worker to show much expression beyond the sad eyes and tight lips. His smile warmed me, and I want to chase him down so I can see it again. But on second thought, I feel afraid for him, the way I did the boy who smirked from behind his mask this morning. Those kinds of smiles should be left for behind closed doors. I hope he learns that fast, and that his instructor isn’t the barrel of a gun.

  Thunder rumbles as I walk, growing louder as time passes. I always feel anxious before a storm, because rain and wind have the potential to push back the smog. Once, when I was eleven, heavy rain beat down across the valley so hard it broke a hole in the clouds. Golden sunlight flooded the alleys, sparkling in the puddles and casting a magical hue on everything. Even the Watchers stopped to look. I ran through the streets, dodging Watchers and slamming shoulders with Workers. When the gap began to close, I shimmied up a fire escape to the roof of a four-story factory. Leaning against a massive pipe, I stared at the light until the last sliver disappeared and the world returned to darkness.

  The memory chokes me. I have very few like it, and I tend not to revisit them.

  The rain has started by the time I arrive at the towering, narrow building that holds my living unit. Large drops tink against the metal railings. Thunder rolls across the sky. The rain falls in a steady downpour, shushing us all as we cling to the night for as many seconds as we possibly can. Sleep is our only escape.

  I’m drenched before I reach the first step. I don’t like being out alone with the Watchers and the Outcasts. Some Watchers are known to pull young Workers into the s
hadows. My skin crawls to be safe behind four walls. I get the feeling someone is following me up the winding stairway, but when I glance over my shoulder, no one is there.

  The muscles in my legs are swollen and stiff. Each step feels like dragging my feet through mud. When I reach the eighth level, I slide my fingers along the thin, wet railing until I’m standing before my door. A quick glance to my left tells me that Norma and her husband, Albert, are still awake. I can see the faint light of their lamp through the shades. I walk the few steps to their door and knock quietly. I should leave them alone, but I’m not ready to face the emptiness of my unit. When I was a child, Norma and Albert appealed to the authorities to let me share a unit with them, but they were denied. From then on, their door has always been open to me, but I often feel bad for keeping them awake when they should be sleeping. Norma is seventy-six, and Albert is a few years older.

  Pressing my ear to the door, I can hear the slow sliding sounds of tired feet against the floor. I shouldn’t be disturbing them, but it’s too late to change my mind. The handle wiggles, and the door carefully opens. Albert’s brown eyes peer through the crack. When he sees that it’s me, he opens the door wide enough that I can slip through. We never talk until I am inside and the door is closed.

  Their unit is identical to mine, apart from another cot.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” I say, hanging my coat on a nail by the door. Albert hands me his one towel, and I dry myself the best I can. From across the room, Norma smiles at me, her eyelids heavy. Albert and Norma are both too old to be working. But the alternative is homelessness, so they force their bodies to move against their will.

  “It’s raining,” Norma murmurs, holding a shaking hand out to me, gesturing for me to sit by her. “Can’t sleep when it’s raining.”

  The fabric of her cot dips low when I sit, and the springs protest with a squeal. I worry I might tear a hole, and Norma would be left without a bed. I’ve said this to her before but she always waves it off. Taking my hand in hers, we sit together, looking off toward the window, where rain drops pelt the glass. I love these moments, but I spend most of them dreading the seconds that are passing, knowing that soon I’ll be alone again. All that separates our units is a single wall, and sometimes I’ll close my eyes and imagine it away.

  We sit in silence, and Albert settles onto his cot, stretching out his frail body. His back is hunched where his spine is curved between the shoulder blades. When he lies down, I hear his joints pop and small groans escape his mouth. Norma sighs but doesn’t speak.

  I worry that they won’t live much longer. Worrying about that is completely selfish. If they were to die, it would be a form of freedom. But I would be left alone, and that is the thing I can’t handle. I see the way Albert breathes, the way he works too hard to drag in air. I think of him breathing the smog every day, and suddenly I am angry. I bite down on the inside of my mouth and purse my lips.

  “What is it?” Norma says. Albert is already snoring. I don’t answer right away. I know how she will respond, and I’m deciding if the conversation is worth the effort. Finally, I say,

  “He isn’t breathing well.”

  She nods.

  “And that makes you mad?”

  “Doesn’t it make you mad?”

  A sad smile sits on her lips as she watches Albert sleep. “I’m not sure that would help.”

  I exhale hard through my nose. I don’t understand her lack of concern. Then I think of the Watchers wearing masks every day, and I can’t sit still anymore. This topic was a bad idea.

  “Hannah, you’re too tired to be pacing. Come back here and sit.”

  “I hate it. I hate that they wear masks every day. I hate that Albert is wheezing in his sleep, and they can breathe just fine.” I clench and unclench my fists. Heat rises over my body, and I can barely contain the urge to scream sitting in my throat like a weighty thing.

  “Would you rather they suffer too? Or would you prefer we wear the masks and they don’t?”

