Rehabilitation: Romantic Dystopian (Unbelief Series Book 1)

by C. B. Stone

  She doesn’t make it far though. Two of the Selectors hook her around her little arms and lift her up so her feet are off the ground before she’s taken more than three steps.

  The rest of us who have been Selected do nothing, say nothing. We just wait until they’ve gotten a firm grip on her and start leading us to the elevator door that will take us to the testing floor.

  When we reach the eighth floor, the doors ding open and we step out into a hallway. It’s white, like everything else, and smells like bleach to me. My nose wrinkles. I’ve never cared for the smell of bleach. We split up. Two of the Selectors continue to hold the little girl in a tight grip.

  One of them says to one of the female Selectors, “Take both of them down the hall to the Mistrials.” He’s talking about me and the older boy. “And keep an eye on that one.”

  He points at me when he says this. I feel another shiver of fear race through me. I’ve never been singled out like that before.

  The woman nods and brusquely motions for both of us to follow her.

  Mistrials are rarer than regular Trials. Everyone goes through Trials all the time, though they are less and less frequent as we get older. Mistrials only happen when someone thinks there’s been a mistake. If they think someone’s been lying or has somehow managed to trick their tester, that’s when they call for a Mistrial.

  I’ve never had one. No one’s ever doubted my passing my Trials, but I guess that book has changed their minds.

  I slide a glance beneath my lashes at the boy walking next to me. He’s tall, taller than me by a foot at least, and gangly. It’s not uncommon for kids in the Gate, since food isn’t all that good and there’s not a lot of it to go around. But he looks less like a product of malnutrition and more like just a kid who hasn’t grown into his body yet.

  His hair is dark and ashy colored, like there’s gray dust coating it. His gaze is directed firmly forward, like he doesn’t want to catch my eye by accident. I can’t see them well, but I think they might be green.

  After several moments of walking in silence, we reach the end of the hallway. It’s split off now going in opposite directions. Down each of these new halls is a set of doors without windows.

  “Raymond,” the woman says addressing the boy next to me. “Your Judge is waiting behind that door.” She points to our left at the first door.

  Raymond, paling slightly, nods his head and walks silently to the door. It opens on its own when he gets there and he disappears into the room. The door shuts, leaving me alone with the Selector. She turns to me, an odd expression on her face. It passes after a moment and she points down the opposite hall.

  “There,” she says. “The third door.”

  I turn down the hallway, heading to my door. I can feel the woman’s eyes boring into my back as I go. Like Raymond’s door, mine opens on its own, revealing a square room, all white, with only a long table in the middle of it. An empty chair waits for me. Along the back wall is a mirror. My eyes are caught by my reflection when I enter, and I stare at myself, seeing a small, empty looking girl with mousy brown hair and pale skin.

  On its own, the door closes behind me, making me jump. Tension flooding through my body, I take a deep breath to calm myself and take a seat at the table.

  Now, I wait.

  IX

  I wait for a long time.

  I shift, restless. The chair is uncomfortable. It’s cold, stainless steel, and as you might imagine, extremely unforgiving. I’m left there waiting for what feels an interminable amount of time, so I shift my weight again, trying to achieve a level of comfort. Or at least get rid of some of the numbness settling in my rear.

  There is an empty chair on the other side of the table. That’s where my Judge will sit and test me to see if I’m a Believer. It’s been a while since my last Trial, but you never completely forget what they’re like.

  My eyes flicker up from the chair back once more to the mirror. Usually, there isn’t anything in the room besides the table and chair. It’s just a white box with stainless steel in the middle of it. That mirror is weird to see in here and it makes me antsy.

  I don’t know why, it’s only my reflection staring back at me, but I can’t shake the feeling there’s someone else there. Someone who I can’t see, but can see me.

  A shiver runs through me and I decide in an instant I want out. I shove back my chair, its legs making a high-pitched scraping sound along the floor, and stand. I’m not sure what I would have done—there’s nowhere to go, no way to hide—but I’ll never find out, because just as I turn toward the door it opens.

  In walks a tall woman in the same white all the Elite wear—a sign of the purity of the After World, one based in science not superstition—with brown hair pulled back into a tight bun and thick rimmed glasses. She is holding a clipboard in her hand with a stack of papers clipped to it.

  She said nothing to me at first, just raised a single eyebrow in surprise at my standing, and otherwise made no acknowledgment of my presence. She walked across the room, her white heels clicking on the tiles, and took a seat across from me in the other stainless steel chair. Placing her clipboard beside her, she whips out a pen from her coat pocket.

  She clicks it open, before looking at me squarely in the face.

  “Miss Sinna Reardon,” she says, only half asking a question of confirmation.

  I nod my head.

  She folds her hands in front of her over the table. “You understand why you’ve been brought here today?”

  Clearing my throat, I nod my head again. “Yes, ma’am,” I say in a shaky voice.

  After staring at me for a moment, she reaches for her clipboard. Flipping through the first couple of pages, she says, “You’ve never been for a Mistrial before?”

  “No,” I blurt.

