Yes, Jonathan, I was planning to. Because I’m not giving up until they cut my heart out. But I just said, “And who would have any interest in something like that?”
“I think we both know someone who’d find it very interesting indeed.”
What’d Bane been saying to him today, since my unpleasant revelation?
There wasn’t actually a great deal to see, though. The gates were formidable metal things that looked like they’d need opening with explosives if you forgot the code and the concrete walls were also depressingly thick. And let’s not forget that razor wire, huge coils of it all around the top.
The compound was square, with a machine gun tower on each corner sporting bulletproof glass broken only by long gun slits. Desperate parents had occasionally done desperate things and the EGD didn’t take any chances nowadays. Plus the Resistance would go driving a truck of homemade explosives into a EuroGov target from time to time, just to show they could.
A sort of glassless window was set in the wall to the left of the gates, closed off by the thickest grille I’d ever seen in my life. A small hatch nestled below it, also apparently built to resist a direct hit from a bazooka—or perhaps a truck. As we passed inside the gates, I saw a little room sticking out from the wall behind the grille. Through the open door a guard watched us drive past. A guardroom. The hatch must be for the post. The gates didn’t look like they opened very often.
The minibus drew to a halt in front of the building occupying the center of the compound. The inspectors got out at once and stood around by the back doors, still chatting. I looked around without troubling to conceal it; everyone was staring.
The stairs to the guard towers seemed to be inside the towers themselves and simple walkways ran around the top of each wall, with extra staircases of their own. The area the bus had stopped in was paved: a parking area for those of the Facility staff senior enough to afford cars? Though with six month shifts there hardly seemed much point.
Gates on either side blocked from view whatever lay between that central building and the walls. A pair of cameras were trained on the main gate; another, mounted above that gate, took in the whole of the parking area. The building’s wind turbine rose from the highest point and everything was built of concrete and metal, everything.
The gates came together at last and the inspectors unlocked the back door, ordering us out. A man and a woman stood waiting. The man was blond and slender, probably in his late thirties; the slightly younger woman was plump with a round-cheeked face which should’ve looked friendly but didn’t. Perhaps it was the gray Facility uniform and the pistol at her belt.
The man was identically dressed and armed, and Bane’s enthusiasm for weaponry allowed me to identify the pistols as the latest nonLees—nonLethals. Bane had an airGun replica which was probably more dangerous than the real thing.
More guards waited behind them, also armed with nonLees. So that could be worse. The inspectors got us into a rough sort of line and looked expectantly to the officers.
“Welcome, reAssignees,” intoned the man, rather sardonically. His epaulettes were bigger and shinier, and he was perceptibly neater than the woman, his uniform pristine—though stuffed incongruously through his belt were a pair of leather gardening gloves. Actually…a second pistol holster nestled at his other hip and the butt protruding from that surely belonged to a Lethal.
“I am Major Lucas Everington, Facility Commandant and the boys’ warden; this is Captain Wallis, the girls’ warden. I have a few standard announcements. First, the internal guards—with the black trim on their uniform—are armed with nonLethals. If you are caught out of bounds and shot, that won’t hurt you, but I can’t promise your punishment won’t.” He glanced at the woman beside him, Captain Wallis, and his lips turned down unpleasantly.
“I am also required to inform you, just in case by some extraordinary means you manage to get outside the walls, the external guards—with the red trim—have real bullets and will use them. No challenges. Anyone in the cleared area will be shot dead without warning. You may wish to make sure your families are aware of this when you write to them.”
He smiled again. I didn’t like his smiles at all. What was so amusing about a grief-stricken parent being shot down like an animal?
“That’s all I have to say to you,” he concluded. “With luck, I won’t have to set eyes on any of you again for the duration of your stay. Carry on, Captain Wallis.”
The girls’ warden assumed a rather aggressive parade rest and barked, “Boys through the left hand door, girls through the other.”
Jonathan found my hand and gripped it for a moment. “Good luck!” he whispered, “I hope he saves you!”
Then he followed the four other boys or, presumably, the sound of the four other boys. My heart sank, but I’d no time to dwell on his departure. Harriet and Caroline were hastening towards the door and, frightened of the warden’s harsh voice, Sarah was clinging to my sleeve, so I led her after the others.
A guard swiped a pass card through a reader to open the door and inside we found ourselves in a stairwell that could’ve been stolen from a multi-story car park. A particularly grim and ugly one. We followed the guard up one level and through another card-locked door into a long corridor running the length of the building, though a barred gate closed it off halfway along. Big windows ran along one wall and looking through, I got my first idea of the layout of the place.
This building was one of two three-storied blocks facing one another across an open courtyard. The concrete stairwells at each end joined these to two smaller blocks, which filled in the short sides of a rectangular quadrangle. A beautiful little garden nestled in the courtyard—like that was going to have anything to do with us. The other three stared down in delight, though.
