The Wounded

“What are you staring at?” he grunted. I eyed his hand, which was still clasped around my son’s chubby little stomach.

I smiled. “Nothing.”

“You know, I’m not the monster you think I am,” he said, scruffing up Orry’s blond curls. “I wanted one of these for myself one day.” His eyes co

“You still can,” I said flippantly, noting the name of the band so I could look up the song.

Pietre gave a sour laugh. “Not here.”

I finished cleaning up and left. Pietre didn’t thank me. I didn’t really expect him to.

There was something coming. A change. Not here, he’d said. He was right. We couldn’t stay here.

The idea sucked the air out of me.

Surrounded by the Spiders, the beat of unsteady and different voices drummed at my head. It looked like a small circus had arrived at the Survivor’s settlement. These people were as far from All Kind as you could get, and that distance was pushed even further by their need for change. They were the dissidents, the unwanted, and the mistreated. Except for perhaps Olga. Despite her odd appearance, I was interested to learn she was a well-respected scientist. But like Apella, she found the breeding program hard to stomach.

Eleven Spiders, including my father, hovered around the front of the stage. Some leaned with their arms over a table, others talked to the eager Survivors. It was noisy, and I was glad I’d left Orry at home with Odval.

A circle of red, shiny cans mixed with greenish-blue ones glowed on the table under the theater lights. The Spiders turned them over in their hands suspiciously. I laughed in amusement, as I watched the reactions when the cans were cracked open. Noses were pinched and gulps were taken, resulting in burps. I shook one up and tossed it to Rash. It exploded as soon as he opened it, soaking his shirt with sugary, brown liquid. He flashed his white teeth and took a swig. He seemed to like it. I noticed he had changed his shoes as he crossed one leg over the other and leaned back against a pillar, chugging the rest of his drink and swiping his mouth. He now wore the canvas sneakers we all wore. It suited him.

The Spiders had been summoned, along with the senior members of the community and any of us who had gone on the recovery mission. So Joseph and I were there, Matthew, Gus, Pietre, and Careen. Rash was invited and stood casually leaning against one of the theater chairs, wearing a bemused expression, his eyes ru

The leaders sat at the front as they always did, and the man with the long braid called out, “Welcome Spiders. We are so pleased you made it to our settlement.” He pulled the braid over his shoulder and started twisting it in his fingers. “Unfortunately, we have do not have much time in which to plan our next move. So I will forgo formalities and ask you to submit your passports immediately.”

There were a few murmurs. I searched Joseph’s eyes; he shrugged and returned his gaze to the stage. There was something stiff in his ma

“Can everyone take a seat?” the braid man asked, his face serious.

We filled the first two rows of the theater. I was sandwiched between Rash and Joseph in what felt like a one-sided tug-o-war. Joseph’s hand clamped down on my thigh. I eyed it, and then swept it off. His hand turned to a fist, resting on his own leg. The lights went off, and the velvet curtains parted with a squeak and a roll. The sound of age-old ropes and pulleys not used for years. Clumps of dust the size of cotton balls fell from the ceiling, landing on the stage and at my feet. People coughed and sneezed. A cloudy atmosphere surrounded us, oppressive and dark. My mind wrapped around the moment a little too tightly. Uncomfortable, I squirmed in my seat, my legs jittering. Rash went to put his hand on my leg, but Joseph’s stare was like a shot of flame, even in the half dark, and Rash withdrew.

Gus and Matthew lifted a large, metal box onto the table and fiddled around, aiming it towards the white screen that was revealed behind the curtain. A spot of light grew until it filled the entire space. Gus grunted as he picked up one of the discs, placed it inside a tray on the box, and shoved it closed.

The light flickered, and a wobbly image appeared and slowly stabilized. It was a picture of a crowd of Woodland soldiers, all in black. Two white tents were set up, and the soldiers were lining up. The image focused closely on one soldier sitting in a chair, a woman pulling his hair back as she carefully smudged his face with tan colored paint. The soldier was young, his eyes scrunched tight, and his black curls strung back from his face by the unforgiving woman’s hand. The theater had become so quiet. People leaned forward in their seat, scrutinizing the bizarre behavior. Some soldier were laughing and milling around outside the tents with plastic caps on their heads. The sun hit them when they passed outside the shadow of the wall and brassy strands of dyed hair glinted in the light.

After two minutes, the image flicked over to another scene in which a woman was having a tug-of-war with a soldier, each holding the hand of a girl of maybe twelve. The mother’s swollen belly revealed the reason for the struggle.

There was image after image of Woodland cruelty. Schematic drawings of certain buildings were a welcome respite from the violence. Lists of sympathizers and another list of people particularly loyal to the Woodlands popped up, and notes were taken. Lots of the films were soldiers carrying out punishments. One incidence was particularly chilling, as it showed a soldier refusing to carry out a punishment and his superior reversing the roles and having the offender carry out the finger smashing on the soldier.

As I watched this, my eyelids started to blink for longer. Each time they closed, I waited longer to open them because there was always a new violence, a new atrocity for me to witness. Without meaning to, Joseph had clasped my hand in both of his. He took deep breaths with every new film, his chest expanding with what I imagined was heat. There was anger and shock in all of us, and it was breaking its way to the surface.

When they started showing images of the underground facility, I didn’t identify it immediately. It could have been a hospital anywhere. It was only when they showed a birth, a girl with lolling eyes in a pink room, looking confused and sweaty. There was a crowd of doctors around her, the child burst through with a scream, and then they separated them. The child was laid down on a table and was inspected, eyes poked, skin pinched. Someone said, “Pretty close,” and they swaddled the baby and left.

My lips felt dry, an uneasy, queasy feeling rising and sinking in my stomach. Joseph had released my hand, and I could feel that both his and Rash’s eyes had left the screen and were now staring intently at me. When they showed the exercise room, my whole body heaved. I gripped the sides of the chair like it was rocking in an angry sea. My vision bubbled and bulged. It was starker than I remembered. The pathetic images still flicked. The blue sky overhead was scratched, revealing grey concrete. Bedraggled girls shuffled in lines, their knotted hair falling in their eyes, their giant stomachs weighing them down, hard as boulders.