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Chapter 8: Hunger

Rest. Sleep. Please don’t let the smile on his face mean he is lying. Let us sleep.

The first group is made. My family and I aren’t a part of it. The eighty are huddled together a couple yards from the larger group. Several of them look distressed to be separated from their family members. A couple people call out to their loved ones in broken, watery voices. 

“Mommy!” A young boy– no older than seven, from the small group calls out. He peers around the Corrector with the gun. 

“I love you sweetie!” A woman– his mother calls back. 

The lieutenant calls a couple Correctors from their shaded bliss. He spits out orders in a loud, bellowing voice. The groups calls become more frantic as they are slowly led by gun point away from the clearing and into the sea of buildings. They disappear in the rows of structures. The mother starts to sob behind me.  

The lieutenant gives out another order and the brute is plucking Typos again. I barely contain my yelp when my arm is yanked forward and away from my family. I’m thrown into a chest of an older man. The apology is barely audible because my main focus whips back to my family. My mother is already crying and Oliver looks like he’s about ready to punch something.

My eyes flick back and forth between the lieutenant, his brute, and my family. The smile on the lieutenant’s face makes it seem like sleep is too good to be true. The brute continues to throw Typos in my direction as the group’s count continues to increase.

I hear a gunshot echo from behind me and my panic rises.

Will this be the last time I see my family? Am I being lead to my death?

Another gunshot. 

I try to see if I can memorize everything about my family as the soldier continues to shove Typos into the group. 

My mother. I was always told that I favored my father more than my mother and I had always agreed with them. I don’t think I look anything like her. But I wish I did. She’s absolutely stunning. The group grows nearer to sixty people. 

My sister, Blair. Even though she was born thirty minutes before me, I had always been pegged for a few years older. Although she is my twin we don’t look exactly alike. Our identical features are our hair and our eyes. But her face is rounder and kinder– like my Mum’s– while my own face is sharp and strong– like my Dad’s. Our fraternal features severely out weigh the identical. Along with our physical differences, our personalities couldn’t be any more distinct. Her nature is more maternal than mine. Our tasks back home reflected our personalities. Her job back in Norton was to take care of the animals in the barns while I worked in the clinic and the kitchen. 

Another gun shot. The brute counts seventy. 

Little Leo. He looks nothing like me or my sister. Our blonde hair, contrasting his bright red. His ginger hair isn’t from my father or my mother. I figured it had just skipped a generation. His innocence is slowly being lost with each passing moment. My baby brother.

A scream echoes in the distance. 

I almost weep in relief when the brute seems to hear my inner cries. He roughly takes my brothers arm and shoves him towards the group. A loud whimper slips past my lips when his body collides with my legs. Next, the beast of a man takes Oliver’s arm. Only this time he doesn’t have to shove for Oliver to sprint towards us. That makes eighty.

“Thomas! Mets! Styles! Miller! Take them to Block 9.” More Correctors– including Harry– walk, almost reluctantly, over to where our small group is huddled together. Harry gestures for Zayn to follow him and the cadet grins. The remaining Typos, including my mother and my sister, make less than eighty– no more than sixty. They call out to people in our group and they reply with distressed voices. Looking at my mother and sister, I feel no need. My mother is already crying and Blair looks like she’s cried too much.