The Slave Series

  The Slave Series

  Slave (Book One)

  Hero (Book Two)

  Remnant (Book Three)

  Table of Contents

  SLAVE (BOOK ONE)

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  Acknowledgements

  SLAVE

  Laura Frances

  Copyright © 2016 by Laura Frances

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  First, to Colton and Abigail.

  You are the bravest.

  And for Hannah and Sammy.

  One day.

  The real war is in each of us…in the deep places no one sees.

  Be brave.

  1

  There’s a dripping sound echoing in this darkness. It might be the leaky pipe beneath the sink. Maybe the shower wasn’t turned off completely, and water is falling from the sawed-off pipe sticking out of the wall. Whatever it is, the sound is keeping me awake.

  I sit on my cot, my back pressed to the cement wall. Cold seeps through my shirt. Staring into the dark of my unit, I can barely make out the lines and edges of the corner shower, the toilet and sink, the cabinet holding my rations of food. Each meaningless object holds a memory more meaningful than anything I might have. Each square inch of this space is an inch my father walked on—is a place my mother lived.

  I pull my knees to my chest. These are the moments that I can no longer pretend to have a family. When I’m at work, I can imagine that they will be here when I get home. I can tell myself that my mother will be singing me to sleep in a few hours—that my father will stroke my hair and tell me about the sky. I can tell myself these things, and they will keep me sane in the hours when the Watchers are flexing their fingers over rifles. But when I am alone in my unit, I can no longer pretend. I bite my mouth, refusing the tears that are pooling in my eyes. One slips, and I swipe it fast, pressing my lips in a firm line and glaring. I don’t want to cry. I cry too often, and I hate the feeling of hopelessness it brings, eating away at all the stored-up dreams that I try not to look at. I’m foolish for keeping them. This is no place for dreaming. But my father was a dreamer, and it’s a part of me I can’t shake.

  I hear the trees are so tall, they bend in the wind. My father, mother, and I were sitting on the cracked tile floor in the heat of summer. Thick night air blew through the open window. I was five.

  And, Father continued, his dark hair wet with sweat, clinging to his forehead. I hear the rain is so clean, you can catch it in your mouth and drink it. He leaned his head back, mouth open, tongue out. I giggled.

  Mother laughed, her small hand touching my father’s arm. I watched them, the way their eyes connected—the way their lips lifted and silent words passed between them. Several seconds passed this way, then Father looked to me. He pulled me onto his lap, brushed moist hair from my face, and said, One day, Hannah. You’ll see. We’ll all see. Together.

  My chest tightens and my nose burns. I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets until my eyeballs ache.

  Closing my eyes is a mistake. Images flash in my memory: my mother being dragged from her bed, her heels digging into the floor, her body rigid with panic. She was trying to fight them, but I knew she couldn’t. This is the reason they had come. When the physician diagnosed my mother with a sick heart, her fate was decided. My father lunged at the Watchers, but only earned a backhand so hard his head whipped to the side. He too was dragged from our unit, his wide-open eyes on me until the door slammed. I huddled on the broken tile of the corner shower and pressed my hands over my ears, tears pouring down my eight-year-old cheeks. But my hands couldn’t keep out the popping sounds, and my body jerked in response to them. Moments later, one of the Watchers reentered our unit and ripped aside the shower curtain. Our eyes locked, and for a long moment we stared at one another. My eyes shifted to the gun strapped to his leg, and I wondered if he was the one who did it—the one who ended my family. I remember that his skin was pale white against the black of his fatigues. I remember that he stared at me, and that for a split second I thought he pitied me. Then the gaze was broken, and he walked around the room, gathering my parents’ things. He bagged their clothes and toothbrushes and blankets. He folded their cots and shoved their pillows under his arm. Another Watcher entered and helped remove all the things that were no longer needed for one person.

  One person doesn’t need three cots.

  One person doesn’t need three blankets, though many times I’ve wished for them when I’ve shivered in the middle of the night.

  I fling my eyes open. My chest heaves. I wipe my wet cheeks with the back of my hand and huff, hauling my body from the cot and sliding my tender feet across the cold floor to the one window in my unit. Cobwebs sway in the corners. They hang from the ceiling, dangling threads of filth. I never have the energy to clear them, so they have become my only decorations. Once in a while, their creators come out to gaze at the weary woman who spends most nights swallowing tears.

  Pulling back the tattered curtain, I lean close to the glass. I have to be careful not to touch it. If I push too hard or close the door with too much force, it could shatter and fall eight floors to the concrete below. I’ve seen it happen before.

  Angling my head and bending slightly at the knees, I peer upward toward the sky, where a single circle of light moves slowly, illuminating patches of gray. I wish my father had never told me that the sky is blue. An ache grows in my chest, and I rub at it.

  What kind of blue? I would ask him. Like my eyes?

  I’d never seen my own eyes, but my mother’s were blue. They were dark—like a puddle beneath a shadow. My father said his girls had matching eyes, so I knew mine were the same.

  At night, perhaps, he would reply. But in the day, I hear it’s so bright you have to shield your eyes. His face lit with wonder.

