Chapter 12: Fence
-H A R R Y-
My limbs feel heavy. Numb. My senses feel dull. But the smell of apples and the feeling of my feet pushing against the ground are clear. I’m breathing hard and my heart is thumping against my ribs. I feel like I’m going so slow. I know I can go faster.
I can see her bright orange uniform weaving in and out of the trees. Her platinum blonde hair swings on her shoulders. Her feet kick up the soil as she sprints. She’s going so fast.
“671!” I call out to her. “The consequences of disobeying or fleeing from a Corrector are–“ I lose my breath before I can finish the sentence. It’s useless anyway, her pace is relentless and so much faster than mine. The distance between us expands rapidly. “Stop!” I bark, my last attempt.
I don’t even remember making the choice. Suddenly my gun is in my hand and my eye is closed and I’m aiming… I’m aiming at the back of her head and I’m breathing hard and I can’t feel my fingers but I know my index is on the trigger and the feeling rushes from my feet into my hands and I can feel the cold metal on my palm and I know if I squeeze it the gun will kick back and the bullet will fly from the barrel and there will be a noise so loud and the lead will lodge itself into the back of her scull…
But in the next second she stops.
My vision seems to jump cut, my feet stop of their own. She stands there, leaning against the tree to catch her breath. My teeth bite down on the inside of my cheek, I taste blood. I can feel my organs churning in my abdomen.
Without thinking my arm shoots forward. My fingers grasp at her scalp, her hair bound tightly around my fingers. I yank my arm back in hopes of capturing her but her head does not follow. Instead, her hair is ripped from her head.
I look down at my hand in horror, a chunk of bloody platinum blonde hair suffocates my hand. The skin came with the hair, the thick blood staining my wrist and my palm. The sweet smell of apples and sting of blood mixes together, creating an intoxicating, metallic, fruity, and stomach wrenching stench.
I watch the thin strands fall from my fingers and onto the ground, strangely mesmerized by it.
My vision jump cuts again, 671 has fallen to her knees. A gaping, bloody hole is in the back of her head. Thick rivers of red run down her neck, spreading slowly through her orange uniform. As the blood floods down her back my throat becomes more and more dry.
Another jump cut. 1930. She stands at the end of the line in front of the shed. Bloody hands. Like mine. Her jaw is dropped. She’s gasping. She looks away. She struggles to breathe. My throat feels like it is closing in on itself.
I’m in solitary confinement. A purely metal room. No windows. Dark. But I know I’m here. I can smell the General. His scent drenched in blood and women– buried in cologne, nicotine pills, and copper.
“This is punishment,” is all he says. I remember him saying it. I must have been sixteen when they started building Knox. He shut the door and left me there for five hours. He asked me if I was hungry when he came back.
I can hear him shut the door. The darkness chokes me. The silence is deafening. I close my eyes and pretend that if I opened them it would make a difference. I pretend the black surrounding me is of my own accord. I try to breathe.
My feet shuffle slightly and the noise that it creates startles me. Sloshing. Like I am standing in water. The thick liquid rises to my ankles, soaking through my clothes and sliding along my skin. I am unable to move. My muscles feel frozen but my skin seems to vibrate, heating and sweating. I don’t remember this part.
As the liquid rises to my waste at an alarming rate I am able to identify it by the smell and the feeling of it slithering through my fingers. Blood. My throat grows tighter. The blood cools my skin, holding onto my black uniform.
Rises to my chest, the hairs on my arm become sticky. It rises to my neck. I’m still stuck, a quaking mess. Higher. The blood fills my mouth, I choke. Passing my nose, filling my eyes, sinking into my skin, my hair floating in the thick slimy liquid…
~~~
I’m sweating when I wake up, awoken by my walkie talkie going off loudly next to the bed. I feel disgusting, the dream making my skin itch. I yawn, scratching my thighs, hoping to get rid of the skin crawling feeling, the replaying images, and the taste of blood echoing in my senses.
I rub my face with my palms, sitting up. “S.hit,” I mutter when the device on the bed side table goes off again. Another yawn. A groan. My father’s scowling face filters through my mind one last time before I reach over to snatch up the ringing annoyance.
“Styles,” I snap harshly, trying to seem as awake as I can.
“Morning meeting ya f.ucking gimp. And your late, again. Set an alarm next time eh?” I let out a breath. Morning meeting. F.uck. Louis’ tone is slightly joking, but I know that he is scolding me.
I press down on the button, speaking into the device as I climb out of bed. “Sorry mate. Forgot.”
“Obviously you forgot. Just don’t forget next time,” he sounds agitated. I roll my eyes.
