* * *
Even though Christine agreed to play, she moved with hesitation, lingering at the edge of the forest. At her insistence, we started the game closer to camp, but as soon as we entered the forest, her eyes refused to settle. The shadows stilled her feet. She didn’t know that those same shadows lit my soul. I didn’t think I could ever explain to her that with the first step inside the treeline, the seductive pull of the tower called to me.
“Christine, come on,” I urged, playfully pulling her behind me. We had a long way to go, and not nearly enough time. I doubted there would ever be enough time. “You promised,” I reminded her.
Something about that call to responsibility startled her, and she gave me a hurt look. But she stepped forward, and that was what I was waiting for. I didn’t care; I had passed the point of looking after her. Today was about me.
My heart raced in anticipation. I assumed this was what others felt like on their birthdays. This was my gift, sixteen years in waiting.
“You better start counting,” I said, watching Christine fumble with the metal clasp to the pouch on her belt. As soon as she rolled the bag of blue paint in her palm, a mischievous smile rose on her face.
“You’d better start hiding. It took me days to get the yellow out of my sweater. We’ll see how long it takes you to get out the blue,” she taunted. She was back. Maybe this forest didn’t just heal me after all.
“That’s if you can find me,” I yelled back, already blending into the greens of the forest. “Don’t forget who always wins.”
“One, two, three…”
I ran into the woods, feeling the cold air attack my face. The biting chill stretched my cheeks, chapping my lips with its touch. I didn’t dare glance back or slow down, knowing that the moment Christine stopped counting, my time would begin to slip away. My carefully-placed feet were silent in the underbrush. I balanced on the fallen logs as much as possible, to lessen the disturbance and leave fewer footprints. Christine wasn’t as skilled at tracking, but I didn’t for a moment think she didn’t know where I was going. I’m not that great a manipulator.
At the moment the countdown began, I dropped all pretenses of the game. I was going to the tower. While part of me understood Christine’s reluctance over the fear of contamination and her parents’ beating, the rest of me felt compelled to see it again. That part won.
The air quieted. I heard only the crunching of leaves and branches, and the occasional fluttering of wings as the forest deepened around me. I passed the rock quarry, the fallen hemlock, the high wall of brambles, and finally, the small river. The tower pulled me. I made quick time through the forest, running until my chest heaved with exertion. The miles had never disappeared so quickly. I splashed through the cold water, skipping along faster and faster, in rhythm with my heart. I hardly felt the rocks biting my feet with each step.
And then suddenly, I saw it. A layer of grime had settled over the years, shading the outer edges of the brick. Silent steps brought me to the edge of the clearing. The corroded barbs teased me, looking harmless. I grasped the cool metal. A shiver of certainty shook me.
The wind rustled through the branches. Bright red leaves drifted down, settling around me and at the base of the tower. The visions that had haunted my dreams for the past week transformed into reality. That same feeling of fear and curiosity burned through me; my chest ached. I itched to touch the bricks. But it was more than that. I needed to run my fingers over those worn bricks and press my head against the soft moss along their edge. I ignored the whispered warnings at the back of my mind. I couldn’t lose this.
As I waited, the forest jumped to life. My time had almost disappeared. Without a thought or second breath, I gripped tighter along the barbs and threw my legs over, cursing as the teeth of the wire tore into my right shin.
I trampled the brambles and fallen leaves and slid underneath the hanging sign into darkness. Muffled calls rang out behind me. I imagined Christine outside, remembered her horror-stricken face the day we’d first seen the tower. A pang of regret sunk my heart at my betrayal. Had I pushed it too far this time? But I didn’t have time to worry about that, or maybe the thoughts simply hurt too much.
I compartmentalized those worries and focused on the world around me. The tower enfolded me in its mystery. The containment of the walls quieted the air. The silence was deafening. Through the dim light, signs written in the same charcoal ink as that on the outer threshold marker lined the walls. Warnings in strange symbols I had never seen before. The world surrounded by stars, letters forming acronyms, and words unfamiliar to me. Fear clenched my heart, dampening my resolve.
Light filtered in sporadically through gaps in the worn bricks, highlighting small areas, while the rest settled into gray haze. The air felt heavy. A chill settled onto my skin like a damp rag. My leather shoes were quiet on the floor, leaving a small wet imprint on the smooth surface. The spiral steps rose steeper and narrower than I’d anticipated. I climbed higher, fighting the trepidation that grew with each step.
