There's something that sounds like an explosion behind me, and when I turn to look there are two wardens there, armed with rifles, faces hidden behind masks. A thin stream of smoke is curling from one of the rifle barrels and it takes me an age to put two and two together, but when I turn back to Syra, hoping, desperate, pleading for it not to be true, I see her staggering back from the fence with her hands on her belly. And then a second shot catches her and she topples onto the ground, red spraying out over the earth.
"Lie down," yell the wardens, and I lie down on the ground. Why fight? I'm as much a prisoner now as ever I was. I'm shaking, not just from the exhaustion of the escape but from the knowledge, the sheer and awesome knowledge that they will kill me. They will kill me like they killed Syra . . .
Syra. Syra lying dead not a metre away from me. And all my fault. She stayed to try and help me. If only she'd just turned and run . . . the sorrow of it is painful.
I see their boots approaching, feel the jab of a rifle barrel in the back of my neck. I squeeze my eyes tight shut. This is it, I tell myself, this is the moment.
Two gunshots. Deafeningly loud.
A huge weight slumps down on top of me, pins me to the ground. For a moment I am confused; is this what it feels like to be shot? Is this dying? But then I open my eyes and I realise that it's one of the wardens. He's slumped on top of me, a flowering red wound in the middle of his forehead. The other lies nearby, just as dead.
With a great effort I heave the man off me. He leaves a thick smear of red on my grey overalls. What's happening? Running across the car park towards me is the boy me and Syra freed from the cells. There's a pair of twin girls following behind him, both looking about fifteen and with piercing blue eyes, the stubble of blond hair covering their shaven scalps. All three of them are armed; as I watch the boy drops his pistol and snatches up one of the warden's rifles. He strides forward, grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet.
"Thank you," I manage. He smiles, nods, then jerks his head towards the fence. The girls are covering the car park behind us with their guns, watching for pursuit. The boy doesn't speak, but he mouths the word "go."
Friday, 3 February 2012
Monday, 30 January 2012
Part One, Chapter Nine
Dark-uniformed figures emerge from behind the trucks, from the corners or buildings. Twenty of them at least, between us and the gate. And that's not even thinking about the watchtowers. Syra's tugging on my arm, whispering, cajoling, "Come ON Lynch, we have to GO," and I'm just staring at the blond kid lying face down on the concrete. What if that's me in just a few minutes time?
There's a shout. The concrete by my foot explodes upwards, and I'm running. Running with death only a second away. Syra plunges on ahead, down the side of the prison building and into a smaller courtyard between it and a workshop on the far side. Briefly, we're obscured from the wardens by the gate by the corner of the building. There's a door; we shoulder our way inside and we're running down a sterile white corridor with offices on either side. The alarm is going off here too. A man in a white coat emerges from his office and I raise the gun and fire. The wall explodes into shards of plastic and dust and the man disappears, slamming his door.
Left. Right. Another pair of double doors and we're outside again. A shout from our left and I turn and raise the gun and start to fire. I crush the trigger until the thing clicks empty; at the end of the alley we have emerged into a warden crumples. Two others dart back into cover.
"This way." I can hear the panic in Syra's voice. We're rabbits in a run here; all the exits blocked, but running all the same.
We leave the alley and we're in what looks like a car park. Ordinary, civilian-looking cars stopped in neat rows. Two temporary huts at the far end, like you might see on building sites. My legs are jelly from the running, muscles broken and screaming. Don't let them give up on me now.
"The fence," Syra yells, and she's dragging me towards the head of the car park . . . and she's right. There's the fence, and on the other side nothing but the tall, dark shapes of pine trees. We sprint for it, passing in and out of the glow from the light posts. Weaving through the cars. The closer it gets the more imposingly tall that wire fence seems.
And then we're up against it, and Syra leaps up and grabs onto the mesh with her fingertips. She swarms up, over in a second, and down the other side. Watching her, my heart sinks. I can't do it. There's no way. I can barely even run anymore, and this fence is three times my height.
I'm on my knees. I'm clinging to the fence and Syra's fingers are touching mine through the mesh and this is all that separates us. This and a world.