  “Alright, then we will start with procedurals.” She flips through the pages on her clipboard and folds them over the back. “Mistrials are similar to normal Trials in that they are tests designed to evaluate your ability to integrate and assimilate into the general population. This means a basic skills test, social screening, and logic versus fallacy test.”

  I’m only half listening as she explains the Trials. We all know by now exactly what the tests are and what they’re designed for.

  Skills test to see where you’re going in life and if you’ll get stuck with the same lot you’ve always gotten stuck with.

  Social screening to identify if you associate with problem individuals and to see if you can suck up enough to advance in life.

  And the logic versus fallacy test, the only one that can completely destroy your entire world in an instant.

  “We’ll go through these tests as per protocol,” the woman continues. “After these, we will continue on to the Mistrial portion of your testing.”

  I bite my lip. I had promised myself I wasn’t going to do anything stupid like ask questions, but I figure if I’m trying to get myself into Rehabilitation anyway, I might as well gain as much knowledge out of it as I can. “Why is this a Mistrial instead of a Trial?”

  The woman looks up at me from her clipboard, her eyes registering annoyance behind her glasses. She isn’t a woman who likes questions—which I find odd, considering the Elite are such a proponents of science. Science is nothing but questions from what I can tell. Her lips twitch in aggravation before she lets out a sigh. “A Mistrial suggests that the original sentencing passed down from the original Trial was either inconclusive or has been overturned due to new evidence.”

  I consider this, then blurt before I can think it over, “So they made a mistake. They were wrong.”

  She freezes. She doesn’t like that word, wrong. None of the Elite do. They pride themselves on the idea that no matter what, science is never wrong. Science may ‘change’ as new evidence is brought to light, but it’s never wrong. People are wrong all the time of course, but science is what keeps them on the right path. Science is what keeps them from making mistakes and trials are supposed to be in
fallible. I have to withhold a snort at that thought. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t appreciate my observations.

  After a long moment, she flips over another page from her clipboard, clearing her throat. “We’ll begin with your logic versus fallacy test.”

  I frown. We don’t usually start with the logic versus fallacy test.

  She pulls out a small disk from her pocket and unclips a silver band around her wrist. It’s thick and flat, with two glowing green lights on the edges of it. She slides her finger across the flat surface, causing a ripple to shimmer over the silver band. It beeps and the lights flash twice. She inserts the tiny disk into port, swiping her hand over the surface again. The lights flash once.

  “Put this on,” she tells me, offering the wristband to me.

  I accept it, taking a deep breath. I slide it over my wrist, adjusting it so that the two lights are right above my pulse point. Once there, they turn from green to red and flash once.

  I don’t entirely understand how this works. I know it has something to do with our responses to questions presented to us, the data being recorded into the little disk she put into the band, but beyond that, I’m not sure.

  I don’t know what good and bad responses are or how to give the ones we’re supposed to. I guess that’s the point, though.

  “How old are you?” the woman begins, pen ready to scribble some information onto her clipboard.

  “Sixteen,” I say.

  I feel a tiny spark that tells me the wristband works just fine.

  “Where do you live?”

  “The Gate,” I answer automatically, then shake my head. “Um, I mean, Elite Sector Five.”

  She makes a low hum of disapproval, then checks something off on her board. “Do you have any siblings?”

  “No.”

  Another note. “Do you live with your parents?”

  The spark this time is as sharp as the lingering pain in my chest. “No,” I answer.

  “Are they dead?” she asks bluntly.

  The aching in my chest increases. “Yes.”

  She makes a note, then pushes further, “So they aren’t with you?”

  I frown. This is one of those weird phrasing things they do sometimes, but I’m not sure what she is trying to get at with this one. I shake my head. “No. They’re dead,” I say, emphasizing the word, like she’s dumb.

  Her eyes glance at my wrist and she gives me another hum of disapproval. “I see. Have you selected a partner yet?”

  I don’t know if it’s the analytical way she asked or if I’m just prickly from her last question, but I can’t help folding my arms across my chest and fixing her with a glare. “That’s none of your business.”

  Which isn’t true of course. Everything is their business. I feel resentment well up, but force it down.

  “I repeat: Have you selected a partner yet?” Her voice is stern now, even angry. “Answer.”

  I grit my teeth as a sharp shock goes through my wrist. “No,” I say and another spark travels through my arm, almost painful now.

  She doesn’t look happy about my answer. “Why do we denounce love?”

  “Because it breeds war,” I parrot immediately. It is the answer we are indoctrinated with as kids to keep us from questioning such a law—but sometimes, it only serves to make me question it more.

  They usually mean romantic love. Being too attached to your partner makes you vulnerable to being hurt, and when people get hurt by someone they’re so strongly attached to, there can often be violent results. What about familial love, I wonder? I loved my parents, didn’t I? Jacob loved—loves—his sister and she him, right?

  Did those things breed war, too?

  Another shock runs through my wrist. It’s starting to throb with soreness now, but I refuse to allow the Selector to see my discomfort.

  “And why do we denounce war?” she continues.

  “Because it is a violent endeavor ruled by superstition, fear, and passion,” I offer in answer.

