Page 6 of Storm
Stealing only warrants whipping. I repeat the mantra in my head. I don’t have the stamina for death today.
No one has been purposefully put to death for well over a decade, when a group of teenagers tried their luck scaling the fences. They barely made it to the top before one of the drones spotted them—the same drones that are timed to move around the fields and make sure everyone is on task.
I don’t know what possessed them to think they weren’t going to be caught by one. Those things see all. It’s how they keep an eye on us without having to station their precious hollow soldiers in the farming lands.
The thin, scraggly-haired boy’s hands are tied to each corner of the X, his back facing us. They don’t even bother to remove his thinning grey overalls. The ones they make all of us wear. The sting of the skin is one thing, but the sting of having to use credit for material to fix a broken uniform is a harsh blow.
I squeeze my hands tightly around the fraying grey sleeves of my own jumpsuit—a relic from my mother when she was closer to this age. It’s easier to pass down clothes and repair them than to completely replace them. That’s tantamount to a death sentence when you have to trade the majority of the credits needed for supplies that keep you alive.
A heavy crack rings through the air, my gaze whipping up. I stand on bare feet, stretching upwards to take in the horror before me.
The display of brutality should be enough to keep most people at bay for another six months or so. I’ve discovered that there’s an expiry date on this sort of abuse after watching it all of my life. After each whipping becomes somewhat of a distant memory, another person will try to steal again. It’s inevitable. The riches we can barely afford that are dangled before us are too hard to resist.
A child a few rows up begins to cry, along with the wails of the boy. It’s sobering. My heart cracks open. An errant tear escapes that I’m quick to brush away on my soft sleeve.
This is exactly how they want us.
Scared.
This simple act is a continuous reminder to keep within our boundaries. Our parameters have been set, and if we step outside of them, we die.
We are swine. Seronds to their cause. Inferior beings.
The rage continues to fester inside me, like a wound unable to heal, constantly flayed open at the sight of this existence.
CHAPTER 3
A LITTLE BITE OF JOY
Thirty Days Later
Turning in the sweaty imprint of my sheets, I frown and crack open my crusted lids. Filtered light streams through our small tent, and I immediately scan the space for irregularities.
No.
How did I sleep in?
Nix always wakes me when he’s ready to start our early morning rounds. We walk the ground together, marking which of the sixty-six rods need work. There is inevitably always damage from the previous night’s strikes. After we’ve discussed our plan of attack for the day, I feed Mam while Nix starts working on the most dire tasks. This all usually happens as the hazy sun is peeking over the horizon.
Next to me is empty. No Mam. Shit.
Panic starts to set in. My heart forces itself into my sternum.
Wasting no time, I shoot out of bed to find our tent empty.
Propelled by my erratic nerves, I’m quick to change out of my nightdress and into my standard-issue dreary uniform. I don’t even bother to brush my mangled black hair as I sprint through the door, Nix coming into focus in the distance, climbing down a rod—without me. A haggard cough has me swivelling to the side to find Mam sitting on one of our dining chairs outside the doorway with a cup of tea in her hands, watching Nix. My heart slows.
“Mam?” I ask. I’m so relieved to know she’s still here. She hasn’t had the strength to get out of bed for weeks.
How long has she been here? Is she in pain?
Guilt is a heavy ache that sits on my chest as her face meets mine. Those warm, comforting brown eyes, the same shade as Nix’s. Her lips extend, and not a small smile either. A big, everything-is-alright-in-the-world smile. Next, she says two words that seem so far from reality, I don’t understand.
“Happy Birthday.”
My first thought is that my birthday isn’t for another month, at least, and I’m going to say as much. She’s been losing time. Then I notice a small package sitting on her lap.
“Mam, it’s not my birthday.” My features are a mix of concern and apprehension.