  I wish he’d never told me.

  I turn my thoughts to the Watchers. I want to think of them as humans—to remember that they have mothers and fathers and maybe children. But doing that would mean ignoring too many sins that can never be undone. And why should I care that they have families, when they have stolen mine? Norma, my elderly neighbor, scolds me for hating them. But she has always been that way. She has suffered for more years than I have, but she never lets her heart sour. I think it is too late for me.

  I reach to the right, where a small table stands, holding a lamp. I pull the chain, and dim, yellow light floods the room. Turning to the window again, I see the clouded reflection of my form—too shadowed to make out. It was a defiant decision—turning on the lamp. Because now if there are Watchers below, they can see me. I stand with my shoulders back, one hand holding aside the curtain, and stare into the glass. My heart slams against my ribs. I am foolish for challenging them. They could still kill me from eight floors up. I swallow hard and my l
egs twitch, my muscles aching to run back into the shadows. In a swift movement, I drop the curtain, turn off the lamp, and slide to my cot. I wait in the empty darkness for the black fatigues and the glint of the rifle.

  But no one comes.

  2

  I taste the sharp sting of exhaust and push my chin and mouth into the high collar of my coat, breathing there. It doesn’t help. A cold gust of wind whips through the narrow alleyway, rushing up my nose and stealing my breath. The air is thick today. Trash and waste and body odor mingle in a sickening blend. Some days the wind is enough to thin the smells, but today it only stirs them. I focus my attention to the crunching of my boots on the broken glass and asphalt. I listen to the pops of rocks beneath my feet. If I focus hard enough on the sounds, I can almost forget the smells. I let the footsteps all around me fill my ears, and it soothes me after a long night in my unit. I am not alone.

  I am not alone.

  This dank alley outside my living unit is lined with bodies. They are old men and women, crippled children, and criminals. They watch us with yellowed eyes. I make it a point to look at them—to see their wind-chapped skin and pale, dry lips. I wish I could stop walking and look each Outcast in the eyes. Not that it matters. I can’t do anything for them. But I want them to know that I see. They are not forgotten. They are dangled in our faces—the people we cannot help. Most of them are too old to be useful to the labor force. Some are living out a life sentence for a crime too small to match the punishment. Soon it will be winter and many of them will die. When the snow falls and the ice slicks the streets, they will begin to disappear. Others might call this a tragedy. But in the valley, it is mercy.

  A gray-haired woman limps a few yards ahead of me. A metal pail hangs loosely from her oddly-angled fingers. Her shoulders droop. Her head hangs forward—frayed hair falling from a messy knot. I’m so lost in watching her, I don’t see the empty food can until my foot lands awkwardly on its curve. I lurch forward, catching my balance just in time to avoid pressing my hands to the soiled street. The can flies to my left, slamming into a dumpster, the clanging echoing off the walls before dying away. The woman turns her head until I see her profile. Her features are small, delicate. You would never know from behind, but this woman—in any other life—would be beautiful. I offer her a smile. Her gaze drops, and she turns away. By the look of her—the way she moves—this woman will be an Outcast soon. I feel a pinching in my heart.

  Watchers stand on every corner, clothed in black, rifles at the ready. These first hours are tense, when all the Workers are flooding the streets. We outnumber the Watchers ten to one. I’ve considered this countless times. But most of the Workers are completely resigned to this life. Our place is to manufacture the goods of the nation. The Council likes to call us the backbone. They say that without our hard work, the nation would crumble. We provide goods for trade and make the nation prosperous and powerful. Then I think, if the nation is prosperous and powerful, why haven’t I been rationed a new pair of boots since my feet stopped growing? At nineteen, I’ve been working in the same pair for five years. The soles are worn thin, and every night I sit for twenty minutes pulling out glass and rocks.

  I’m crossing an open intersection when a Watcher steps off the curb and falls into pace behind me. My stomach drops and my heart speeds—too fast. Cold panic washes over me.

  They shift and move, I tell myself. They change stations often. I have done nothing wrong, I remind myself. My steps falter, and I rub my arms as if cold, trying to hide my fear.

  My route takes me into a shadowy alley. I walk this way every day, but never with a Watcher behind me. My throat tightens. There are Outcasts lining the broken walls, but I might as well be alone. Outcasts are not viable witnesses. But they ought to be. They see everything.

  The seconds pass as hours. I can feel the Watcher’s eyes on me—hear his heavy steps. I glance to my left, and no one is there. My eyes shift right, and no one is there either. The Outcasts have thinned. The only other bodies nearby are asleep against dumpsters. Or they’re dead. I wouldn’t know.

  I can see the end of this alley, where it opens to an intersection and my factory will come into view. I quicken my pace—only a little. Not enough to be obvious. I sidestep a cluster of broken glass. Looking up, I see a broken window on the third floor of the building to my right. Seconds later, the Watcher’s boots grind into the glass, and I know he is right on my heels. I swallow hard. My breathing shallows and I listen. The longer we walk this way, the tighter the panic winds, until I am coiled so tight I want to scream.