I am the youngest in my ranking, and like most Correctors, Louis feels I don’t deserve the title. He never says anything and we get on just fine. But Zayn has said it more than enough for me to know what everyone else is thinking. I was recruited early because of the General’s insisting and I had risen to Captain very quickly. I was more than capable of handling the job at a young age. With the General’s influence and constant pushing, I succeeded. But others didn’t seem to think so.
“I won’t,” I say respectively. “I’ll be down there in two.”
“Good. We’re waiting.” The conversation ends with his cold reply and I set the device down.
I robotically put on my uniform. I squeeze into my jeans and I have to button up my shirt four times before I get the buttons right. It’s been five minutes and the walkie talkie is ringing again. I don’t have to pick it up to know it’s Louis. I’m running around to get my boots on.
I glare at the stuffed vulture mounted on the wall when I bump my head on it, three times. My father has always been strangely obsessed with taxidermy. The stuffed bird was gifted to me on my twentieth birthday. He looked at me, flashed me a proud smile, and told me how proud he was and apparently the frightening bird symbolized that. I don’t know why I chose to bring it here. Sometimes I feel like it was staring at me while I am sleeping.
I exit my room and flip on the fluorescent lights, illuminating eighty sleeping Typos. My private room is connected directly to Block Nine. I have to walk past the beds to get out of the small building.
“Wake up.” Most of them are already blinking drowsily but I say it again for good measure. “Get up. I have to go but I’ll be back in an hour. You’ll be escorted to the main gate and then escorted to your jobs.” Silence. Staring. One hundred and sixty wide eyes. They all look hungry, thirsty, scared, tired, and grimy all at the same time. I find it within myself not to care. “Do not try to escape. There are soldiers with guns and dogs outside.” At that, I walk through the narrow space between the two rows of bunks and I’m out the door. As promised, there are two men waiting outside with dogs growling at their heels.
When I was fifteen, the General made me memorize the blue prints for Knox. That, and hours of night training leaves me knowing the place like the back of my hand. I reach the building near the back of Knox, a bit bigger than the barracks, also known as the General’s quarters. He wouldn’t stay there often, having to oversee other death camps as well. But he was here now for a short time. The building would mostly be used for storage and meeting rooms.
I flash my ID at the guards and enter the building. It’s still early, so the halls are unlit. It’s eerily quite and my boots echo as I walk. I rush down the halls and try to shake my fatigue from just waking up. I hear chatter from inside one of the rooms and I quickly enter.
The conference room is dark. Blue prints, numbers, and propaganda blankets the walls. One particular picture, a picture I know well, stands out to me. A poster with the words “savages by nature” written in bold red across the top. The photograph is old, but incredibly popular. It was taken during the Defiance. It depicts several Typo rebels standing over a kid. The boy, no older than ten, is crouched in the fetal position and covering his head with his hands. The rebels have knives, they are smiling, and its clear the small child has already been injured several times with the stab wounds littering his arms. The image had been used to rally support for Typo Isolation Act after the war. And it would probably be used in the approaching war as well.
“You’re late!” Zayn mockingly sings when I enter the small meeting room. Twenty or so high ranking Correctors are sitting around the table, silently staring at me. I shuffle around, ignoring Zayn. I remove my coat and give it to one of the servants, quietly apologizing for my punctuality. Zayn is grinning, looking like a god damn fool with his feet kicked up on the table. And of course, as his mentor, this reflects on me. The General’s harsh glare makes me roughly shove Zayn’s feet off of the table.
“Morning Harry,” Jade, one of the few female Correctors, says when I sit down in the only empty seat beside her.
“Jade,” I nod politely. I ignore the General’s heavy glare. The General and I aren’t as similar as he’d like us to be.
“Okay,” the General clears his throat. “now that everyone is here,” I keep myself from flushing when a few of the Correctors glance at me. My face remains stoic. “we can begin. We have had two establishments shipped in so far, correct?”
Everyone nods.
“Norton and Stanton,” one of the Correctors, Miles, replies.
“Stanton was delivered last night?” Miles shrinks into his seat when the General speaks directly to him.
“Yes sir.”
“Any complications?” The General isn’t phased by the fear in Miles’ voice.
“None, sir.”
And the meeting progresses. We talk about the delivery of the next few Typo establishments. Malum, Manson, Odio, Doxil, and Dahmer residents would all be transferred from their establishments to Knox by the end of the week. Around two thousand Typos. We discussed the logistics of the Typo-Corrector ratio, and rules to ensure safety and prevent rebellion. We are going to be severely outnumbered.
“We’d like them all to be alive and in the same place before we exterminate them. I was informed that you eliminated one of them, son?” A few seconds of silence. I almost hit myself when I realize that he, and everyone else, is staring, waiting for me to speak.
“Yes,” I reply quickly, sitting up straighter.
“And for what purpose?” I attempt hold the General’s cold, perpetual glare.
I swallow. “To set an example.” With these words, the General’s mouth spreads into a vindictive grin.