There's a shout. The concrete by my foot explodes upwards, and I'm running. Running with death only a second away. Syra plunges on ahead, down the side of the prison building and into a smaller courtyard between it and a workshop on the far side. Briefly, we're obscured from the wardens by the gate by the corner of the building. There's a door; we shoulder our way inside and we're running down a sterile white corridor with offices on either side. The alarm is going off here too. A man in a white coat emerges from his office and I raise the gun and fire. The wall explodes into shards of plastic and dust and the man disappears, slamming his door.
Left. Right. Another pair of double doors and we're outside again. A shout from our left and I turn and raise the gun and start to fire. I crush the trigger until the thing clicks empty; at the end of the alley we have emerged into a warden crumples. Two others dart back into cover.
"This way." I can hear the panic in Syra's voice. We're rabbits in a run here; all the exits blocked, but running all the same.
We leave the alley and we're in what looks like a car park. Ordinary, civilian-looking cars stopped in neat rows. Two temporary huts at the far end, like you might see on building sites. My legs are jelly from the running, muscles broken and screaming. Don't let them give up on me now.
"The fence," Syra yells, and she's dragging me towards the head of the car park . . . and she's right. There's the fence, and on the other side nothing but the tall, dark shapes of pine trees. We sprint for it, passing in and out of the glow from the light posts. Weaving through the cars. The closer it gets the more imposingly tall that wire fence seems.
And then we're up against it, and Syra leaps up and grabs onto the mesh with her fingertips. She swarms up, over in a second, and down the other side. Watching her, my heart sinks. I can't do it. There's no way. I can barely even run anymore, and this fence is three times my height.
I'm on my knees. I'm clinging to the fence and Syra's fingers are touching mine through the mesh and this is all that separates us. This and a world.
Friday, 27 January 2012
Part One, Chapter Eight
Syra freezes up when she sees the body of the warden, but only for a moment. This strange look passes across her face, of fear and understanding and resolution, and the next moment she's back with me, all business.
"Let me have the card," she says. I hand it over without question and she runs to the next cell down and swipes the door open. Inside a young dark-skinned boy of about eleven or twelve is sitting up on his bunk, staring at us with terrified eyes. Syra throws the card at him. "Get up," she shouts. "Start opening the cells." For a moment he doesn't move, and Syra yells at him, "Now!" And then he's on his feet, card in hand, a resolute look in his eyes.
Syra grabs my hand and we take off down the corridor. I'm holding the gun in front of me, ready to shoot, ready to kill if need be. When we reach the door at the end of the corridor we don't even pause. I enter the junction room with the gun up, heart thudding, arms braced, teeth gritted, Syra by my side. But the wardens on the platform are already dead, lying slumped on their sides.
"Come on." Syra steers me across the room towards the door at the opposite end. The door through which none of us has ever stepped, which leads not to the labs or the observation rooms or other cells but outside. As we run through into a long, blank corridor I feel a current of fresh air on my face. It is the most beautiful thing I've ever felt.
The door at the end of the corridor is close now. Each second I expect to feel the hot sting of a bullet in my back. I'm waiting for our escape to be cut short.
But it's not. And then we're at the big metal door and through it, and for the first time in what feels like years, we're outside. It's night. Above us the sky is a dark and knowing blue, scattered with stars. The air is cool and smells of forest. We're standing in a large concrete yard, hemmed in on three sides by low, bunker-like buildings. A dozen military-looking trucks are parked at the far end of the yard, alongside a chain-link fence. And there's a gate, flanked by watchtowers.
I see all this in a second, my heart close to overflowing with fear and panic and hope. And then I see that in the middle of the yard stands the blond boy. He's sheltering himself behind a stand of barrels and cylinders. He's shouting something and waving the gun. Not far off from him lie the bodies of three more wardens.
This scene only lasts a moment. Before me or Syra can move, there is the slam and whine of gunfire, and the blond boy crumples violently to the ground.
"Let me have the card," she says. I hand it over without question and she runs to the next cell down and swipes the door open. Inside a young dark-skinned boy of about eleven or twelve is sitting up on his bunk, staring at us with terrified eyes. Syra throws the card at him. "Get up," she shouts. "Start opening the cells." For a moment he doesn't move, and Syra yells at him, "Now!" And then he's on his feet, card in hand, a resolute look in his eyes.
