by Lisa Jade
Published in 2017 by Lisa Jade via lulu.com
Copyright © Lisa Jade, 2017
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored digitally, or transmitted in any form without prior permission of the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, locations and events portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination.
www.lisajade.net
CHAPTER ONE
I bring the axe down hard, aiming for the centre of the log. It splits cleanly and a smile plays on my lips. A perfect hit. I place another log on the stump, repositioning my fingers on the handle of the axe. Sunlight glints at me, reflected from the rusted blade.
I pause. I’m bathed in the warmth of a late summer afternoon. Sunlight filters through the trees around us, turning into shining speckles on my hands and face. I wipe the sweat from my brow.
“Tired already, girlie?”
The Guard stands behind me. He’s a large, balding man with a permanent scowl and a shoddily-designed shock baton clutched in one hand. He taps it gently in his palm, his eyes narrowing. I shake my head.
“No, Sir. Sorry.”
I lift the axe overhead and swing downward again, this time missing the log and cutting some bark off instead. An anguished sigh escapes my throat and I aim again, this time revelling in the weight of the tool in my hand. It hits. The wood splinters down the grain with a satisfying crack.
I glance at the Guard, but Wirrow's already moved on. He’s pacing the line, watching the other workers now. We're lined up in our hundreds, chopping wood together. The next time I swing the axe, the movement aligns flawlessly with everyone else's – we work in surprising harmony here, each of us used to the rhythm of things.
The person next to me groans. I steal a glance his way; the poor thing is young, only fourteen or so. He's clearly not used to the physical exertion of life at the Mill. His clothes are soaked with sweat. It drips from his face, which grows paler by the minute. He leans forward, hands on his knees, and gulps down what little air he can.
“Oi. You!”
It’s Wirrow. He’s walking this way, ferocity in his eyes. I busy myself with chopping again. I’m not keen to be on the receiving end of a scolding – or worse. He stands over the boy, twirling the baton in one hand. The boy stares blankly; he doesn’t recognise the tool. Doesn’t realise the damage it can do.
“What's your name?”
“Kane,” the kid says – but there’s a little too much bravado in his voice. If I hadn't been sure of his immaturity before, I am now. Only an idiot talks to the Guard like that. Wirrow leans down until his eyes are level with Kane's. The kid stares at him, warm brown eyes meeting Wirrow's beady, black ones.
“How long have you been working, Kane?”
“At the farm? About three weeks.”
I wince. You never answer that question honestly. You always lie. Wirrow glances at me and I look pointedly away, making sure I swing extra hard at the next log.
“You.”
I freeze, the tool still mid-swing. Wirrow wanders over and places a heavy hand on my shoulder. My knees almost buckle from his weight and I drop my gaze to the ground, a motion borne partly from submission and partly from a desire to avoid a beating.
“What's your name, girlie?”
“Noah.”
He smirks.
“And how long have you been working the farm?”
I bite my lip.
“Three years, Sir.”
He laughs – a big, booming noise that makes my skin crawl.
“See, Kiddo? Three years here and she's not complaining.”
“But...”
Wirrow waves a hand at him and he falls silent.
“You keep working. I don't care if your hands drop off or you go blind. You keep working until I say to stop.”
Kane’s eyes dart around, and I can tell he wants to run. But then his gaze slides around the paddock, following the loop of barbed wire keeping us in. The Guard towers, the electronic locks. The occasional Guard-marked Hoverbot circling the perimeter. Defeat worms its way into his expression.
“Yes, Sir.”
He throws his axe down hard. It splits the log flawlessly, but I can tell it wasn't intentional. He just wants to take out his anger on something. Just wants to release the pent up frustration in his chest. Wirrow chuckles.
“Good lad.”
We keep working until the sun is gone and it becomes hard to see. The floodlights help a little, but once the stars become our main light source, we finally reach our limit. A whistle blows, and everyone heads inside.
I lean the axe against the nearest block and gingerly run my hands up my arms. They feel bruised and achy, and I can feel new blisters forming on my fingers and knuckles. I sigh. Okay. Pity time over. I shrug away the pain and turn to head inside.
Kane stands motionless, axe still held loosely in one hand. I pause.
“We should head inside.”
He shakes his head sadly.
“Why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Tell him you'd been here for three years? You could have lied for me, you know.”
I laugh – it's a dry, humourless noise, unusual for me. Laughter is a waste of energy.
“Kid, I did lie for you.”
“Y-you did? Then how long have you been here?”
I shoot him a wry smile.
“Hmm, let’s see. About eight years? Ever since I left Homestead.”
He gapes. I clap him on the back as I pass and he immediately follows, his eyes still wide.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” I mutter, “When I was a kid, they put you to work at ten or eleven. It’s different now. I think you have to be thirteen, right?”
He shakes his head.
“Ten or eleven is ridiculous. Starting work that young stunts growth.”
I consider this for a moment.
“Yeah, I can see that. You newbies are all so tall!”
