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."
Friday, 20 January 2012
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.
Monday, 9 January 2012
Part One, Chapter Three
It wasn't always like this. Not long ago--two or three months, I think, though it's hard to be sure of time in a place like this--I was just an ordinary kid. Seventeen at last count, living with my parents in a house in the city. Going to school like every other girl my age. I even had a pet cat.
It all seems kind of weird, looking back on it. So normal and safe that it might have come from a film, instead of real life.
What happened? I got involved with the Academy, that's what.
The first time I saw Ingleman was at a school assembly. It all sounded perfectly innocent; he gave us this long talk about his program for "gifted" children. Like a summer camp, he said, where they could go and explore their ideas, realise their potential. And he was looking for candidates. Stupid, stupid kid that I was, I thought I would apply.
My parents were so proud when I passed the entrance exam. And then when I passed the physical test they were pretty much ecstatic. Perhaps I should have realised then: what kind of summer camp required you to pass a physical exam? But pass I did. I used to go running every day.
The only thing left was an interview, this time with Ingleman himself. I turned up at the offices with my parents, excited, hopeful, so innocent and dumb it makes me sad to think of it.
There was no interview. The last thing I remember is walking in through the automatic doors of the offices. After that it's a big old blank until the moment when I woke up in my cell, dizzy and cold and dressed in a shapeless overall.
It was tough at first, of course. Don't think I didn't miss my mum and dad. Don't think I didn't cry about them every night for a month. But stuff like that fades fast in a place like this. Thinking of home hurts, and so you don't. You just get on with the everyday business of surviving. It's not as easy as it sounds.
Each day there's something. Either I'm hauled off to the lab for another set of injections, or taken to an observation room and hooked up to a bunch of machines while I run on a treadmill or lift weights or some other stupid thing. The best you can hope for is an exam: a day spent sitting in an empty classroom answering one maths question after another. Scratch that; the best days are when they don't come at all. When they just leave you in your cell and let you sleep.
I don't know what they're looking for. I don't care. All I know is that it's killing me, sure as it's killing Syra, sure as it's killing all of us. I figure I've got three months at most before they stick me with something fatal.
It all seems kind of weird, looking back on it. So normal and safe that it might have come from a film, instead of real life.
What happened? I got involved with the Academy, that's what.
The first time I saw Ingleman was at a school assembly. It all sounded perfectly innocent; he gave us this long talk about his program for "gifted" children. Like a summer camp, he said, where they could go and explore their ideas, realise their potential. And he was looking for candidates. Stupid, stupid kid that I was, I thought I would apply.
My parents were so proud when I passed the entrance exam. And then when I passed the physical test they were pretty much ecstatic. Perhaps I should have realised then: what kind of summer camp required you to pass a physical exam? But pass I did. I used to go running every day.
The only thing left was an interview, this time with Ingleman himself. I turned up at the offices with my parents, excited, hopeful, so innocent and dumb it makes me sad to think of it.
There was no interview. The last thing I remember is walking in through the automatic doors of the offices. After that it's a big old blank until the moment when I woke up in my cell, dizzy and cold and dressed in a shapeless overall.
It was tough at first, of course. Don't think I didn't miss my mum and dad. Don't think I didn't cry about them every night for a month. But stuff like that fades fast in a place like this. Thinking of home hurts, and so you don't. You just get on with the everyday business of surviving. It's not as easy as it sounds.
Each day there's something. Either I'm hauled off to the lab for another set of injections, or taken to an observation room and hooked up to a bunch of machines while I run on a treadmill or lift weights or some other stupid thing. The best you can hope for is an exam: a day spent sitting in an empty classroom answering one maths question after another. Scratch that; the best days are when they don't come at all. When they just leave you in your cell and let you sleep.
I don't know what they're looking for. I don't care. All I know is that it's killing me, sure as it's killing Syra, sure as it's killing all of us. I figure I've got three months at most before they stick me with something fatal.