Syra grabs my hand and we take off down the corridor. I'm holding the gun in front of me, ready to shoot, ready to kill if need be. When we reach the door at the end of the corridor we don't even pause. I enter the junction room with the gun up, heart thudding, arms braced, teeth gritted, Syra by my side. But the wardens on the platform are already dead, lying slumped on their sides.
"Come on." Syra steers me across the room towards the door at the opposite end. The door through which none of us has ever stepped, which leads not to the labs or the observation rooms or other cells but outside. As we run through into a long, blank corridor I feel a current of fresh air on my face. It is the most beautiful thing I've ever felt.
The door at the end of the corridor is close now. Each second I expect to feel the hot sting of a bullet in my back. I'm waiting for our escape to be cut short.
But it's not. And then we're at the big metal door and through it, and for the first time in what feels like years, we're outside. It's night. Above us the sky is a dark and knowing blue, scattered with stars. The air is cool and smells of forest. We're standing in a large concrete yard, hemmed in on three sides by low, bunker-like buildings. A dozen military-looking trucks are parked at the far end of the yard, alongside a chain-link fence. And there's a gate, flanked by watchtowers.
I see all this in a second, my heart close to overflowing with fear and panic and hope. And then I see that in the middle of the yard stands the blond boy. He's sheltering himself behind a stand of barrels and cylinders. He's shouting something and waving the gun. Not far off from him lie the bodies of three more wardens.
This scene only lasts a moment. Before me or Syra can move, there is the slam and whine of gunfire, and the blond boy crumples violently to the ground.
Monday, 23 January 2012
Part One, Chapter Seven
Syra's yelling a dozen questions from the other side of the door, but I ignore her. I drop to the floor next to my dead warden and snatch two-handed at his swipe card. It's attached on a chain to his belt, but comes away when I pull it. There's blood everywhere, pumping sluggishly from the ruptured holes in his chest, darkening his uniform, pooling on the metal floor.
At his waist there's a pistol, clipped inside its leather case. I stare for a moment, then reach across his body to grab it. It's heavier than I expected, and holding it in my cuffed hands is awkward. As I go to stand up, something seizes my wrist.
It's all I can do not to scream. The guy's still alive. His eyes have sprung open and his hand is fastened weakly around my forearm. He's looking at me in this pleading, pained way. Hate and sorrow there in equal measure. That look . . . it does something to me. Makes me feel sick and dirty and sad deep inside. For a very brief moment I want to apologise to him.
Then I remember.
This is the man who marched me unquestioningly to the labs again and again and again. Who shocked me and hit me and leered at me while I showered. This is the man who kept me prisoner, sure as Ingleman did, sure as any of them.
"Let go," I say coldly, quietly. Against the noise of the alarms my voice sounds very calm. The man shakes his head. "I said, let go." And this time I wrench my arm from his grip, and slam the weight of the gun up into his chin. Hard. His eyes roll back and he's unconscious. I stand.
My hands are shaking so much it takes me three tries to swipe the card through the slot by the door of Syra's cell. And then suddenly the green light flicks on and the door is open and there's Syra. After all those days of hearing her voice through the wall, here she is. I feel like crying.
"Lynch?" She's darker-skinned than I imagined, and her eyes are large and soft. She's dressed in the same kind of grey overalls I am, her head shaved bald like mine. Around my age, I think, or a little older. She's standing hugging herself at the back of the cell.
"It's me," I say. And then we're hugging each other and I can feel the tears coming again, because it's been so long since I touched another human being like this. So long . . .
"Lynch," she's saying, "What's happening? What's going on?" But there's no time right now to explain, so I just grab her hand and drag her from the cell.
At his waist there's a pistol, clipped inside its leather case. I stare for a moment, then reach across his body to grab it. It's heavier than I expected, and holding it in my cuffed hands is awkward. As I go to stand up, something seizes my wrist.
It's all I can do not to scream. The guy's still alive. His eyes have sprung open and his hand is fastened weakly around my forearm. He's looking at me in this pleading, pained way. Hate and sorrow there in equal measure. That look . . . it does something to me. Makes me feel sick and dirty and sad deep inside. For a very brief moment I want to apologise to him.
Then I remember.