We join the crowd as it lumbers through the Mill. All around are stations set up for different types of work; miles and miles of crop fields, huge facilities with animals kept for food and milk and leather. In the distance I can see the shadow of the Power Plant, where we generate electricity. Further, the Factories. Beyond our vision, under a seemingly ordinary hill, sits the Mine – but I hate to think about the prison built within the tunnels. The memory alone makes me shudder.
“I know you're having a tough time of it,” I tell Kane, “but don't worry. One more week and we shift over to the fields.”
“What's that like?”
I shrug.
“The work itself isn't that different, but it's shorter hours because there’s less light. It's practically a holiday.”
He hesitates, and I can tell he has more to say. There’s a redness in his cheeks, a rebelliousness in his eyes that’s both familiar and unnerving. I throw out an arm and stop him in his tracks.
“You're angry.”
He clenches his fist.
“Of course I'm angry! This isn't what I thought it'd be like at The Mill.”
“You thought it'd be like Homestead? Spending time with Mummy? Learning farming theory? If you feel disillusioned, that’s your own damn fault. Just get on with it.”
He pouts – the expression is so adorable and ridiculous that I bite back a chuckle.
“I should have had a choice,” he grumbles. I pat his back, but my attempt at comfort comes off far more patronising than intended.
“It’s all about balance, kid. If you’re selfish about it then sure, the Mill is pretty bad. How about looking outside your own wants for a change? Look.”
I reach out and point, towards the fields and far, far past them.
Past the Docks, over the sea, far beyond anything we can see, feel or imagine.
“The people in Thorne depend on us. Without us, they'd have nothing. If we all acted selfishly, the world would be in anarchy. Do you really think that having your own way is worth risking all those lives?”
Kane stares at my outstretched hand. His face is a picture of conflict. I get it; there’s a strange disconnect between the Mill and the City of Thorne. I know that as well as anyone. But we still have a responsibility to help them. He puffs out his cheeks.
“But I don’t want to be here.”
I shrug.
“Then try not to think about it. This is the way the world is. You need to stop questioning everything. Bad things happen when you start asking questions.”
Hurt briefly crosses his face, but I don’t care. I turn and walk away. That may have sounded like a threat, but it wasn't. It was a warning, a lesson. I had to learn the hard way; and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
CHAPTER TWO
Evening is when we’re supposed to gather in one of the larger shelters for food, but I’m exhausted. I know I’ll suffer tomorrow if I skip dinner tonight, but I need a few minutes to lie down. I head straight to the living area and wheel open the door to one of the large, metal bunkers.
Beds line the room. Most are small, black camp beds with shredded blankets, but some people have to sleep in hammocks. One or two sleep on the floor. There’s a single bulb hanging down in the middle of the room, casting a pale yellow light. The Mill has stringent rules on energy use, and it’s not considered worthwhile to waste electricity on the workers. I grab a bottle of water and gulp it down. We collect the stuff whenever it rains so it tastes stale and warm, but it does the job.
My bunk is in the furthest, darkest corner of the bunker. I sidle over and peel off my dirty clothes until I’m in just a tank and shorts. The clothes I toss aside are all standard issue stuff – grey vest, jeans, hooded jacket, heavy leather work boots. I reach up to wipe the dried sweat from my face. My fingers come away dirty. Somehow, I always end up coated in muck, even when I’m not in the fields. I idly attempt to pick it out from under my bitten nails, but quickly give up. Who cares.
After an hour or so, people start to trickle in. The bunker is all girls; we’re never supposed to be alone with a member of the opposite sex, though there are those who give in to their more primal urges. Their exhaustion seems to radiate across the room. Within minutes all I can smell is sweat and muck and terrible, terrible breath – but at this point I’m so used to it that it barely registers.
“What are you doing here?”
I look up to see Nel standing in front of me. She’s got her hands on her hips and her lips are pursed. I smile; it’s good to see a somewhat friendly face after a long day’s work.
“Hey, Nel.”
“Don’t ‘hey Nel’ me. Where were you at dinner?”
I point at my legs.
“They didn’t want to move. I just needed a break.”
She sighs and rubs a hand over her head. Like many workers, Nel keeps her hair buzzed close to her head - but it’s started to grow back recently. Patches of carrot-coloured hair are showing through, matching her orange brows. Beneath them are clear brown eyes and a long, sloping nose dotted with freckles. She narrows her eyes at me.
“What are you staring at?”
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
She slumps down next to me and pulls her knees up to her chin.
“I am so fed up of working in cow waste. I wish I could chop wood already.”
I chuckle. Nel’s always a cycle behind me, so we’ve never had a full day together. I suppose it’s for the best. You think differently of someone when you see them struggle.
“I will gladly switch with you,” I tease, “look at my hands!”
I stretch out my fingers and notice that one of my knuckles is cracked and bleeding. I watch the blood pool around the crease for a moment before sucking it clean.
When I lower my hand, Nel’s staring at me in disgust.
“That was revolting. I just want you to know that.”
“You seem surprised.”
We sit like that for the next few hours. Some of the others try and stay up too, occasionally dropping a bit of information about their day, but eventually they, too, succumb to the day’s exhaustion. Eventually it’s just the two of us tucked away in the corner of the bunker, barely able to see by the light of a single bulb.