Friday, 6 January 2012
Part One, Chapter Two
I wake up back in my cell. Every part of me feels frozen stiff, and I know that as soon as I move it will be agony. I don't move. I lie still and let my eyes roam about the cell. There's a fresh bottle of water on the shelf, along with a paper-wrapped packet that contains my daily ration of dried concentrate. I realise that I'm hungry, but I'm in no shape to eat quite yet. It'll have to wait.
I lie there for a while, feeling cold and stiff. Feeling tired. You're alive, I tell myself. There's that at least.
From the next cell over there's a tapping on the wall.
"Lynch," whispers a voice. "You there, girl?" It's Syra, my neighbour. Gritting my teeth, I roll over. A wave of fire seems to roll through all my bones, but it's not too bad, and it fades down to a dull, hot ache soon enough.
"I'm here," I say. Speaking makes me realise how thirsty I am, and I long to get up and fetch the water from my shelf. Not yet though; I don't know if my legs will take me. "How you doing?"
I hear Syra hissing through her teeth. It's odd; I've never even seen her in my life. Her voice, her little habits are the only way I really know her. "Not so bad. Just tired, you know. They had me on the treadmill 'till I damn near collapsed. What about you?"
"The lab," I say. It's all I need to say, because anyone of the kids they keep here know what it means to be taken to the lab. It means a chance of coming back missing something, or not coming back at all. I've been lucky so far. Either that or Ingleman likes me and he's been saving the worst for the others.
Syra's voice is low, suddenly. "Hey," she says, "you know the new kid? Cell opposite mine?"
"Yeah?"
"I think he's dead. I been calling for him since I got back in and there ain't been a word."
"Shit, Syra."
"I know."
For a moment I feel terribly sick. Another one dead; that'd be the third this month. And I never even knew who he was; just some scared little kid a hundred miles from home. It's obscene. I wish Syra hadn't told me.
I sit up. I do it quickly, all in one motion, and then double over and groan as the pain lances through my limbs and stomach. It takes me the better part of ten minutes to get across my tiny cell to the water, practically crawling on the concrete. Finally, I'm within reach, and I grab it and gulp down a half-dozen mouthfuls of lukewarm liquid. I sit back against the wall.
"Syra?" I call. Without warning the light on the ceiling dims out. Bedtime.
"Yeah?" says Syra. She sounds sleepy, or maybe sick.
"Nothing," I say quietly. "Just checking in."
I lie there for a while, feeling cold and stiff. Feeling tired. You're alive, I tell myself. There's that at least.
From the next cell over there's a tapping on the wall.
"Lynch," whispers a voice. "You there, girl?" It's Syra, my neighbour. Gritting my teeth, I roll over. A wave of fire seems to roll through all my bones, but it's not too bad, and it fades down to a dull, hot ache soon enough.
"I'm here," I say. Speaking makes me realise how thirsty I am, and I long to get up and fetch the water from my shelf. Not yet though; I don't know if my legs will take me. "How you doing?"
I hear Syra hissing through her teeth. It's odd; I've never even seen her in my life. Her voice, her little habits are the only way I really know her. "Not so bad. Just tired, you know. They had me on the treadmill 'till I damn near collapsed. What about you?"
"The lab," I say. It's all I need to say, because anyone of the kids they keep here know what it means to be taken to the lab. It means a chance of coming back missing something, or not coming back at all. I've been lucky so far. Either that or Ingleman likes me and he's been saving the worst for the others.
Syra's voice is low, suddenly. "Hey," she says, "you know the new kid? Cell opposite mine?"
"Yeah?"
"I think he's dead. I been calling for him since I got back in and there ain't been a word."
"Shit, Syra."
"I know."
For a moment I feel terribly sick. Another one dead; that'd be the third this month. And I never even knew who he was; just some scared little kid a hundred miles from home. It's obscene. I wish Syra hadn't told me.
I sit up. I do it quickly, all in one motion, and then double over and groan as the pain lances through my limbs and stomach. It takes me the better part of ten minutes to get across my tiny cell to the water, practically crawling on the concrete. Finally, I'm within reach, and I grab it and gulp down a half-dozen mouthfuls of lukewarm liquid. I sit back against the wall.