This is the man who marched me unquestioningly to the labs again and again and again. Who shocked me and hit me and leered at me while I showered. This is the man who kept me prisoner, sure as Ingleman did, sure as any of them.
"Let go," I say coldly, quietly. Against the noise of the alarms my voice sounds very calm. The man shakes his head. "I said, let go." And this time I wrench my arm from his grip, and slam the weight of the gun up into his chin. Hard. His eyes roll back and he's unconscious. I stand.
My hands are shaking so much it takes me three tries to swipe the card through the slot by the door of Syra's cell. And then suddenly the green light flicks on and the door is open and there's Syra. After all those days of hearing her voice through the wall, here she is. I feel like crying.
"Lynch?" She's darker-skinned than I imagined, and her eyes are large and soft. She's dressed in the same kind of grey overalls I am, her head shaved bald like mine. Around my age, I think, or a little older. She's standing hugging herself at the back of the cell.
"It's me," I say. And then we're hugging each other and I can feel the tears coming again, because it's been so long since I touched another human being like this. So long . . .
"Lynch," she's saying, "What's happening? What's going on?" But there's no time right now to explain, so I just grab her hand and drag her from the cell.
Friday, 20 January 2012
Part One, Chapter Six
He's so fast I don't have time to react before he's pulled something from his belt and lashed out at his warden. The guy falls backwards, hands at his throat. There's blood, splashing freely onto the metal floor. And the blond boy lunges forward and seizes the gun from his warden's belt. His face is wild. Three gunshots echo deafeningly down the corridor. My warden is still trying to get his gun off his belt when he dies.
For a moment afterwards, everything seems to have stopped. The wardens lie dead or dying on the floor, and the only sound is the blond boy's harsh breathing. Neither of us move.
Somewhere distant, an alarm starts to sound.
The blond boy looks directly at me, and I can see the fear and the pleading in his eyes. He's scared out of his wits, like a wild animal. He's still holding the gun. For a terrible moment I'm scared that he'll shoot me.
"Wait . . ." I manage, but then the boy turns and, stumbling, sets off at a sprint up the corridor. Not knowing what to do, I set off after him.
My brain feels like it's working too slow, like something's wrong with it. This is it. This is my chance. All the times I've fantasised about escape, all the times I've lain on my bed planning my breakout . . . and now here it is, without warning, without any chance to plan or make myself ready. What do I do? If I mess this up then I know for sure I'll die here . . .
I stop. I'm at the end of the rows of cells. The door ahead of me is open, and even as I stand there I hear the slam of gunshots from beyond it. That's where the blond boy's gone . . . but who's firing those shots? If I step through into the main junction will I be greeted by a room full of dead wardens or a bullet to the head? I don't know. I'm not thinking clearly. My brain is screaming at me. The alarm is blaring still, louder than before. Can't concentrate knowing that any second now I could be dead.
A single thought runs through my head. Syra. I can't do this alone. I can't leave her behind.
I wheel around and set off back up the corridor. It's awkward trying to run with my hands tied in front of me, but there's nothing I can do. I pass the blond boy's cell, then my own. When I get to Syra's I hammer madly on the door.
"Syra! Syra, it's me!"
I hear scuffling noises from the other side of the door, then Syra's voice: "Lynch?" The sound of it almost makes me cry.
"Hold on," I yell. "We're going to get out of here."
For a moment afterwards, everything seems to have stopped. The wardens lie dead or dying on the floor, and the only sound is the blond boy's harsh breathing. Neither of us move.
Somewhere distant, an alarm starts to sound.
The blond boy looks directly at me, and I can see the fear and the pleading in his eyes. He's scared out of his wits, like a wild animal. He's still holding the gun. For a terrible moment I'm scared that he'll shoot me.
"Wait . . ." I manage, but then the boy turns and, stumbling, sets off at a sprint up the corridor. Not knowing what to do, I set off after him.
My brain feels like it's working too slow, like something's wrong with it. This is it. This is my chance. All the times I've fantasised about escape, all the times I've lain on my bed planning my breakout . . . and now here it is, without warning, without any chance to plan or make myself ready. What do I do? If I mess this up then I know for sure I'll die here . . .