“I spoke with someone today,” I say softly, “A kid called Kane. He was on chopping duty too.”
Nel lifts an eyebrow.
“You spoke to a newbie? Since when are you so friendly?”
“I wasn’t, really. He was threatening to play up so I gave him some advice.”
We lie down now, each curled up in our bunks. We’re facing one another, but I’m having trouble seeing Nel’s face in the darkness.
“Play up?” she asks, “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, exactly. He was just… angry, I guess, and I reckoned he was going to snap any time. I didn’t want to be around for that.”
She doesn’t respond, but I see her eyebrows furrow. I know. It’s hard when someone snaps. It’s not very often it happens – most of us quickly learn that it’s easier to just get on with things – but it’s not unheard of. It’s usually someone who’s just come from Homestead. They haven’t had to work a day in their lives, and the prospect of physical labour scares them. They lash out, they try to convince others to think like they do. They attack the Guards or try to run, but they eventually get dragged away. Taken to the coal mines, where they’re allowed to let out as much of their anger as they like on the rock. If they’re especially resistant, the Guards will slip a needle into the back of their neck in something they like to call a ‘fresh start’. Nobody’s ever the same after that.
“Y-you shouldn’t be getting involved,” she says, and her voice sounds strange.
“What are you talking about? It’s better that we try and stop them...”
“That doesn’t matter. It’s none of your business, Noah. Some people have issues they need to work through, so just let them. Whatever happens… it’s up to them to decide. It’s one of the few things we can actually control.”
Her voice sounds choked, filled with uncertainty. I reach out a hand, but she simply rolls away from me.
“Hey. Nel.”
She ignores me. I don’t know what I could have done to annoy her.
“Nel. Talk to me.”
“Sorry, Noah. I don’t mean anything by it. I’m just... really tired. Tomorrow we need to separate the calves from the cows and I’m already dreading it.”
I hesitate – there’s clearly more going on – but she’s right. It is getting late. I look toward the door, but there’s no light coming through the crack underneath. Not even the floodlights are on tonight. Discomfort stirs in my gut, but there’s not much I can do about it. Just like I told Kane earlier. Don’t think too deeply.
I roll over so I’m staring at the corrugated metal of the bunker and close my eyes. Sleep should come easily to me – it does to everyone else. The aches and pains in my body and the heaviness in my eyes should help me drift right off. But instead I lie motionless for what seems like hours, staring at the inside of my eyelids and waiting for sleep to come.
Eventually, it does.
It seems like mere minutes before the door to the bunker flies open, the metal bouncing back with a crash. We wake instantly – you’d think I’d be used to it after so many years, but no. I still startle awake every morning.
A Guard stands in the doorway, but he doesn’t stick around to wake any stragglers. He keeps walking, and after a few moments I hear the door of the next bunker over being thrown open, too.
I sit up and yawn, stretching my arms over my head to feel the familiar, and slightly painful, cracking in my limbs. Nel sits up too, rubbing her head all over and letting out a
tired growl.
“Ugh, I hate when they do that. You’d think a bell or something would be easier, but no. That would make too much sense.”
I hesitate at the joke, but her eyes are wide and demanding, so I let out a laugh. I don’t really get why it’s funny, but it seems to be the affirmation she was looking for. She gives a satisfied nod and climbs to her feet.
We dress in silence, and most of the girls file out. The two of us hang back a little and I sit on the bunk, trying to tie my shoelaces into something resembling a knot. My hands still throb a little and the task is fiddly. Nel sits nearby, mimicking me. She doesn’t need to tie her boots. She’s just taking the chance to hang back and have an extra minute with a friend.
Suddenly, the door opens and Wirrow strides in. He’s got that expression on his face again; like there’s something delicious in the room and he wants it. I busy myself with my laces.
Wirrow’s greedy little eyes slide across the room, finally settling on a figure in the corner. It’s still somewhat dark in here, but I recognise the tight black curls and olive skin. I think her name is Sayla, though I could be wrong. She stands as he enters.
“Are you the one?” he asks. I watch her closely. I haven’t seen or spoken to Sayla in a long time, and she looks somehow different. Her body looks rounder, her face fuller. It’s a change so minor that most people probably couldn’t tell, but I’ve known her for years.
She nods.
“And has it been checked?”
Another nod.
“And they’re sure?”
She smiles, then places a gentle hand on her stomach. It’s bigger than before, more rounded. She caresses it softly and my gut twists.
“Alright then,” says Wirrow, “come with me. We’ll go to Homestead.”
She follows immediately, and I can sense excitement radiating from her. There’s a bounce in her step, a light in her eyes as she’s led away. Wirrow glances my way for a moment before walking out. The door swings a little, lighting up the room.
We sit in silence, stunned by what just happened. Nel lowers her head sadly, and I suppose I can understand why. It’s not every day someone leaves us. But my own reaction is much less kind.
“Ugh, Breeders,” I snort, “it’s so lazy. Taking the easy way out.”
