Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and from months to timelessness. The overseers had done nothing to improve this sensation; there was not one clock or watch anywhere in the building.
Nor were there any windows, or any lights besides the cheap fluorescent ones strung along the ceilings. Everything was some shade of gray. The walls were of a lighter hue, but not by much. The monotony of the area made it a bit easier for Takashi to get used to the schedule.
Three meals a day. Morning, afternoon, and night. The common halls and the linked tables within were long enough to accommodate the group of a dozen boys that included Takashi. They were summoned from their cells and led by shotgun-touting, stone-faced guards to partake of the rice, eggs, and cabbage that awaited them in the ceramic cups. The only thing to drink for them was a mug of water.
Afterwards would come the endless barrage of classes that comprised most of one would reckon were days. Stripping and managing weapons, sparring matches, and target practice. Not all of the targets were inanimate blocks. Some were undead, restrained by chains and forced into a line to be picked off.
Takashi had learned more than just fighting here. He had learned how to blend in, to be unnoticed, and to never push his luck too hard. It was not as if being forced to live here was not without difficulties. He had been crying all throughout the first few days since he had been swiped off the street, demanding to see his mother and Jefi, the stuffed giraffe she had gotten him and which had been lost in the struggle. By the time he had settled to sleep the fourth time since he had arrived, the guards did not have to slap him into silence anymore. He had learned that the best expression to have was one where his eyes were hidden and his jaw taut. He did not have to say too much, either.
"Yes, sir." "No, sir." "I understand, sir." He knew the answers to any questions the guards or trainers had before they could ask.
His body changed. He became leaner, with his sinewy muscles becoming more defined from the constant training. And before his field stripping and inspection training, he did not know how much he could really see. He picked up on as many things as possible, from the movements of the guards to the specks of dust in the air.
He had learned to not indicate rebelliousness or nonconformity. Early on, he had been struck so terribly by boredom, that he had decided to mark his days in the building. At a dinner hour, he had surreptiously hidden one of the metal chopsticks they were given into the sleeve of his gray jumpsuit, just as one of the guards passed him by and the other stopped to check the chamber of his gun.
The cell was small and comprised entirely of cement, and there was no furnishing except the small futon on one side and the toilet on the other. Still, Takashi's futon had been pushed all the way against the wall when he had first come there, and moving it slightly freed up a space to mark and then cover up again. He resolved to chisel one line after each dinner with the chopstick.
He made perhaps five or six marks before a surprise inspection led to discovery. The wall was mortared over, and Takashi was moved to another cell, one with no futon and just a bucket for a toilet.
But even this one could not compare to what happened later.
As a rule, the trainees could not talk to one another or interact with each other. That said, Takashi always found himself sitting across from another boy, one with hair cut so short his scalp peeked through. One dinner, the boy, or Cueball as Takashi called him in his own thoughts, let his eyes move from side to side to make sure the guards were looking away. When he was sure it was safe, he had swiftly thrust his hand forward and left his egg on Takashi's bowl. Understanding immediately, Takashi had stuffed it in his mouth to chew and swallow it as fast he could. He wished he could have thanked Cueball out loud, but he had known that would just earn him the sound of a cocked gun. And he knew Cueball understood.
It became something of a tradition for the boys to exchange food every other meal or so. An egg, a handful of rice, or a piece of cabbage. No words were exchanged, and no words were necessary. A sense of peace had come to Takashi.
And then it was ripped away.
The mealtime he had lost Cueball had started out like any other, with the boys being sat down at the table. But as soon as each boy had taken their first bite, the guards had left the room. Takashi had been shocked; it was the first time they were ever left unattended.
He did not find out until later that the twelve meals had been divided in two categories; one clean, and the other spiked with the virus. All he knew at the end of that particular hour was that he was the only survivor. The other five boys who had taken clean meals did not last. They were chewed up by the boys who had taken the spiked food. Takashi had smashed their heads, all of them. Cueball had been the first to turn, and he was the last to go.
The guards had come in right when it was all over. Takashi had wordlessly followed them out, and then he was put into a different cellblock with another batch of boys. What shame he felt that his first emotion when he entered his new cell was the fleeting elation that he had a futon again.
Takashi had stayed with the first batch for six months. He would stay with the next for nine. It was the sixteenth month when his salvation had come, in the form of a man he had never met but was connected to since birth.
Next up; the high schoolers fight their way out...
