Haven Ward

by Elias Witherow

  Despite my numbness, out of the blackness of my mind, I felt a single spark, a soft flickering of a flame that I thought had gone out. Anger. One of the most basic human emotions that no matter how hard one tried, would not be contained, could not be extinguished. No matter what happened, no matter how much one tried, anger would always break free, ripping through the chains that bound it.

  I would not let this be the end. I would not be part of the Sanctions road to complete power. So long as a single person defied them, so long as one person stood up to them and refused to conform, then they had not won.

  We reached the end of the hallway, that constant dripping now behind us, and Progg opened the door. I squinted as we stepped through. This wasn’t at all what I expected. We were in a room, unlike any I had seen before in Haven Ward. The floor was clean, a neat white tile under foot, the walls showing off a similar pattern. The room was in the shape of a circle, two sections dividing it. There was an inner round room, lined with glass walls, that had an incredible about of medical equipment in it. People were inside, dressed in lab coats, scurrying about, hands full of charts and papers. Inside this room were three metal beds, all vertical.

  I stopped walking. Strapped to these beds were inmates, arms stretched out, clear rubber tubes inserted into their flesh. The tubes were filled with blood, flowing out. The inmates eyes were half lidded, drool leaking from the corner of their mouths, their mind lost in a daze.

  The outer ring of the room split off down two different hallways and we began walking towards one of them. My knees felt weak as I walked, staring at the restrained prisoners. I saw, off to the side, a complex set up that consisted of glass test tubes, slow methodical beeping machines, and wires entangled with the blood tubes. At the end of the tables and machines were tall vials, filled with a thick blue substance. Glu. This was a conversion station where they took something human and made it something not. I shivered, turning away from the rats nest of machinery.

  “This is one of the stations you’ll be visiting,” Progg said from behind me, obviously enjoying my shock.

  “A-are they a-alive?” I choked, still staring at the men connected to the tubes.

  Progg laughed, “Alive and conscious. We drain them of their blood, throw them back in their cells for a couple days, cycle in some more prisoners, and when these guys start feeling a little stronger, we connect them back up. It’s nice cycle we have going on, don’t you think?”

  “This is barbaric,” I whispered.

  “Get use to it. Welcome to the rest of your life.”

  I shuddered, disbelief overwhelming me.

  I was led to a checkpoint down the end of one hall. Instead of stopping at the thick paned window, we went in. A handful of desks were scattered around the white room, file and medical lining the walls. I man looked up as we entered.

  “Ho! Been a long time Progg! How you been doing? Bringing me some fresh blood?” He greeted. The man was getting on in age, his full head of hair turning gray, big bags hanging around his brown eyes.

  Progg nodded, “I’m doing good Nigel. This one here is a rare breed.”

  Nigal came over to me and took my face in his hands, looking me in the eyes, “Young isn’t he? Must have really pissed off the Warden to send him down here. No worries though we’ll make the best of it. Do you happen to know his blood type?”

  “You’re going to love this. AB-.”

  The man’s eyes lit up, “Excellent! Our last four subjects with that blood type are just about drained. We were starting to worry with demand getting higher.”

  I shook the man’s hand off my face, “Stop talking about me like I’m some kind of freak.”

  The doctor looked at me like I was an animal who had just barked at him, “Ah, so the kid has a voice.”

  Progg chuckled, “This one has quite a mouth on him.”

  The doctor, Nigel, smiled, “Ah don’t worry, it’s nothing a good gag won’t fix. Most of them are frisky their first week here. Eventually they all settle down and become silent zombies.”

  Progg began to uncuff me, “So what do you want me to do with him?”

  “I’ll take him from here. Don’t worry, we have Hazmats in Section 36 as well, in case he gets a little unruly.” I felt like he was telling me this, not Progg.

  I spit on the floor, “Bite me asshole.”

  Progg nudged me, “Cut that shit out. You’ll find that down here the Hazmats aren’t as forgiving as I am.”

  Nigel was giving me the look over, “What’s its name?”

  I raised an eyebrow, “It?”

  They ignored me and Progg answered, “Weston.”

