To Be Free (2 page)

She looks at
me, stricken, and I turn my eyes away because it hurts to hold that
pained gaze. I can't meet my father's eyes or hers, as I know I've
let them down. No parent wants to hear that their child has
bypassed the original screening - that has a 99.5% chance of
catching any Unnaturals, and those who survive usually get caught
before their teens, turning it into a 0.01% survival rate into
adulthood. If you pass
that
screening and become a legal adult on your own,
chances are you become a Runner.

It's either that or get caught,
and those who get taken in are never heard from again. They
disappear, their ID is wiped off the face of the planet and given
to a new citizen - be they immigrants or newborns - and no one ever
speaks of them again.

I've seen it happen before.
Some guy in the college I was going to at the time got caught
during a surprise screening in the middle of lunch, and a Vigil
spent the better part of an hour telling us witnesses that it was
better we forgot what happened today, and forgot the young man
going by the name of Sebastian Jaeger - an exchange student from
Germany who wasn't well known and was hardly missed.

By God, I couldn't hold Annie's
gaze even if it saved my life. She's not stupid - she knows what
this is.

The Council will investigate my
family; pay extra close attention to my parents and my relatives,
screening them regularly - once a week, maybe two - for a while to
see if they can't find the source, the roots of the genes. It might
take months before they get off their case, by which point I don't
know where I'll be.

All I know is that - as they
manhandle me into the nondescript van with barred windows and steel
benches, a guard sitting at the front regarding me gruffly, an M-16
gripped in his hands and the barrel aimed right for my skull. The
lights travel up and down its dark chrome length, pulsing with
energy - I'll be dead. The eyes of those who've lived around me for
years and who don't know me regard me suspiciously, scorn and
distaste from the men and women brainwashed into believing this is
the right thing to do.

To cull their own kind over the
basis of the past, over the political wars that have been waged
over a petty topic, over something that should've been rightfully
theirs.

Freedom. Equality.

Finally, the doors are snapped
shut once the monthly screening is completed and barred, the
guard's eyes never leaving my head as I sit on the bench as far
away from him as possible in the small space. My hands are pooled
between my knees, the handcuffs stinging with the charge of
electricity as I hang my head. The familiar mop of black hair
trails just shy of my eyes I keep downcast, and I breathe as
steadily as I can while the truck lurches off into a fate unknown
to me.

Taking me with it, however
unwilling I may be.

After all, it's my own damn
fault for thinking I could push those feelings away, bury them so
deep into my heart that my blood would lie. I had four years to
Run, to leave behind America in favour of Canada, Mexico, or even
Europe. Instead, I tried to settle and have a family as if the rest
of this Godforsaken country would give me that privilege just
because I'm human.

They've never had to fight for
their rights. Those born as white cisgendered men who've never felt
the bitter anger of their rights removed, who've gone to church and
prayed at the pews for the world to see the light, for God to
reward them for their sins and punish the world for its
virtues.

If I want those same rights, I
have to fight for them.

• The Proud
  and the Damned
  

NINE

At first I think he's dead; the
young man they drag in at half past eight - or is it a quarter
after three in the morning? My internal clock's getting worse and
worse these days, and it has nothing to do with being a man in
captivity - doesn't fight, instead choosing to keep his head down
and let them manhandle him into the block next to mine. The kid
they had there last week never came back from the initial exam, so
I'm glad he got out, however morbid the thought of escape from the
facility actually is.

There's only one way to escape
the facility, and that's through your own death - and you can't do
it yourself; you have to die at the hands of the monsters disguised
as men, and if you're useful to them, that could take years.

We're specimens, not humans. We
lost our freedom the moment we got caught - be it at five,
seventeen, twelve or thirty. The survival rate of a Survivor past
their twenties is almost none, and completely eradicates itself
when you reach the thirties. As you age, your blood screams it
stronger and louder than ever, and the screenings catch wind of it
the moment a drop is introduced. If you're a Runner, they just
shoot you on sight and drag your comatose body to the nearest
facility, where testing commences.

Most don't make it past the
first, though. It kills anyone who doesn't have the gifts they
seek.

Our holding cells are quite
literally cages, about six and a half feet long and wide, and
nearly seven feet high. The steel bars are as thick as my arms and
blue lights run along the bars, reminding us that they are, in
fact, supercharged and ready to stun us if we try to escape. It
doesn't do anything if you touch them through some fabric, so
leaning against them isn't a problem.

They're lined up side by side,
leaving us a gorgeous view of the testing rooms just across the
hall through the one-way windows they've installed. I made the
mistake of looking once, and by God it still haunts my
nightmares.

They throw him into Ten's old
cell, and the black-haired man groans slightly, lifting himself
onto his hands and knees before raising his head and looking
around. The Vigils watch the man as he sits up, their
expressionless faces partially hidden by the headgear still on
their heads, turning them from regular citizens to nondescript
soldiers with the power to destroy us.

"You will be seen to shortly,"
one says offhandedly, turning his back to the rows of cells and
walking back the way he's come. His companion gives me a stern look
as he passes by my cell, where I sit with my right shoulder against
the western bars and smirk at him, arms crossed.

"As for you, Nine, I hope
you're ready 'cause they're cooking a hell of a storm in there for
you," the second hisses, and I recognize the sneer - the Vigil I've
given hell to ever since I've come here.

"I can't wait," I reply
sweetly, and after making a face he follows after the first man,
leaving us to the silence of the quiet screams and moans of agony;
the sobs of those who've lost it all and hope to die with all their
being. Most of them will die in the next twenty-four hours, if
they're lucky; the chance of being one of the people with what
they’re looking for is around 5%. They're great odds, so long as
you're not one of the 5%.