"Syra?" I call. Without warning the light on the ceiling dims out. Bedtime.
"Yeah?" says Syra. She sounds sleepy, or maybe sick.
"Nothing," I say quietly. "Just checking in."
Monday, 2 January 2012
Part One, Chapter One
They've got me strapped in the chair, just like every week. By now it's almost familiar: the sterile smell of the lab, the cold metal of my restraints, the men in the white coats standing at their computers, watching as one of the assistants approaches me with the needle.
"Injecting sample now," he announces. I can't stand this part. I try and make my body go loose, because it hurts less when your muscles aren't tensed. I try not to look at the guy who's sticking me, but it's difficult, what with my head strapped in place and all.
The needle enters. A sharp moment of pain, and then the hot trickle of blood down my arm.
I look up at the balcony, and there's Ingleman, standing at ease, hands in the pockets of his day-job suit, watching what's going on with that tiny little smile on his face. I don't know why he comes to watch this stuff; maybe it gives him some kind of thrill. Maybe he likes to see things in pain or dying. Maybe he just likes me. All I know is that he's there every week, rain or shine.
He catches me looking, and the smile tightens a tiny bit more. I hate him. I hate him more than I hate the scientists or the wardens. For all I know they're just doing a job, but Ingleman's the one who planned this all, who made the Academy happen. Ingleman does this by choice.
It's starting to burn now, around where they stuck me. The assistant tapes a neat square of cotton over the puncture and then retreats to the booth with all the others. They wait, watching, monitoring. Any second now, I think. I try to relax, make my mind go blank. Retreating, Syra calls it, when you hide away inside yourself and try to ignore the pain. I'm breathing like I've just run a mile.
The burning sensation is spreading now, and the whole lab looks kind of blurry. Suddenly, a migraine slices its way through my head, and I know that it's started. Whatever stuff they've put in me this week is finally getting to work. I tense up in the chair, feel the restraints biting into my arms.
There's Ingleman, still on the balcony, although now I can barely make out his face. Everything's fading fast under the waves of pain. Retreat, I tell myself, retreat, but for once I can't seem to escape into my head. Is he enjoying this?
Damn him. I'd kill him if I could.
"Injecting sample now," he announces. I can't stand this part. I try and make my body go loose, because it hurts less when your muscles aren't tensed. I try not to look at the guy who's sticking me, but it's difficult, what with my head strapped in place and all.
The needle enters. A sharp moment of pain, and then the hot trickle of blood down my arm.
I look up at the balcony, and there's Ingleman, standing at ease, hands in the pockets of his day-job suit, watching what's going on with that tiny little smile on his face. I don't know why he comes to watch this stuff; maybe it gives him some kind of thrill. Maybe he likes to see things in pain or dying. Maybe he just likes me. All I know is that he's there every week, rain or shine.
He catches me looking, and the smile tightens a tiny bit more. I hate him. I hate him more than I hate the scientists or the wardens. For all I know they're just doing a job, but Ingleman's the one who planned this all, who made the Academy happen. Ingleman does this by choice.
It's starting to burn now, around where they stuck me. The assistant tapes a neat square of cotton over the puncture and then retreats to the booth with all the others. They wait, watching, monitoring. Any second now, I think. I try to relax, make my mind go blank. Retreating, Syra calls it, when you hide away inside yourself and try to ignore the pain. I'm breathing like I've just run a mile.
The burning sensation is spreading now, and the whole lab looks kind of blurry. Suddenly, a migraine slices its way through my head, and I know that it's started. Whatever stuff they've put in me this week is finally getting to work. I tense up in the chair, feel the restraints biting into my arms.
There's Ingleman, still on the balcony, although now I can barely make out his face. Everything's fading fast under the waves of pain. Retreat, I tell myself, retreat, but for once I can't seem to escape into my head. Is he enjoying this?
Damn him. I'd kill him if I could.
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