  She writes something down on her paper as another shock travels all the way up my arm this time, thrumming in my shoulder. I grit my teeth again and look past her, tired of listening to her voice and looking at her face. Behind her is the mirror and I look at my own reflection, unnerved that I look so... angry.

  Anger isn’t a good response to a logic versus fallacy test.

  “Alright, Miss Reardon,” the woman says. “Just one last question for you.”

  I steel myself for it. The last one is usually the worst, whether it’s the most probing or just the most provoking, it’s hard to say.

  “If I were to present you with an offer to walk out of that door right now,” she begins, tilting her head to the side as she watches me. “Would you?”

  My eyes dart back to her face, her question catching me off guard. That’s not the kind of question they usually ask. Everyone knows the answer to that question, how could anyone get it wrong? Of course everyone would walk out the door? It would be crazy not to.

  “Yes,” I burst out, and disregarding the spark at my wrist.

  And I ignore the little voice in the back of my head that reminds me I’m lying.

  The truth is no... no I wouldn’t.

  X

  The woman takes the band off my arm, grabs her clipboard, and leaves me alone again. Now I’m stuck waiting once more, staring at that dumb mirror again. I don’t know why it makes me so uncomfortable, why my reflection creeps me out, but I can’t dislodge the conviction someone is behind it somehow, watching me.

  Someone who doesn’t like me much.

  After what feels like forever, the door opens again. I expect to see the lady return with her stupid clipboard to finish my tests, but it’s not her. Instead it’s two men dressed in white camo, marking them as soldiers. Guns are strapped to their thighs and visors cover their eyes.

  “You’re to come with us,” one of them tells me.

  I rise from my chair, hesitant. “What about the Mistrial?” I ask dumbly. I haven’t finished it yet.

  It’s the other one who speaks this time. “Your Judge has informed us that you have failed your Mistrial,” he says in a strict monotone. “You are to come with us for processing and transportation.”

  I start to shake my head, this can’t be happening. This has been my plan all along, but now that I’m here staring into the cold, blank faces of men who stand ready to take away my freedom? I’m afraid. I’m sickeningly afraid. I take one hesitant step back, bumping the edge of the table. It’s enough to make both men tense, their hands reaching automatically for the firearms at their sides.

  Immediately, I freeze.

  “Come with us now.” The man’s tone leaves no room for arguing and I don’t hesitate this time. I just walk straight forward to them, letting them put plastic cuffs on my wrists to hold them together and letting them escort me down the hall without resistance.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the other boy—Raymond—being hauled away by two large soldiers. He’s struggling against them, but his gangly arms don’t stand a chance against their large frames. He’s yelling, calling out “No” over and over again, but no one’s listening. I swallow hard, watching his futile fighting.

  After a moment, I have to look away, my lips firming together. There’s nothing I can do to help him.

  After all, we’re both going to the same place.

  We make it down to the garage again and I’m thrown into a line of other kids around my age, maybe seven or eight of us total. There are some younger, maybe twelve or thirteen being the youngest, but most of them are about sixteen or seventeen. Those are the ages that tend to cause the most trouble.

  There’s a line of soldiers on either side of us, making it clear running away is not an option. All of us, one by one, climb into the back of a large truck that isn’t enclosed so much as it’s covered by a thick white tarp. There are long benches on either side of the truck bed where we take our seats. I’m the second to last one in the truck (Raymond is the
last, thrown in with a bruised face) so I sit near the back of the truck bed.

  After myself and Raymond sit down in the truck, a soldier climbs in behind us. He sits on the edge of the truck, facing inward, so he can watch us all. I realize suddenly he’s there to keep any of us from doing something stupid, like jumping out the back.

  There are people sometimes that are just that desperate to get away.

  After he’s settled, the truck starts up and we begin to move. We can’t see anything outside thanks to the tarp, but I know when we’ve reached the outside of the Center, because it gets cold. Or colder, rather. All of us begin to shiver and most of the kids scoot in closer, sitting right behind the cab of the truck, seeking warmth.

  I stay toward the edge, however, staring down at Raymond. He’s unconscious, lying on the bed of the truck and I worry a little he might freeze during our trip.

  I glance toward the guard. It’s pointless, I know, to alert him that Raymond is unconscious and no doubt freezing in the back of the truck. He won’t care, much less do anything.

  I try anyway. “I think Raymond’s unconscious.”

  The guard glances at the boy laying on the truck bed. He considers him for a moment, then nods. “I think you’re right,” he says, and I’m surprised to find his voice isn’t like the other guards and Elite I’ve spoken with. There’s a hint of amusement there.

  The tinge of emotion, anything beyond the detached tones of all the rest of the Elite I have encountered, makes me notice other things about him. He is dressed in the white and black camouflage all the soldiers wear and has that same disconcerting visor across his eyes, but he’s thinner than most. Not gangly like Raymond, but his body looks filled out by lean muscles instead of bulky ones. There’s a tuft of dark hair sticking out from beneath his cap.

  After a moment of contemplation, he nods his head and yanks out a box from beneath the bench opposite of the one I’m sitting on. He opens the box and grabs a thick gray blanket from it. Unceremoniously, he tosses it over Raymond.