𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐥 - 𝘕𝘦𝘸𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘴

The Slopper

"Someone...help...me!" he screamed; each word ripped his throat raw, the sound of his desperate shouting bouncing against the cold metal walls in a vertigo of darkness.

A loud clank rang out above him, and he sucked in a startled breath as he looked up. A straight line of light appeared across the ceiling of the room, and he watched as it expanded. A heavy granting sound revealed double sliding doors being forced open. After so long in the darkness, the light stabbed his eyes; he looked away, covering his face with both hands.

He heard noises above — voices — and fear squeezed his chest.

"Look at that shank."

"How old is he?"

"Looks like a klunk in a T-shirt."

"You're the klunk, shuck face."

"Dude, it smells like feet down there!"

"Hope you enjoyed the one-way trip, Greenie."

"Ain't no ticket back, bro."

A chorus of vile laughter and shuffling of feet accompanied the disembodied voices.

He was hit with a wave of confusion, blistered with panic. The voices were odd, tinged with echo; some of the words were completely foreign — others felt familiar. He willed his eyes to adjust as he squinted towards the light and those speaking. At first, he could see only shifting shadows, but they soon turned into the shapes of bodies — people bending over the hole in the ceiling, looking down at him, pointing.

And then, as if the lens of a camera had sharpened its focus, the faces cleared. They were boys, all of them — some young, some older. He didn't know what he'd expected, but seeing those faces puzzled him. They were just teenagers. Kids. Some of his fear melted away, but not enough to calm his racing heart.

Someone lowered a rope from above, the end of it tied into a big loop. He hesitated, then stepped into it with his right foot and clutched the rope as he was yanked towards the sky. Hands reached down, lots of hands, grabbing him by his clothes, pulling him up. The world seemed to spin, a swirling mist of faces and color and light. A storm of emotions wrenched his gut, twisted and pulled; he wanted to scream, cry, throw up. The chorus of voices had grown almost completely silent, but someone spoke as they pulled him over the sharp edges of the dark box. And he knew then he'd never forget the words.

"Nice to meet ya, shank," the boy said. "Welcome to the Glade."

***

Newt pushed a rebellious glader out of his way with a hard shove, the last one didn't complain, as Newt's position was very much known and respected by now; Alby and him were in charge of making the glade work. They had been living there for as long as they could remember, the most functional way of counting the years they spent in that stupid square of green grass and no sun, were the newbies. One each month, that's the way it had always worked, they went up the same creepy box that provided the fresh nourishment, the clean clothing, blank paper for mapping, and sometimes — if they were lucky — they got some gadgets, such as digital watches, or even running shoes.

Fifty-seven gladers, fifty-eight counting the one trapped inside the box in that exact same second. Hence Alby and Newt — the oldest ones in the glade — had spent four years, and eight months, confined in that place. It felt like living in a constant bliss, away from humanity, stripped of their memories, deprived of their liberty.

Newt attempted to disregard that statement, as the prolonged existence in that unexplainable maze seemed to indicate that he had given up; but he hadn't. There was always a bit of hope, always. As hard as it was to try to live a somewhat average life, it was his duty to do so, — if he broke down, every other glader would follow that riot, and that wasn't precisely what they'd been working so hard for, wasn't it?