  Nigel ran a finger across my cheek, “Well he needs to be washed before we start drawing blood. I’ll have an escort take him, you can leave, thank you Progg.”

  Progg turned to go, “Good to see you Nigel.”

  “Same to you.”

  I took a step forward, “Progg!”

  He turned, orange goggles flaring.

  “This isn’t over.”

  He threw his head back and laughed, a deep throaty electronic sound that remained with me even after he left. It was as if he was laughing at the damned.

  As soon as he left, Hazmats swarmed me and began dragging me away, out of the checkpoint, down another series of passages. Everything looked sterile, perfectly clean and white, no windows, nothing. We were deep underground and the silence that filled the air was still.

  I was hosed down, the freezing water taking my breath away, my old prison clothes burned and a clean white set was given to me. My hair still dripping, I was taken back the way I had come, leaving behind me a trail of puddles. My hands were blue and I couldn’t stop shivering, trying to control my chattering teeth.

  Doctors crowded around me, the Hazmats pushing me down onto a bed, strapping my arms and legs in. A needle flashed and was pushed into my arm, my mouth was forced open by a rough hand and stared into, my eyelids pushed up and light blinded me, fingers prodded me and tested me.

  “Healthy specimen,” one of the doctors said.

  “A little young but he should be good to go.”

  “We’ll just have to drain him for shorter lengths of time.”

  “Oh yes, of course.”

  My bed was moving, pushed along on wheels, images flashing by me, the white ceiling blurring above me. The doctors talked but I wasn’t listening. Hazmats stomped behind me. More doctors. A distant scream. An echoing yell. Doors being pushed open. I couldn’t see, the world was crooked.

  My bed stopped moving and the Hazmats reappeared into my vision. They unstrapped me and hauled me up on my feet. I felt my stomach turn to rot as I recognized where I was. The three metal vertical tables, the glass walls, the twisting metal snakes that pulsed with human blood. One of the tables was empty, the other two had prisoners still hanging from them, tubes filled with blood running out of their arms. I began to struggle, the Hazmats’ grip on my shoulders like iron.

  “Don’t do this!” I was screaming. I felt as if I was floating on the ceiling, watching the scene below me. I knew this moment was going to happen, but now that it was upon me, I was terrified. One of the doctors punched in something on a computer next to the empty bed and it moved down so it was horizontal again. No, no, no, no.

  I was roughly shoved onto it, the cold metal licking my skin, causing me to shiver. Heavy restraints were secured across my chest, thighs, and feet. They smelled like dirt and blood. I felt my heart thumping against it, a sheen of sweat breaking across my forehead.

  A doctor walked to my side and thumbed the pit of my elbow.

  “Get the hell away from me!” I yelled, beginning to thrash. I didn’t move much and the doctor nodded to the Hazmat. An old gag was shoved into my mouth, the leathery fabric tasting like it had been marinated in shit.

  The doctor continued to thumb my elbow and then quite suddenly, he produced a scalpel and cut into me. I arched my back, but my scream was muffled. My vision was getting blurry, the pain inc
redible, and I saw them wheeling over a giant machine, a bright red digital readout the only thing my darkening eyes saw. Blackness began to roll over my eyes like storm clouds in the night. They were shoving something into my arm. The pain exploded. The last thing I remember before I blacked out, was my bed moving, up, up, up.

  Pain. Darkness. Fading. Silence. Breathing. Aching. Head. Burning. Arm. Move. Trying to move. Gray. Blurry. Creeping white. Thirsty. So thirsty.

  I opened my eyes, nausea punching me in the gut. My head was dizzy as the colors of the world began to come into focus. I was lying on my back, enclosed in a glass cell, about the same size as the one in Fahrenheit block. The bed I lay on was just a slab of metal shoved against the wall. Through the glass walls on either side of me were more prisoners, more victims of this cruelty. Most were motionless, stretched out like I was, eyes closed. Their skin was almost the same colors as the floor. I raised my arm, surprised at how much effort it took and grimly surveyed that my skin looked the same as theirs. I was so weak, trying to sit up and almost passing out again as another tidal wave of dizziness overcame me.

