Typo

Chapter 3: Authority

Chapter 3: Authority

-H A R R Y-

I try not to let myself mind complain too much about the smell wafting from the end of the cigarette between Zayn’s lips. Or the fact that the AC is on full blast but he has the window cracked open to flick the ash off of the end of the toxic stick. I try not to let myself smolder over the fact that we have been in the car for under an hour and my entire left leg has gone numb. Because I know that if I do let myself meddle on these trivial features that I am being selfish. There are about two hundred people running for their lives in ninety degree weather and I have the privilege of sitting in the passenger seat of an air conditioned car. Granted, I know the Typos deserve it, but I don’t know if I do.

When I joined the program at fifteen, the General granting me early acceptance, this is definitely not where I’d imagined I’d be. But who can really imagine where they are going to be five years from now? 

Knox was a dream back then; a construction site. The idea seemed absurd. And the public was profoundly against it. There were large protests in the city. The General convinced the Correctors more conservative government officials that Knox and other camps like it would be the answer. These camps are kept from the public in order to prevent the wild riots that erupted in the city at the thought of these camps. I felt very privileged as a kid to be let in on such a diplomatic secret. But now the public mystery is more like a weight than anything else.  

I keep my gaze cast downwards at the computer in my lap as the vehicle glides steadily over the grass. I watch the tiny arrow crawl across the screen as the car slowly accelerates over the field.Zayn drives with one hand on the wheel and the other hand alternating between bringing a cigarette to his lips and flicking ash out the cracked window. 

The faint sound of marching Typos can be heard, along with quiet whines and grunts of pain from children and adults. Through the windshield, you can see Typos with their backs already drenched in sweat. Elders and children have taken their weaker positions in the rear while teens and young adults take the lead. But young or old, the consistent fast paced jog leaves all of them heaving, gasping for breath. 

The sight alone makes my stomach churn, while other Correctors watch on in amusement. The people struggling for breath and fanning themselves have distant relatives that committed savage and murderous acts upon my own ancestors. The General has warned us that they are guilty simply by association. And our generation has been gifted with the responsibility of karma. I do believe that Correctors are righting the wrongs that the Typo’s ancestors have done. But I don't find any pleasure in watching children struggle to keep up with a pace with the threat of their death hanging over their heads.

“Can’t we go a bit faster?” Zayn says, bringing the blazing death stick away from his lips for barely enough time to get the sentence out before breathing in more of the toxic smoke. Ignoring the way the object fills the car with a putrid scent, I look at the speedometer to see the vehicle is going barely five miles per hour.

“No.” I say, my words blooming from the pity I hold on the few stragglers struggling to keep up near the rear. I know my guilt is misplaced considering they are all savages, but I can’t help but sympathize with the young girl clinging to the back of her father’s shirt as she strives to keep up with the relentless pace. “We’ll get there when we get there. But for now, we are going fast enough.” Despite my words, I watch the speedometer go up just a tad. Typos in front of us push forward fasting in order to accommodate for the car’s increased speed. But I don’t say anything. 

From months of being Zayn’s supervisor, I have learned that he has absolutely no acknowledgment for authority. 

On his first day, he demanded to be fed more food because apparently he has an extremely fast metabolism and will be unable to complete a full ten hours of training if he doesn't have an additional two servings. And like all of the spoiled, ‘family in high places’ brats, he received exactly what he wanted after he probably went crying to Daddy about how hungry he was. There were several instances like this involving training, night watch shifts, and sleeping arrangements. Zayn almost always got what he wanted.