“Very good!” he praises. He stands from his chair and saunters around the table. “You see, in order to keep the Typos in line, there must be sacrifice.” He walks behind me and places his hands on my shoulders. “My son here,” he painfully squeezes. “has done an excellent job.
“There are going to be rebels among these people. Their ancestors are rebels, its in their blood. And that is why they are dangerous to our society.” I’ve heard this speech before. The message has been pounded into my head. The General gives my shoulders another harsh squeeze before continuing to pace around the table. “I want them all to die at once. Killing them slowly would be…” he chuckles. “well it would be inhumane.” He stops in front of the graphic poster, glaring at the innocent child and the Typos standing above him. His eyes flit over to me. “And although these savages do not deserve the noble death we are going to give them, we are not going to sink to their brutality.” His finger jabs the poster to emphasize his point.
“But, of course, by threatening their lives we are putting ourselves at risk. Fear can make people do very stupid things. Because they are aware of what is going to happen to them, they are all the more dangerous.” I glare pointedly at Zayn. “So we must keep them in line. Killing a couple hundred in this process will not make a difference in the over all result.” The General sticks his hands in his pockets. Every eye in the room is focused on him but he is unfazed, nonchalant. “Kill for an example. Show them what they can lose if they step out of line.” The General is silent now, and I know him well enough to know the look on his face. He settles back down in his chair at the head of the table. He folds his hands together and scans the room. He’s waiting for someone to speak, to agree with him.
“There are other ways to keep them in line,” I recite. I get another praising grin.
“Once again, my son is right. And what are these other ways?”
“Demonstrations.” My answer is immediate.
“Good boy. Demonstrations is correct. Public torture. Public humiliation. Public execution. The point is to keep them in line.” His fist comes down on the table, making all of us jump. “This camp cannot afford a rebellion. Meeting dismissed.”
Everyone shuffles out of the room. We walk in single file down the hall and outside. It’s still pretty dark but the sun is just beginning to rise.
I hear his footsteps before I hear his voice and I’m already rolling my eyes. “You are not allowed to shame me for being late ever again.”
“Not right now Zayn. I’m tired.”
“I mean, that was forty-five minutes late. I haven’t even been that late before. Even your Dad was mad,” he snickers and I walk a bit faster.
“The General has high expectations of me and I fell short.” I breathe out a sigh. “I can’t blame him for being angry.”
“Honestly. Call him Dad like a normal person.”
“Zayn,” I snap, relieved when Block Nine finally comes into sight.
“Alright alright.” He’s giggling again. The annoying little s.hit. “I’m working in the armory today.”
“Okay. Run along.” I shoo him with my hands and he scampers off between the buildings like a f.ucking child.
When I enter Block Nine I’m surprised to find everyone is standing silently. They are lined up in the narrow space between the bunks. They don’t make a sound when I walk through the door. They all look frightened. There are eighty of them and one of me and they are scared.
“Follow.”
I lead them through Knox with the aid of two other Correctors and their dogs. I can see other dark masses of Typos making their way to the front gate. There is a gun shot accompanied by barking dogs but nobody seems perturbed.
I deposit Block Nine into the awaiting crowd of Typos at the front gate. They are all whispering apprehensively. Everything seems alarmingly loud. From the continuous screech of crickets, to the incessant hum of the electric fence, the shuffling of feet, and the hushed whispers. The noises blend into a chaotic drone.
The former Norton residents seem to be filling in the newer Stanton transfers. Zayn wasn’t there to spoil it for them so they are still oblivious. An obvious panic seems to settle over the crowd as the whispers grow louder. I hear somebody call for backup.
“Typos!” The lieutenant tries to gain their attention by waving his fat hands in the air. His attempts go unnoticed by the quickly enraging crowd. “Typos!” He screams louder.
I jump, my head whipping around when I hear a bang. A flash of blinding light. The mob of Typos goes silent. A body, burnt and crippled is launched away from the fence. The women had purposefully run into the charged wire. Her flesh sizzles.
A few seconds of dead silence. Chaos. Several more people follow in her footsteps, throwing themselves at the buzzing metal and melting into the ground. I count five… seven… thirteen blackened frames before I launch forward.
I pull Typos back, shoving a few of them to the ground when they struggle. There is shouting, buzzing, screeching, and the occasional zapping sound. The scene is chaotic. I succeed in pushing a group of them away from the fence.
“You!” I grab the attention of a Corrector who is a little younger than I am. He’s frozen in place, seeing the event unfold. Watching with a dropped jaw as yet another Typo succeeds in touching the buzzing fence. His eyes rip away from one of the immobilized bodies. “Watch these Typos. Make sure they stay right here. Call someone else over if you need help. I’m going to go get more of them,” I command. He stares at me blankly. “Hey!” I snap my fingers in front of his face. I hear another zap and a gunshot. “Are you listening to me?”
