Dallas
It’s dark, wet, and smells chemical, like this whole box has been hosed down with some type of viscous substance that no one bothered to dry out before shoving me inside. But I’m silly to think this is just a box on the back of a truck. This is a cage. I’m their circus monkey gone rogue. Time to go to the zoo.
I reach back in my memory, to the orphanage, when the other kids would do this to rats that shared the spaces beneath our beds. Find a box somewhere and play a game of tag. We would laugh and call it a game, but the rodent would still be shaking once we opened the box and set it free. We would never hold it long enough to really hurt it. However, it’s been hours—hours stuck in the same freezing darkness, in the same position, breathing the same sterile air. My muscles feel as if they’re starting to rot.
I wouldn’t be surprised to see my own skin peel off with my clothes when I get out. If I ever do.
The van comes to an abrupt stop, flinging wet drops across my face.
My breathing picks up as muffled voices make their way to the back of the van and the sharp sound of chains colliding pierces the air. The wall next to me begins to slide up and I shuffle back, hands over my eyes to block the bright, vulgar light of the sun. It takes a minute to see anything clearly—only two figures in a blurry, vague mess. One of them, a Patrol with deep blue eyes and brown hair, grabs my arms and drags me out of the van. My legs are jelly back on solid ground. He takes hold of my monitor and rips it from my wrist. It lands on the ground but is promptly recovered and placed in a small, synthetic bag.
“There he is,” the other figure says, “our legendary animal.”
I blink a couple times, trying to gain clarity as my hands are bound behind me. A bucket of water splashes across my face and I shake it off with a grunt.
“Walk,” they demand. After a kick to the heels, I drag my feet forward, following the figure in front of me, and things become clearer the further we walk. There’s a Patrol behind me with what looks like a Loyalist in front. Her long, black ponytail swings over her shoulder with each glance back at me. She’s young. My age, probably, maybe a bit older, but definitely not new. The smell of destruction clings to her.
“Www-what’s happening?” I ask, my voice practically nonexistent, though no one responds to me. Apparently animals in zoos don’t get to ask questions. I keep pressing, regardless. “Where am I?”
“Chicago,” answers the Loyalist, “but this is just pick up.”
“Then where are you taking me?”
She turns around with a thinning smile on her lips and shaded sunglasses covering her eyes. “New ride.”
That’s when I see it, not much further ahead: a plane as long as a building ready to be loaded. It has slender wings and a body the color of gunmetal.
“Keep up, Ninety Days,” she shouts at me, then looks back at the Patrol who is keeping me pinned. “You got him?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the Patrol answers and gives my arms another, tighter squeeze.
Ninety days? What happens in ninety days? Is that how much longer I have left to live? Is that her bet for how long I’ll survive the place she’s taking me? I can’t possibly expect that where I’m going is anyplace nice. My guess is the prison, somewhere I only know of because of those Palores who were sent there and never came back.
“What’s ninety days?” I decide to ask. But the Loyalist only glances at me from over her shoulder with an eyebrow raised at my apparently stupid question. One that leads me to believe it’s only a matter of time before I find out.
Another Loyalist, this one with dry gray hair and a face consumed with more wrinkles than features, waits for us at the head of the plane with his hands clasped behind his back. Two more Patrols guard his sides.
“Sergeant,” he greets the Loyalist with an inclination of his head as we approach them. “Special Commander.”
“Commander Vogel,” the Loyalist replies, “aren’t you glad that we were the state to get the call for him? Big day. Right, Baroque?”
“Yes. Big day indeed,” the Patrol holding me answers.
“I agree,” says Vogel. “Our transport is all set, Sergeant.”
“Great. The goods are ready to go.” She appears pleased with herself.
The commander looks past her to me and purses his lips in a grumble, sending her a wink of approval. He whistles for the Patrols on either side of him. “Mask him and get him on board, troopers.”
The Patrols clamp a mask over my mouth and tighten it enough to keep me from talking, but loose enough so I can breathe properly, then take me up the ramp. Water still drips down my face, making the mask cling to me like an extra layer of skin. I’m strapped into a seat and shut off from the rest of the crew, near a cluster of boxes of bundled other goods and shipments that surround me: guns, gas cans, more uniforms, and chargers. There’s also a box of helmets. All pitch black and completely opaque; they’re shiny, untouched and definitely brand new. Patrols have never worn helmets before, and by the looks of the ones outside who dragged me in here, these are on their way to becoming a part of the new uniform.
The entire plane starts to shake as it lifts in the air, accelerating forward. The engine roars so loud the helmets rattle out of boxes. My ears go numb and my stomach drops. Keeping my eyes closed and head back, I try to focus on my breathing. But it’s difficult when piles of gas cans are rolling around on the ground next to me. Their fading stench, probably too hazardous to even be on the plane, smells more explosive than just compressed air. The engine lulls while in the air and the plane starts to level off. Finally, the plane stabilizes and the ringing in my ears subsides.
Hours pass; the sun sets. The plane feels as if it’s falling out of the sky and my arms wrap around my body as my stomach flips inward. My seat first and then the whole plane starts rocking at an uncontrollable rate. Clutter grows around me as more and more cans spill out across the ground. I struggle to pick up my feet around them until I feel the jolt of the wheels hitting the ground again. They all roll forward and my head slams back against the wall while the plane comes to a complete stop.
The door flies open. My ankle slams into a helmet as Baroque drags me out of my seat and forces my shaken body back on its feet. The air breathes warm on my skin. He forces me around the plane where I see another van, white this time, with the engine running and a door already opened for me. It’s at the head of a long, straight road leading to a silhouette of a building so far off I can’t tell the actual size of it, though it seems to be guarded by large towering posts at the corners of the building. The word ‘Vex’ is in bold red letters across one side of it.
Before I’m able to get a better look, a hand shoves me forward. I stumble and fall head first into the bumper of the van. Straight to black.