I catch the movement of the man
as he gets up to his feet, massaging his wrists - given the height
difference between him and the cell, I'd say he's around six feet -
and carefully walks over to the eastern end of his cell, near where
I'm at, and touches the bars carefully.

He's either fearless or stupid,
and I'm heavily leaning towards the latter as he touches the bar,
jolting back with the sting of electricity. His eyes are a piercing
brown shade, a hazel that shifts with the light, and full of that
life most lose quickly around here.

"I wouldn't waste my breath on
escaping if I were you," I inform the man as I card my fingers
through my overgrown fringe. The light brown hairs are damaged
after being uncared for this long, washed once a week as it is. He
turns that piercing gaze onto me, our cells separated by mere
inches. "Trust me, you'll be let out soon enough, and you'll wish
they'd never taken you out."

Frowning, the man uses the
sleeve of his issued attire - a long-sleeved white shirt and pants
that don't do anything to keep out the cold at night - to press his
hands on the bars, leaning towards me as best he can in his
prison.

"Why do you say that?" he asks,
and for a second the voice throws me off. Not only because of
recognition, but because I wasn't expecting to hear a voice like
his - light at first, but deepens as he speaks like some sort of
roller coaster. It's not one I'd associate with him.

I can't say where I've heard
that voice, though - my little stint of amnesia's getting worse as
the weeks go by, and half my life is lost to me now. The parts I've
wanted to forget ever since they happened haunt me still,
however.

"They always test the newbies,"
I state, shrugging a shoulder. "See that window up ahead? We have
the privilege of watching the gruesome results of whatever they
decide to do - although you'll get the same test as everyone. If
you're what they're looking for, you survive. You're trash, you
die."

His frown deepens at me,
clearly displeased, but I've used up what little tolerance I could
dredge up for him. Besides, if things go the way they have for a
while, he'll be dead and my turn to the chopping block will arrive
soon.

I plan to be out of here by
then.

"Who're you?" he questions,
ignoring the fact that my thoughts have drifted away from him. I
sigh loudly, enough for him to hear my irritation, before I turn my
piercing gaze back onto him. He flinches back instinctively, the
way everyone does when they meet my eyes and realize that I have
the eyes of a witch.

"Number Nine," I state,
withholding the knowledge of my real name to him. Sure, I remember
it the way I remember how to breathe, but there are some things you
keep to yourself for the sake of protecting yourself.

He frowns at me, clearly
unimpressed, and I shrug. Then I lift up my shirt to show him the
scar they've burned into my skin over my left pectoral.

"When you survive the first
test, you're given a number. You're no longer who you say you are,
and you'd better forget that you ever had a name - here, you're a
lab rat," I hiss, lowering the hem of the shirt and hiding the IX
burned on my skin. "They test on you as much as they want until
they have results and when you're no longer needed for the results
to be satisfactory. Then they break you into pieces to be used by
those who're too good to be in a slum like this."

"But... why?" Twenty-One
Questions asks, and I try not to sigh again. When I first came here
I had so many questions, and there was no one to help me.

Besides, chances are he's dead
in a matter of minutes. It won't hurt.

"Because
of
that
," I
state, pointing to the ceiling of our cells. He looks up curiously,
muscles locking in place when his eyes catch sight of the
words.

He shakily
whispers the words
Bill 911.
Adam's apple bobbing up with his nervousness, he
mouths the words that I've memorized already.

By order of the Holy Order of
Christ, Pope Benedict the XXVIII has ordered that any and all
Unnaturals who have been captured are to be given to the research
facilities scattered across the United States of the New Order, and
have their names and rights taken from them. From that day forward,
they are specimens to be tested on and to be discarded. All Runners
captured are to be taken to these facilities.

All specimens must be a
Survivor of the screening pre-birth examination that gauges what
sexual orientation the child is, and have been confirmed as a
Survivor through another screening. Any and all results not
heterosexual are to be considered illegal as of this day onwards,
and any citizen protecting the Unnatural will face Court Martial
Law.

As cited in Bill 911, section
1.a, the United States of the New Order of the Church of Christ's
Charter of Rights, adapted from the United States of America's
Constitution.

"You set off the test, you pay
the price," I conclude, looking away again. "You've only yourself
to blame, and you should've Ran while you had the chance."

He scoffs, looking away.

"I don't know why I didn't," he
mutters, thinking aloud as if he expects me to give half a fuck
about what he's got to say. "Guess I thought I could actually raise
my own family and pretend it didn't exist."

I laugh, the
sound foreign to me as it makes me shake and makes my eyes water.
He turns to me with rage in his eyes, his fists balled at his
sides, and I press my hands to my eyes to keep the tears from
flowing out of sheer
stupidity.

"Pretend that
something in your blood didn't
exist?
" I splutter, looking up at
him. Eight and Five are laughing quietly to my left, having heard
the exchange. He's scowling at me. "Jesus, what planet do
you
come from, you
idealistic bastard?"

"California," he states flatly,
and I snicker.

"The last true land of the
brave and free, before the N.O. took that, too," I snicker,
regaining my composure. My sides are aching with the laughter, as
it's been... four years, I think, since I've laughed like that. The
last time I was that merry was in Germany before my family thought
it'd be a good idea to go to the N.O.

I look as the hydraulic doors
open, admitting two Vigils and a scientist brandishing a syringe.
The scientist has a gas mask over his face, the lenses clear and
allowing us the sight of his eyes as he scans the line of specimens
awaiting his questing touch. We can't see his lips, but I know
they're curved into a smile.

They stop outside Twenty-One
Question's cell, unlocking it. Like an animal who knows he's going
to witness something horrible, he presses himself to the far back
of the cell.