The Ivory Tower

Chapter Two

"Fine," she mumbled, her shoulders sagging in defeat as she sat down next to Rosey. Dust plumed over them when she shuffled her stick across the ground to create a clean drawing surface. She looked back at me and waved her hand like she had done me a favor. I sighed and turned away, hiding my smile at the first strokes of her stick. She drew long lines intersecting a circle. A delicate web.

The orphans obsessed over webs. We always tried to find connections where there were none. It seemed so sad—no matter how elaborately drawn, our webs never caught anything.

My head popped up at the faint sound of marching from the other side of camp, near the factory. Gradually, the slow tapping grew into a rhythmic boom. The guards walked in unison, their impeccably pressed uniforms as harsh as their smiles. Colorful patches and insignias lined the shoulders of their uniforms, and black leather straps secured their guns and ammunition. The air tightened as the line of men passed us.

Above the beat of their measured pace, a choked sob escalated to muffled screams. I looked away from the marching men to Rosey, who was squirming in Mrs. Booker's arms. She threw her head from side to side in a fit.

"No," she cried, her squeals amplified in the silence.

I ran to her side and grabbed her, pressing her head to my chest.

"What's wrong?" I asked in a whisper, wiping tears from her cheeks.

She smeared her snotty nose over a torn sleeve and pointed to the trampled dirt where she'd been drawing.

"Oh, my sweet Rosey, don't worry. They'll be gone soon. Here, draw with me." We dropped to our knees as soon as the guards passed and traced our fingers through the gritty dirt. My encouragement of their art was rewarded with a ragged smile from Rosey and a head shake of disapproval from Mrs. Booker.

With the kids drawing, I squinted at the guards. Even the line of dust seemed to be displaced with precision. They marched to the gates and stood on either side of the main doorway, creating a tunnel of armed men. A round red light crowned the doorway, remaining dormant until the doors opened. Faded letters blended into the thick, steel-studded doors, their earlier designation forgotten. With only a few surviving camps around the country, it didn't matter who took care of us, just that we were taken care of. We were protected. The thought soured in my mind. Protected—restricted—it was all the same. Prison with a softer name.

The red light flashed when the door opened. The hinges creaked, threatening to buckle under the strain.

Dust surrounded the incoming trucks. Covered in studded armor, camouflage paint, and metal spikes, they were faint shadows of their original design. The trucks maneuvered slowly, filling the silence with the hum of machinery and the smell of exhaust. An armored guard peeked through a small opening in the top, an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. Tan goggles monopolized his face beneath his domed hat. He didn't see us as the caravan rounded its way through the gates and into the circular marketplace path, covering the line of people with a layer of grime that clung to our bodies.

The Colonel stepped out, as foreboding as ever. His boots hit the ground at the same moment the second bell rang. Years of routine had made the process seamless. Seamless, but not painless. The older I got, the more I noticed the palpable disgust on the Colonel's and transit guard's faces. The smirks of our guards seemed genial compared to the sneers of those who brought our rations.

The line crawled forward, and we approached the armored vehicles. Transit guards bordered both sides of the path, forcing us to pass through a tunnel to reach the Colonel. The guard's blank eyes stared through me on either side until I reached the end, where another uninterested guard held out a small cloth bag. Past the guards, the rigid-backed Colonel stood, his dark eyes hidden behind the shadows of his hat's brim. Black-gloved fingers strangled a pen as he marked off our numbers, mutely searching our clothing for confirmation. Even after so many years, he showed no signs of recognition.