  I don’t have an answer for that. Or maybe I do. Maybe my heart really is that ugly, and I would be perfectly happy letting the Watchers cough and gag on the smog. No. I know that isn’t how I feel. I’ve heard too many lectures from Norma urging me to see them as humans.

  I sit by Norma on the cot again and take her hand. Closing my eyes, I try hard to press back the images—all the incidents that I’ve witnessed that scream at me to hate them.

  “Listen to me, Hannah,” Norma says softly. She never loses patience with me. I listen, but I don’t open my eyes. “There is always more to a situation than what’s before you. But as long as a person has a pumping heart and working lungs, there is hope there. Don’t you see?”

  I look to her. Her eyes plead with me. “You want me to say that I do,” I say. “But I can’t. Norma, I can’t.” I shake my head. I’m ashamed that my heart is so ugly. But I can’t change that. I can’t betray my parents.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  Norma pulls my face close and kisses my temple. It’s a gesture that always brings a pang of sadness to my heart. She is, in so many ways, the only mother I will ever have. And she will leave me soon.

  “No,” she says softly. “I am sorry. For all you’ve suffered.”

  “I should go.” I swallow back tears. “I should let you sleep.”

  Kissing Norma’s forehead, I help ease her body to the cot. I cross to Albert and kiss his forehead too. Touching my hand carefully to his chest, I feel the way he struggles to breathe. My throat constricts as if taking on his suffering.

  I turn off the lamp before leaving. I would lock the door, if that were an option.

  4

  I think it’s the thunder when my eyes first flutter open. I was dreaming about my first day of school.

  Breathe, Hannah. That’s right. In the nose. Out the mouth. Remember, Father said, they need us.

  But what if I answer wrong, I said, wiping my nose with my sleeve. What if I can’t learn the problems? Will they shoot me if I’m wrong?

  No, Mother interjected. But I saw the look they shared. Besides, we’ve been teaching you all the math at home. You’ll be way ahead of the other kids. She knelt in front of me and straightened my coat.

  Will they kill the other kids? If I’m better than them? I don’t want to be better. They’ll hate me.

  I think it’s the thunder the first time I hear it, but the second time I know that I’m wrong. The second time the rumbling sounds, the walls shake, and white dust falls from the ceiling, floating in the stream of dim light that glows through a hole in the curtain. I lie paralyzed, waiting and listening. I’ve heard explosions before, but never in the night; never when the machinery is shut down and the Workers are asleep.

  A noise like tapping is drifting from outside, though I can barely hear it over the thumping in my ears. Five minutes pass, and nothing happens. Nothing but the tapping and the thumping and my breathing.

  As my body is relaxing again, an explosion blasts so close to my building that the window shatters into a million pieces, and a scream rips from my throat. I yank the blanket over my head and tremble as cold air blows through the empty frame. The curtains slap against the wall.

  The sound from outside is no longer a tapping. It is the popping of guns and the shouts of men, and my heart stops dead in my chest. I force myself to get up. Hurrying to the corner shower, I huddle on the floor, covering my head in my blanket.

  My lungs aren’t working, and I can’t breathe. Tears sting my eyes and freeze on my cheeks. There is no protocol for this. There are no rules for what to do when the valley is exploding. If I run outside, where will I go? And I will be shot on sight. That is the rule I know well. It was pounded into my brain by anxious parents. It was preached at me by worrying neighbors.

  Do not go outside, my father would say to me. Not ever, Hannah.

  Slowly I rise from the shower tiles and wrap the blanket around my body. I have to check on Norma and Albert. Trembling, I fo
llow the wall, inching toward the door that is near the wide-open window. Pain zaps the tender center of my foot, and I gasp. Leaning into the wall, I pull a shard of glass from my skin with a whimper, then slip into my boots. I barely notice the sting of old blisters. Barely feel the tender ends of my toes. Before opening the door, I press my forehead to the wall and close my eyes. I have never opened the door after curfew, and I don’t want to now. I could crawl into my bed. I could hide under my blanket and follow the rules.

  The rules. Follow the rules, Hannah. Always follow the rules.

  Don’t give them a reason to notice you.

  I turn the knob and slowly push the door free of the frame. A force stronger than me pulls from the other side, and the door flies open. I recoil, falling backward, landing hard on the cement floor. Pain blossoms up my back and stings across my palms. A figure stands in the doorway. A man. No. A boy. No. Somewhere in between—like me. He hurries into the room with no formality, forgetting I don’t know who he is.

  “We need to hurry,” he says, and I’m staring at him wide-eyed when he reaches down and grabs my arm, pulling me fast to my feet. His hair is dark, with bangs that fall wet into his eyes.

  “Let’s go! Hurry! They’ll be coming!”

  He is wearing clothes like an Outcast. Worn out clothes with wrinkles and dirt and grime. But he is sturdy and quick, and I don’t think he’s spent more than one night on the streets.