I stop. I'm at the end of the rows of cells. The door ahead of me is open, and even as I stand there I hear the slam of gunshots from beyond it. That's where the blond boy's gone . . . but who's firing those shots? If I step through into the main junction will I be greeted by a room full of dead wardens or a bullet to the head? I don't know. I'm not thinking clearly. My brain is screaming at me. The alarm is blaring still, louder than before. Can't concentrate knowing that any second now I could be dead.
A single thought runs through my head. Syra. I can't do this alone. I can't leave her behind.
I wheel around and set off back up the corridor. It's awkward trying to run with my hands tied in front of me, but there's nothing I can do. I pass the blond boy's cell, then my own. When I get to Syra's I hammer madly on the door.
"Syra! Syra, it's me!"
I hear scuffling noises from the other side of the door, then Syra's voice: "Lynch?" The sound of it almost makes me cry.
"Hold on," I yell. "We're going to get out of here."
Monday, 16 January 2012
Part One, Chapter Five
We get one shower a week in this place. Today, it's my turn. Exhausted from the treadmill, I'm marched down a maze of sterile, halogen-lit corridors to the white-tiled shower room at the end of the cells. I hate this place; more than anything it puts me in mind of a torture chamber. I hate being naked in front of the wardens too. They don't do anything--they wouldn't dare, what with the cameras on the ceiling watching their every move--but I can feel them staring at me, taking in my body. Like they know they have that power over me. Like they know there's nothing I can possibly hide from them
So, like always, I just go right ahead and strip off my overalls, trying to look unbothered. The warden--some bald guy in his fifties with a small scar on his top lip--watches with a smirk as I peel off my underwear and position myself under the shower. There's no soap, and the water is so cold it makes me catch my breath. I tell myself that it'll be worth it to feel clean again, but even then I can't make myself stay under the jet for longer that a couple of minutes.
Shivering, I duck out from the stream of water. A new overall and clean underwear have been left on the bench. There's a towel too, already wet from its last use. I dry myself off as quickly as I can and pull on the clothes.
It's hard to imagine that I used to take a shower every day, under warm water, with clean dry towels. That I used to be able to choose what I would wear. Even that I used to have hair. Sometimes I see my reflection and I barely recognise myself.
"You done?" says the warden, sounding bored. I nod. "Hands," he says.
On go the cuffs, and we're heading back to my cell. The cold water's helped a little with the pain in my legs, but the muscles there still feel lame and stringy, as if they might give away any moment. I can feel blisters on my feet from my plastic shoes. It's warmer in the corridor, but I still can't stop myself shivering.
We're almost back at my cell when it happens. We come around the corner and there ahead of us a young-looking blonde boy is being returned to his cell. He's just had his plastic cuffs removed. As we approach his warden glances up at mine and gives a smile and a nod. And then, just then, in that one brief moment of distraction, the blonde boy makes his move.
So, like always, I just go right ahead and strip off my overalls, trying to look unbothered. The warden--some bald guy in his fifties with a small scar on his top lip--watches with a smirk as I peel off my underwear and position myself under the shower. There's no soap, and the water is so cold it makes me catch my breath. I tell myself that it'll be worth it to feel clean again, but even then I can't make myself stay under the jet for longer that a couple of minutes.
Shivering, I duck out from the stream of water. A new overall and clean underwear have been left on the bench. There's a towel too, already wet from its last use. I dry myself off as quickly as I can and pull on the clothes.
It's hard to imagine that I used to take a shower every day, under warm water, with clean dry towels. That I used to be able to choose what I would wear. Even that I used to have hair. Sometimes I see my reflection and I barely recognise myself.
"You done?" says the warden, sounding bored. I nod. "Hands," he says.
On go the cuffs, and we're heading back to my cell. The cold water's helped a little with the pain in my legs, but the muscles there still feel lame and stringy, as if they might give away any moment. I can feel blisters on my feet from my plastic shoes. It's warmer in the corridor, but I still can't stop myself shivering.
We're almost back at my cell when it happens. We come around the corner and there ahead of us a young-looking blonde boy is being returned to his cell. He's just had his plastic cuffs removed. As we approach his warden glances up at mine and gives a smile and a nod. And then, just then, in that one brief moment of distraction, the blonde boy makes his move.