  Fifty feet to the intersection. We’re close enough to the end that I feel braver now. Slowly I glance over my shoulder. Energy shoots from my chest to my limbs. I miscalculated his distance. He is no more than three feet behind me. His dark eyes glare at me, his eyebrows low. I gasp and turn forward, lowering my gaze to the ground. A sob sits in my throat, but it will stay there until I can swallow it. I will not cry.

  Thirty feet. Cold wind stings my eyes, making them water. I let the tears blur my vision, because I’m too afraid to lift my arm to wipe them. If I move in a way he doesn’t expect, will he kill me?

  Workers do not look Watchers in the eye, my mother used to tell me. Not ever, Hannah. Do you hear me?

  What if I don’t mean to? I would cry. What if I do by accident?

  She would shake her head; hold my shoulders; stare hard at my scared little face.

  Don’t do it. Not ever.

  I close my eyes for a brief second and try to forget that he is there. Only I can’t, because I hear his breaths and his boots and keys clanging at his side. I look ahead.

  Fifteen feet.

  I hear his footsteps retreating. The stamp of his boots disappears as a heavy door closes. I slow down and turn my head. He is gone.

  I fall against the wall and press a palm to my forehead. Slowly it slides over my eyes, down to my mouth, and I allow one, silent sob.

  Do not give them a reason to notice you, my parents would warn me.

  They would know. They’ve been dead for eleven years.

  I’m kicking away from the wall when a male voice fills the air, crackling from the speakers that sit high on the buildings. We’re being summoned to the closest square for an announcement to be made by the Council. There’s a creeping, crawling feeling just under my skin, as there always is when the Council addresses us themselves. They don’t do this often.

  I step out into the street, glad to be free of the dark alley. The panic the Watcher gave me sheds as I leave the shadows, only to be replaced by a pressure in my chest. I trade one fear for another. My feet move in the same direction as the other Workers around me, two blocks to the east. I catch the eyes of an old man. His expression isn’t full of fear like mine. He looks weary, with the paper-thin skin beneath his eyes sagging and deep frown lines framing his lips.

  We crowd into the square until our shoulders are pressed together. I can hardly see because of a tall woman just in front of me. I prefer it this way. I feel hidden and safer behind the others. I’m close to the back of the crowd, so I slip through bodies until I’m against a brick wall. Here, I can lean if the announcement is long and boring.

  There are hundreds of us smashed together in this space, but no one says a word. Every time someone coughs, the sound is so startling in the quiet that a twinge shoots through me. The cold wind is blocked by the buildings surrounding this open space, but my skin is numb. I see my breath in the air. Beside me—to my left—a woman shakes so badly that I can feel the quick shudders against my arm. I slowly stretch my fingers the couple of inches it takes to wrap them around her wrist and squeeze gently. I can’t look at her, that would risk drawing attention to us. Watchers surround the crowd, rifles pressed against their shoulders, fingers hovering over the triggers. I can’t turn my head, but I hope that my gesture is reassuring. I think of Norma. A small swell of pride fills my chest. She would smile at me for what I just did. I spend so much energy on anger, she would be pr
oud to see me act in kindness. The woman beside me pulls from my grip and returns my gesture with a similar one. A quick, reassuring squeeze on my wrist—telling me thank you. Our hands fall when static fills the air.

  An old man’s voice. I recognize it immediately. He is usually the one to address us, though there are four other members of the Council. His voice cracks and wavers as it blasts through the speakers, but there is a tone of absolute authority that raises the hairs on my skin.

  “Let me be heard,” he begins. I stiffen. This is nothing like the usual greeting. We are always greeted with a kind of praise, a patronizing thank you. This time, his tone is harsh and unsteady. Unease settles over me.

  “There will be no leniency for curfew violation. All Workers caught out of their units after curfew will be shot on sight. I believe I have made myself clear.”

  This is an old rule—one I have known since I was a young child. That he feels the need to emphasize it must mean that Workers are becoming careless—or brave. My heart thumps hard. I am never late for curfew, but that doesn’t stop the feeling of dread; doesn’t stop the thoughts of what if. What if one time, without meaning to, I am late?

  Do not leave the unit after curfew, my parents would tell me each day. It was part of our daily routine to discuss this rule.

  “Furthermore, there will be no talking during work hours. There is to be silence on the streets at all times. Am I understood?”

  The last three words are spoken slowly. He cannot expect us to answer, but that’s the point. His message is understood. We will remain silent.

  “That will conclude this announcement,” he says. The static is cut off, and an eerie emptiness replaces it.

  “To your stations!” A Watcher shouts.

  The Cosmetic factory is a squat, one-level building that stretches over three blocks. Beyond that, I see the high-stacked chimneys of coal-fueled factories, belching black filth into the sky. Because of them, I have never seen the blue. I don’t look at them for too long. They make a sickening feeling rise up in my chest. Beyond the valley lie mountains. They wall us in on every side. Wild animals roam them, so if you’re trying to escape and the Watchers don’t catch you, the beasts will. I’ve never considered escaping to be a real possibility. No one that I’ve known has ever attempted it. There are too many risks and we are ill-equipped. I take my chances dodging Watchers and trying to stay invisible.