  The man in the cell next to mine was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, staring at me with dead brown eyes. He was young, probably in his late teens. His brown hair was thin and wild, stubble sprouting from his chin. I returned the gaze, noticing the overwhelming sense of despair in his eyes. I turned away.

  There was a small platter on the floor in the middle of my cell. Food. Good food. I slid off the bed, onto the floor and crawled over to it, now on my belly, grabbing handfuls and shoving it into my mouth. A metal cup was filled almost to the top with water and I slurped it down, cooling the hot desert in my throat. When I was finished, I wiped my face miserably and went back to my bed. This really is the end isn’t it? I thought. I was so sleepy. I was afraid to let myself drift off in fear that I would wake up, my body hooked up to the tubes again. I slapped my face, widening my eyes. Hold on Weston, just hold on.

  I saw a doctor holding more food, walking my way. I recognized him. What was his name? Nigel. If I had more strength I would have burst through the glass and ripped out his heart. I could barely lift my arm though. He came into my cell, his face beaming.

  “You’re finally awake!” He said merrily.

  I said nothing.

  “I’ve brought you more food,” he continued, placing the tray on the floor. “You need to keep up your strength!”

  He noticed my cold indifference and he chuckled, “My, my, have we broken you already? I guess youthful spirits are easily quenched.”

  I sat up, trying my best not to pass out, “I’m going to find a way to get out of here,” I growled, my voice static, “Don’t think I’ll let you get away with this.”

  Nigel clapped his hands, “That’s the attitude I want to hear! Get some fire in your eyes! Get angry! Don’t give up! The longer you hold on to your hatred, the longer you’ll fight to live, the longer we’ll be able to suck you dry.”

  I realized that he had tricked me into getting upset, but all that did was make me even more pissed, “Damn you to hell. You’re a monster. You’re all monsters down here and one day, when then Sanction falls, you’re going to be first one on the chopping block.”

  Nigel turned to leave, “Keep dreaming kid. Keep fighting. But know this: the Sanction will never fall, and your anger is going to make all of us monsters rich.” Laughing as I shook with fury, he left. As soon as he disappeared, I slid onto the floor, exhausted. That exchange had cost me a lot of energy. Energy I didn’t have. I needed to keep myself in check. I didn’t want to give that rat the satisfaction of seeing me mad. I had to win something, be able to control something. Every battle won was a step in the right direction, no matter how small.

  The days plodded on like a line of marching ants, every one exactly the same. I slept, my body trapped in the transparent prison. Food came and went, every meal another ant. I ate, slowly, each bite meaningful. It wouldn’t do me any good to starve to death. During of the days, the man who was staring at me was taken away, returned a couple hours later. His skin looked drawn and yellow. He went to sleep, but when he awoke he crawled from his bed to the floor, crossed his legs and continued to stare. I had learned to ignore him. Once a day they would throw in a bucket so I could relieve myself. I couldn’t let my life turn into the shit I filled it with. So I ate. I slept. My body was confined but my mind wondered free.

  After a week, I was taken and my blood was stolen from me again. I didn’t say a word throughout the entire thing. Let them think I was broken. Let them imagine they were in control. After I was returned to my cell, the ants began their silent march once again. I was searching for something, anything that would give me an edge. So far, I had come up with nothing, but that didn’t discourage me. Somewhere along the way they would make a mistake and I would be strong and ready to act. Until then, I brewed, feeding my anger and quietly plotting.

  I began to notice minor tremors during another faceless day. Nothing more than a slight shivering of the ground. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I was elsewhere, but since I had tuned myself to pick up even the smallest abnormality, I felt it. They came and went, sometimes minutes apart, other times hours. I wondered if it was earthquakes. The deep bowels of Section 36 were so far underground that I didn’t discard the possibility. I drew no conclusions though, and began timing them. After a couple days I found that no pattern could be mapped. They were erratic and followed no course. I tucked the information away and stared at my neighbor who stared back, always, staring back.