Friday, 13 January 2012
Part One, Chapter Four
The next day it's the treadmill. They drag me off to the observation room and a wire me up with a bunch of sensors that run from my bald head to a panel in the ceiling, then stand back and watch as I run on the spot, occasionally noting stuff down on their handhelds.
It's slow at first, and even though my bones still ache from yesterday's injection, I'm able to keep up the pace. My form is terrible, more staggering than it is running, but it's hard to care about stuff like that. I watch myself in the one-way mirror on the opposite wall: a skinny, pale-looking sixteen year old girl, head shaved and blue eyes rimmed with sleepless red. The pace of the treadmill increases slightly. I grit my teeth and run faster.
At half an hour, the pain in my legs and hips has got to such a point that I can't run anymore. I push myself for as long as I can, but it's no good, and I have to step down. As soon as I do the warden's there. A sharp, burning sensation around my kidneys and I'm lying on the floor, jerking and twitching. He plucks the sensors from my skin, cuffs my hands together with a plastic tie, then drags me to the far wall.
The scientists huddle together and make notes, and I catch some murmurs about "muscle-mass" and "endurance". I don't care. The breath in my lungs is so hot it burns and I feel shuddery and sick. Sweat prickles on my back and legs beneath my overalls. The warden's watching me with a look of disgust on his face.
They let me rest for half an hour, and then I'm back on the treadmill again. Again I run until I can't anymore, then step down. The warden shocks me, cuffs me, drags me away. This time he pulls the plastic tie so tight that it bites my skin. Half an hour later I'm back on the treadmill again, shuffling along, blood dripping slowly down my wrist. My feet hurt. My legs hurt. The place on my back where the warden shocked me hurts. I feel like a hole's been bored in my throat with a rusty drill.
Finally, I can't run another step. This time, when I come off the treadmill my legs give way and I collapse in a heap on the floor. My knees feel loose. Cramps shoot through my stomach and legs, twisting the muscles into screaming knots. The warden bundles me onto my front and secures my hands behind my back, then yanks me to my feet. But my legs won't work. I feel dizzy. Shooting pains in my feet.
"Oh for fuck's sake," says the warden, and hauls me up from the floor for a second time. "Walk," he bellows into my face. "Walk or I shock you."
Somehow, somehow, I manage to make myself walk.
It's slow at first, and even though my bones still ache from yesterday's injection, I'm able to keep up the pace. My form is terrible, more staggering than it is running, but it's hard to care about stuff like that. I watch myself in the one-way mirror on the opposite wall: a skinny, pale-looking sixteen year old girl, head shaved and blue eyes rimmed with sleepless red. The pace of the treadmill increases slightly. I grit my teeth and run faster.
At half an hour, the pain in my legs and hips has got to such a point that I can't run anymore. I push myself for as long as I can, but it's no good, and I have to step down. As soon as I do the warden's there. A sharp, burning sensation around my kidneys and I'm lying on the floor, jerking and twitching. He plucks the sensors from my skin, cuffs my hands together with a plastic tie, then drags me to the far wall.
The scientists huddle together and make notes, and I catch some murmurs about "muscle-mass" and "endurance". I don't care. The breath in my lungs is so hot it burns and I feel shuddery and sick. Sweat prickles on my back and legs beneath my overalls. The warden's watching me with a look of disgust on his face.
They let me rest for half an hour, and then I'm back on the treadmill again. Again I run until I can't anymore, then step down. The warden shocks me, cuffs me, drags me away. This time he pulls the plastic tie so tight that it bites my skin. Half an hour later I'm back on the treadmill again, shuffling along, blood dripping slowly down my wrist. My feet hurt. My legs hurt. The place on my back where the warden shocked me hurts. I feel like a hole's been bored in my throat with a rusty drill.
Finally, I can't run another step. This time, when I come off the treadmill my legs give way and I collapse in a heap on the floor. My knees feel loose. Cramps shoot through my stomach and legs, twisting the muscles into screaming knots. The warden bundles me onto my front and secures my hands behind my back, then yanks me to my feet. But my legs won't work. I feel dizzy. Shooting pains in my feet.
"Oh for fuck's sake," says the warden, and hauls me up from the floor for a second time. "Walk," he bellows into my face. "Walk or I shock you."
Somehow, somehow, I manage to make myself walk.
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