The guard directed us through the passage’s second door, also card-locked—the place was secure, no doubt about that—and we found ourselves in a cafeteria. Putting my bag down on a chair, I looked around. If you’d told me a cafeteria could be more utilitarian than that of Salperton Senior School I’d have called you a liar, but here was the evidence before my eyes. They hadn’t bothered to put anything on the inside of the cinder block walls, for either appearance or insulation. The windows were single-glazed, as well; this place was going to be cold in the winter.
Captain Wallis marched in, armed now with a clipboard and a handful of cards which she shoved at one of the guards with a curt, “Go allocate the bunks.”
The guard departed and Captain Wallis came and looked us over with an unfavorable stare. “Well. Get on and turn out your bags.”
Ah. The bag search. We took a table each and laid out our possessions. When we’d finished Captain Wallis prowled along, examining everything, while another guard went over us with a hand scanner—and just what was that supposed to find? Weapons?
“Not. Permitted,” growled the warden, confiscating Harriet’s hair straightener. Harriet looked dismayed, her lip trembling, but fortunately didn’t cry. Did they think we were going to use the hair straightener to burn down the building or something? With us in it?
The warden was already rifling through Sarah’s things, holding up treasured games and soft toys with derisive snorts. I caught Sarah’s hand to stop her objecting—she clearly didn’t like it at all. Who could blame her?
“Bah,” snorted Captain Wallis, consulting her clipboard. “So there’s two idiots, a brain box, and a vegetable, well, I know which one you are. Missed you in the womb, didn’t they?”
“What?” asked Sarah, but the warden ignored her and moved on to me, consulting her clipboard again.
“And what do we have here? Margaret Verrall, I assume.”
I didn’t say anything. Didn’t trust myself to speak.
“So! Hand it over at once.” She held out a pudgy hand.
“Hand what over?”
“Your omniPhone, brain box.”
I raised a scornful eyebrow. “I don’t have one. Anyway, they’re not a
llowed.”
“Don’t lie to me,” snapped the Captain. “You smart ones always try and sneak one in.”
“Well, then, I must be another vegetable.” I choked back a vehement denial of lying. Many an Underground member had come under suspicion after betraying so-called ‘excessive’ moral values.
The warden went a brick red color and went through all my things twice, even shaking my bag, throwing it to the floor and stamping all over it, and then hand-searching me from head to toe. I gritted my teeth and endured.
She didn’t find my nonexistent phone, and going—impossibly—an even darker red, she snarled, “Well, get that stuff put away, you stupid brats!”
Packing everything up as quickly as we could, we followed a card-wielding guard up another level and were ushered into the second doorway of an identical corridor. We found ourselves in a long room with a small window at one end, five bunk beds built in along each cinder block wall. Tables and chairs filled most of the center space and there were quite a lot of girls already in there. Salperton was one of the most distant schools in the Facility’s catchment area.
“Find your beds.” The warden had followed us up, snorting and puffing in a mixture of unfitness and continuing—permanent?—rage. “Your genetic details should be displayed. During an inspection, you will stand beside your detail card, understood?”
Harriet, Caroline, and I nodded. I found Sarah’s bed quickly, my own not much further along. Sarah had a lower bunk, good. I had an upper one, perhaps more private, good again.
The detail cards were displayed at one end for the top bunk and the other end for the lower one. Mine said:
Number: 1764584 (Margaret Verrall)
Tissue Type: XA4b
Genetic Group: C19B
Blood Group: O+
Apparently that was all anyone now needed to know about me.
# # #
Get I AM MARGARET from your favorite retailer today!
ePub ISBN: 978-1-910806-07-4
ASIN: B00ZMCBTHY
Also available as a Paperback
(ISBN: 978-1-910806-06-7)
***+***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Corinna Turner has been writing since she was fourteen and likes strong protagonists with plenty of integrity. She has an MA in English from Oxford University, but has foolishly gone on to work with both children and animals! Juggling work with the disabled and being a midwife to sheep, she spends as much time as she can in a little hut at the bottom of the garden, writing.
She is a Catholic Christian with roots in the Methodist and Anglican churches. A keen cinema-goer, she lives in the UK. She used to have a Giant Snail called Peter with a 6½” long shell (which is legal in the UK!), but now makes do with a cactus and a campervan!
Get in touch with Corinna...
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Twitter: @CorinnaTAuthor
or sign up for news and free short stories, including
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www.UnSeenBooks.com
***+***
Boring Legal Bit
Copyright © 2017 Corinna Turner
First published by UnSeen Books* in the UK in 2017
This US edition first published by UnSeen Books USA* in 2017
The right of Corinna Turner to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright owner or, in the case of reprographic production, only in accordance with the terms of licenses issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, and may not be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Initial quote (2 Tim 2:11) is from the World English Bible
(Public Domain)
ePub ISBN: 978-1-910806-61-6
ASIN: B0782LS4G4
Also available as a paperback (ISBN: 978-1-910806-60-9)
Cover design by Corinna Turner
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
* An Imprint of Zephyr Publishing, UK—Corinna Turner, T/A
Thanks must also go to the generous developers of these beautiful Open Source fonts:
Note This, Destroy, and Almendra.
Brothers Page 9