The light darkened as I approached the top. I found myself face-to-face with an imposing doorway. Similar to the main gates of the camp, this door was heavy, with thick metal studs, and was topped by a red light. My fingers rested on the door, feeling the weight and the smooth groove of the wooden beams. I pushed the door open, cringing as the creaks echoed throughout the room, and then jumped as it hit the back wall.
The air assaulted my senses. An overbearing aroma of cigars and sweat thickened the air. Despite the shattered windows, the scent lingered at the corners, recycled by short gusts of wind. My steps slowed unconsciously as I walked toward the broken windows.
The wind shrieked through the room, whistling sharply and rustling the papers. Under the windows, the long desk held two work stations. Two straight-backed chairs were tucked underneath the desk, and paperwork fluttered beneath the weight of worn bricks. I walked around, looking at the boxes, charts, and red scribbles on the papers.
On the wall behind the desk, a set of framed photos hung, evenly spread along the wall. The first picture looked familiar. As I crept closer, I recognized it from camp. The same picture hung in the meeting hall and in the orphanage, although ours had crumbled edges and small burned spots. This pristine version jumped out at me, and, for once, I could accurately pick out all the people I knew, and several hundred that I had never seen before. I had always focused on the center, where the president shook hands with the farmers as their flag was first hung in the center of camp. It had torn edges and burns marks, but as a symbol it gave us hope and reminded us of what we had survived. Then I saw her, my mother, standing off to the side, unavoidable, her sad smile speaking to me.
Why had I come up here? Those seductive feelings now seemed like a painful tease, the reward insufficient. I traced the frame and moved to the next.
My heart plummeted. “That doesn’t make sense,” I said, grabbing the frame from the wall. My stomach turned, and the frame slipped from my grasp. The crash of the breaking glass brought me back to the present. I picked up the frame and shook out the remaining shards. A small drop of my blood smeared the president’s face as he smirked back at me.
This couldn’t be our president. Not the man who protected us from the contamination, who proclaimed the world to be a desolate waste beyond the confines of the few remaining camps. This photo was recent, and the men wore polished suits, laughing from atop one of the armored ration trucks.
I ran to the next, feeling the pit in my stomach open. I swore as the image burned into my mind. It was the president again, behind his desk. Except this time, waving in the background, a new flag stood, a golden globe surrounded by white stars on a blue background. The same symbol as the charcoal drawings I saw at the base of the tower. I looked back to the first picture and saw our camp flag hanging limp, a shred of its previous glory.
Before I could give the photos another thought, a flash of movement caught my attention. Against the far wall, a rectangula
r cabinet held six monitors. Three of the screens flickered with fuzzy images of the camp. I knew the guards protected us, but this level of surveillance seemed extreme. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to shake off this new violation, as I watched the movements.
The first monitor showed the interior camp. I watched Mrs. Hutchings walk the school kids down the street, a tight line of children holding each other’s hands as they disappeared, one by one, into the classroom. My eyes slowed on the second monitor showing the farmers working shirtless in the fields. I searched the screen for a familiar face but didn’t find him. The last monitor focused in on the main gates, showing a still picture of the doorway and the guards.
The other three monitors were dark. Curiosity brought my fingers forward, twisting the dusty knob beneath one of the other screens.
The knob clicked, and the screen came to life. The illuminated monitor showed things I had never seen before, things that didn’t make sense. I exhaled. This must be the inside of the factory. I had never actually seen or heard much about it. Most gossip stayed out of the orphanage, and during the short time between bells, most people kept to themselves.
Faces stared at me, familiar but blank versions of the women I’d seen in camp. Squeezed together, elbow to elbow, their arms blurred with their frantic pace. Piles of fabric threatened to topple as a steady stream of guards removed the finished projects and handed them new ones. The fuzzy screen did not hide the fresh stream of tears running down Christine’s mom’s face or the pain behind her eyes. My heart broke at the undeniable grins on the guards’ faces.
I anxiously turned the next knob. The new screen showed another room. Looking at the piles of clothing lining the back wall, I concluded that it seemed to be a storeroom. The piles towered in the background as uniformed guards counted garments and made notes on their clipboards. I looked down at my worn shirt and back to the screens. How could such deprivation exist if there were surplus clothes sitting in a storeroom?
I hesitated on the final knob. I closed my eyes as I twisted it, re-opening them after a click and hum of static. My palm shot up to cover my silent scream. Secured to a chair, a man sat still. Dark welts had opened on his chest. The trail of blood led down his body and over his restrained legs. A small pool collected on the ground, rippled by the drops. His head rolled forward, blank eyes staring at the ground. In the background, I saw the stiff pleats of a uniform and an exposed knife. The tortured man’s chest heaved as his head was yanked back by his hair, and the knife positioned on his throat. My fingers trembled and twisted the knob.