He shakes his head as if clearing it. “Yes Captain I’m listening.”
“What did I just say?”
He stares again.
I grow agitated when I hear yet another zapping sound. “Stay here. Make sure they don’t move.” I point to the fearful Typos.
“Yes, Captain,” he says skittishly. I’m probably not making the right choice as I leave the kid with them but I hear another bang and he wouldn’t be much help otherwise.
I sprint back towards the fence. Most of the Typos near the barrier are either dead or being dragged back, others are just anxiously floundering somewhere in the middle. I spot a head of greasy blonde hair and rush forward. I trip over a mangled body and I swallow the bile in my throat.
Elliot – 1930 is rushing towards the fence. I intercept her path and she collides with my chest. She yelps, looking up at me for only a second before shoving at my shoulders. I’m shocked at her resistance, stumbling backwards. My shock is short lived, over turned by adrenaline responsibility. I grab her arm before she can make it very far. She turns, her eyes wide and her teeth clenched. The lighting is dim but I can tell her skin is flushed.
“Let me go!” she wails, trying to yank her arm from my hold, clawing at my fingers with her free hand. My hand stays firmly clamped around her wrist.When I look down at her palms they are covered in painful looking blisters. Dried blood covers her fingers. I try not to wince at the sight. I drag her closer to me.
“Come with me,” I demand loudly, having to shout over everyone else's yelling.
“I’m not trying to kill myself you idiot! I’m trying to save my mother!” She kicks at my shins. I don’t pay any attention to her struggling and I look up. I spot her mother immediately. Her hand hovers in the air in front of the fence. She looks lost. A little boy is by her side, gently tugging on her arm. Zayn is a couple meters from them, struggling with another Typo.Without thinking, I turn around and place my hand on 1930’s shoulder. I’m hyper aware of how little she is when my fingers spread across her neck and her upper chest. I shove her, her knees buckling and she tumbles to the ground. She gasps when the breath is knocked out of her and cradles her injured hands to her chest.
“Stay,” I say breathlessly. I run towards her mother, hopping over bodies. I turn my head over my shoulder for only a second. She is sitting up, watching me.
I reach her mother in a matter of moments. I pull the kid back first – Leo, I think 1930 called him. The numbers 1602 are embroidered on his uniform. He yelps, cowering away from my touch.
“Go to your sister,” I tell him softly, tilting my head in the direction where I know Elliot is still on the ground. He fearfully nods, running in the other direction.
Her mother is still lost in the dangerous fence. She stares blankly at it, her hand still hovering in the buzzing air around it.
“Miss,” I murmur quietly, trying not to startle her. She either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t respond. Her fingers move slightly closer to the searing metal. “Move away from the fence. Lets get back to your family.” The words, we wouldn’t want you to get hurt, almost come out of my mouth but I know thats a lie. She doesn’t say anything.
I move my arm tentatively forward, maneuvering between the fence and her torso. I’m careful not to touch my arm to the fence. I yank my arm back, pulling her body with me. This seems to bring her to her senses, or, partially so. She begins to fight me, wailing, clawing at my arms and kicking at my legs. She struggles with me and I’m able to fight her off. Her eyes are wild and scared. I’ve never seen someone look like that. The look is almost startling enough for me to release her and let her fall into the charge. Fear can make people do very stupid things. I hear the General’s voice in my head. I grab both her wrists in one of my hands and push her away from the fence.
But when her knee comes dangerously close to my crotch and she stumbles far to closely to the fence, I resort to scooping her into my arms and carrying her. Its strange to be treating a grown women this way but when she continues to screech and flail I know that its needed. Her knee collides with my chin but she eventually gives up, sobbing into her arms. She cries about her child, Norton, and her death. When I reach Elliot and her brother, who are both standing, I attempt to place the woman on her feet but she crumples to the ground. 1930 and 1602 watch their mother weep into the dirt.
“Take her over there.” I gesture to the group of Typos being corralled backwards. I’m aware of the General standing in the middle of the chaos. He’s observing me. I wipe my sweaty palms on my uniform. I look down and accidentally make eye contact with the kid. He’s looking at me with such wide eyes. I give him a small nod, for whatever reason, and turn away.
Typos have been pushed back. There is still screeching. In front of the fence there is a row of mangled bodies.
Blake Riley♥
dedicated to a person who leaves incredible comments
sorry for the wait but I have dropped one of my classes so I should have more time to write and will update faster
My twitter user is RileyBlakers and you can follow me there and if you send me a quick tweet I will gladly follow you back
thank you for 65k that is like so much I don't even know how to fathom that number
and I love you all. even the ones who are still confused on Elliot's gender.
stay cool x