  I refused to let myself drown in despair. It wasn’t easy, but I’d set my jaw and think about getting out. I had to get out. I had to get out. I would not be the Sanction’s puppet. I would not allow myself to be used by them until death. I couldn’t. I needed to cause an uproar, a revolt. But down here, where the men had decayed to zombies, it was impossible. The will to live had been squeezed from their hearts. Their eyes were all I had to look at to see this. Empty sockets that had already died. Black holes that had sucked the fight from them. They were just waiting to be discarded, another vessel sunk in the waters of the damned.

  Above me though. Above me there were plenty of fighting spirits. Plenty of fire. I needed to unleash it and let it course through Haven Ward, burning anything in its path. I needed a fury so deadly that, united, nothing would be able to stand against it.

  After I planted this idea into my own head, a solution began to bloom, sprouting forth a dark and violent tree with braches that were arms, stretching out, reaching for the throat of the Sanction. But I had to wait. I needed an opportunity. One shot would be all I had. A single shell in the chamber. And so I waited, patiently, eating my meals, a silent tsunami forming on the horizon.

  Lost in my thoughts, as I was sitting on the floor, eyes closed, my cell door opened. My eyes snapped open. It wasn’t time to be drained already was it? I couldn’t be sure. Time here was like a road that stretched for miles and miles along a flat surface with no landmarks. You just kept walking, not knowing how far you had gone.

  It was Nigel, his face pinched up into smiled, “How are you feeling?”

  I closed my eyes again.

  “Do you know,” he started, counting off on his fingers, “That the human body has between ten to twelve pints of blood?” He eyes flicked over to mine. “You though…you’re a little bit younger. You have less. But even though that may be, we’re still getting quite a bit from you. How do you feel?” I was blocking him out, trying to get lost in my thoughts.

  “You’ve been eating everything that we give you, which is wonderful. You need lots of sleep too, don’t forget that. I hope you’ve been sleeping,” his eyes looked through the glass walls at my neighbor, “Unlike some people. He’s going to die soon you know.”

  He was trying to get a rise out of me. I wouldn’t let him. I clenched my jaw tight.

  “Yep. I’m guessing the next time we drain him, it’ll be the last. But that’s ok. His blood is pretty common. It wou
ldn’t be like if you died. You’re special. Unique. Did you know that only three percent of the world’s population has your blood type?” He went to the wall and looked down the line of cells at all the shriveled, white people. “We’re going to keep pushing you Weston. We’re making a lot of money off you. The people are screaming for more. Red City thirsts. Do you know why they call it Red City?” I remained silent. He went on, “They say that it’s because during Detox Day, the land was literally soaked in blood from all the killing. The earth and the dirt’s color had changed from brown to a dark red. When Dictator Roth build his castle there” my eyes flickered. The current Dictator of the Sanction lived in Red City? I stored away the information and let the idiot continue, “he had it painted red so as to remember the blood spilt on that haunting day. Of course that was years before any of us were born, but still he felt that it was important that we remember. Even after all these years. ”

  Nigal paused and traced a finger on the glass, “But you know what I say? I think it’s called Red City for a different reason. I believe it’s call that because the citizens bathe in blood every day. They chew and inject human blood so they can feel…elevated…from the rest of you. And you know the best part? They don’t give a damn about you. It’s a cannibalistic world,” he leaned down to me, his face in mine, “But these cannibals pay.” He stood, starting to leave, “So rest up kiddo. You’re my ticket to a better life. And when I say better, I mean richer. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll be sitting high and mighty in Red City, injecting your blood. Think about that my little bank.” He was gone, that same laughter cursing my ears. I realized that my fists were clenched, the knuckles white. I forced myself to relax. Your time is coming Nigel.

  Another handful of undetermined time passed, everything a blur, nothing standing out. A monotonous chain where all the links appeared alike. My staring neighbor was eventually hauled out of his cell and didn’t return. A day or so later he was replaced with a new person who wept non-stop. I couldn’t hear him because of the glass, I counted myself lucky, but his face was enough to make me sick. When I was out of my bed I sat with my back to the wall that looked in on him. I didn’t need to see that.