The bells ringing throughout the day, the colonel and his rations, the factories and farms, the hidden torture. I looked down at my sweater and felt the thick cuff on its sleeve where my number was sewn. As quick as the picture had shattered, so did the guise of the camp.
With my mind clear, I paid new attention to the muffled yells from below. I ran to the long desk, cringing at the metal squeaking against the floor as I pulled out one of the chairs. Standing on top of the desk, I saw Christine. Pacing next to the barrier of brambles, my friend’s voice echoed as a raspy sob. I bent down to grab one of the bricks, and stopped.
The soft edges of the brick wore beneath my finger, leaving a layer of red dust atop the paperwork. I looked at the desk and the dust, and swore. The clean desk, the bundled paperwork— the tower wasn’t abandoned. I wasn’t safe.
I cursed again and clambered off the desk and toward to the door. A surge of panic hit me as I noticed the red light. No longer idle and asleep, it flashed a warning. The thumping of footsteps grew louder.
The room silenced as my options raced before my eyes. Too high to jump, too open to hide, I settled for the one option left. Grabbing the brick off the paperwork, I crouched against the far wall, feeling my fear turn cold.
The beige domed hat appeared under a fog of cigar smoke as the man entered the room. I lunged across the floor at him, connecting with the side of his arm. My trajectory shortened as my feet slipped on the scattered glass. I heard a crack from my wrists as he grabbed them, forcing the brick loose. It landed with a soft thud as he tossed me across the room. Pain shot through my shoulder. I bared my teeth as he smiled cruelly at me.
I knew him, or had seen him before. His uniform matched the others that surrounded the camp, the rigid pleats now showing a sign of use.
“Why are you doing this?” I yelled, cradling my right shoulder. “You were supposed to protect us. You said it was for our own good!” I sputtered, sobbing.
He came forward; his calm demeanor shook me to the core. His steps slowed as he stopped by the framed photos, putting the second one back on its nail.
“It is for the good of the people, our people. And we did protect you. We protected you from yourselves. Your country was a mess. You were fighting against each other—poverty, drugs, narcissism, commercialism. You name it, you destroyed it. Here, we keep things regulated. Your lives are in line, you are productive and accounted for.” His calm demeanor frightened me. How could he say such things?
“This is no way to live,” I countered.
“Well, there is a cost for everything. It’s a new world out there, number 277,” he said, nodding to the cuff on my sleeve. He flicked ash to the ground. “It’s time you understood the program.”
He opened a pocket behind his colorful insignia, pulling out a small black case. I looked closer at the patches, noticing the new presidential flag. His thick fingers flicked the end of a syringe until a stream of clear liquid spurted out. A whimper escaped my lips, and I pushed myself into the corner of the desk.
“This isn’t going to work. I’ll tell the others,” I said.
He stopped for a moment. Then he laughed and puffed stale smoke in my direction.
“If the others wanted to know, they would know. The truth has always been there, hiding in plain sight for those who wanted to see, and cleverly hidden from those too afraid to believe. You’re not the first, and I’m sure you won’t be the last to find out,” he said, reaching down to grab my ankle. “In fact, we encourage it. We rather like playing with our troublemakers.” He crept closer, his dark eyes gleaming.
“What happens to them?” I asked, afraid of his answer.
A soft click sounded as he tapped the edge of the syringe again. “Some handled the medicine better than others.” The twinkle in his eyes turned flat. “But either way, no one remembers a thing. Now just stay still, this won’t hurt a bit.” He chuckled as the needle scratched the surface of my skin.
“Never,” I snarled, shoving him back. I kicked him between the legs and raced toward the door.
The air whooshed out of my lungs as my body smashed to the floor. My palms and cheek struck the floor first as he pulled on my leg, twisting me around until my bones popped. The scattered glass on the floor ripped my skin, and I bled. A warm, metallic taste pooled in my mouth as the ringing in my ears erased the sounds of my friend’s cries.
The brief moment of shock ended with my scream. Fire raced through my veins. My shrieks echoed through the tower, trailing in my memory as everything faded to darkness. My last memories were the black rubber of his shoes near my face and the putrid smell of burned flesh as the poker pressed into me.
His last words echoed in my mind as I drifted off. “It’s for your own good. We’ll take care of you.”