Continuing with the updates, chapters three and four have been merged to cutback on tedious clicking.
Hear No Evil . . . (2)
PART THREE: Precognant Dreams and Repo Men
There was always one place where Ethan could hear. Every night in his dreams, he heard the voices of the children. Wind blowing against his ears. Someone hadonce told him that people could here the wind blow. He thought this was ridiculous. If you could hear the wind, why not the sun or the stars? What next? "Hey Ethan, you know I can hear my heart pumping? It's true!"
But his dreams didn't know better. They called to Ethan's need for sound. Any sound.
Whenever he was speaking to one of his siblings, though none of them were actually related, he would insist on placing his hand against their throat and feeling the vibrations.
Now, he could hear.
He was on a large, cement platau. Miles above the Earth, floating in midair. Surrounded by other slaves, easily identified by their choice of clothing. Well, that and the fact that none of them spoke.
In the center of this mob he stood. Silent, as the rest.
After what seemed like an eternity, the crowd spoke up, as one voice. All their lips moved in unison.
"Are you going to do something?"
Ethan raised his hands to respond. As he did, a low humming sound rose from his chest and through his throat. He began his signs,to noticethat every sign made a new sound. His lips were moving, manipulating the sound into words, just as he read lips. He was talking.
This no longer suprised Ethan. He had been here a hundred times before. He practically knew all the faces here by heart, though never meeting them personally and surmising they probably only existed in his imagination anyways.
He tried a different approach this time.
"Why should I do something? You are many and you're just standing there."
This took the crowd aback. But only for a moment.
"You are not like us. We have been driven down. You have been risen up."
Angrily, he pulled at his shirt to take it off. The material in his dream was to weak for this abuse and tore away, instead.
"Risen up? Risen up! You sadist bastards! Leave my mind alone! I'm as low as you." He pointed a finger at them accusingly. "I've been waiting for you to 'rise up'. To do SOMETHING. Now, as you have a billion times before, you tell me I'm already there!"
The crowd did not respond to the sight of his scarred back and chest from whip and cudgel. The slices down his arm made by sharp wires.
They shook their head solemnly. "No, you are not like us."
A panel of cement, just before his feet, began to glow. It's edges sparked and beamed so bright, he had to cover his eyes. The crowd was unaffected.
This was new.
Slowly, the glow died down. Where there was once a small block of cement, there lay a book.
Still cautiously staring at the mob, he bent down and gingerly scooped it up.
He stole a peek at the title. The titlecarried ontoevery inch of the cover and blurred when he tried to concentrate on one word. From his observations, the general idea he got was that the title was made up of all the knowledge he had aquired in his life. "Biology, economics, debate, charm, willpower, honor, history, compassion . . ." The list went on.
"You are not like us. You are risen."
Then he woke up.
Gathered around their bunks at free time, each couldn't help peeking at the recessed cot in the corner. Traditionally, this cot was for anyone who was sick or injured.
So far, it had been a week since Joe had brought him back. Had had simply dropped his leaden body in the dirt of the parking lot. Still bleeding and unconscious, Ethan was picked up and toted back to the cot. Seanathon, the oldest of the group, immeadiately called the Boss. This was something Candice's medical skills could not handle.
Carting a load of sharp and nasty-looking instruments, the Boss stormed through building shouting orders.
"Somebody get his feet! No, not you, Benny, you'll probably walk him into a wall! Careful with him, get him on the table! James! Grab the road light from my car!"
Working for four hours straight, he had Ethan's clothing carefully cut off, so as not to further disturb anything broken. He inspected the body and counted the injuries quietly.
"Possible concussion, laceration above the left eye, maybe some nerve damage to his eyelid and brow. Shit! Yup, that's a broken rib, all right. Dumbass little Jew." he muttered, carefully masking the concern and fear he felt, covering it with anger. "What the hell did you get yourself into? He could have killed you and there would be nothing I could do, because you technically don't exist! God DAMN it, Ears." He yelled aloud, while pulling the third stitch through Ethan's brow.
Ethan's eyes fluttered open. His lips began moving, but uttering no sound.
"What did you say?" The Boss asked quickly.
Ethan swallowed and made the vibrations in his throat more violent.
"I tippeth da bell. Pourth da thement eferywhere."
The Boss sighed, "You have got to be the dumbest slave in the world. Or at least the dumbest teenager, which is hard to come by. My god, fourteen years old, and you can't even hold the damn what's-it-called up! No wonder Joe beat the shit outta you!" He snapped the thread and began another stitch. "Now hold still . . ."
Ethan closed his eyes and smiled.
"Hey, Ethan! Up and about, I see."
He waved to Harrold and signed. -Arm hurt most, Leg hurt better, head hurt worse.-
Seeing Harry laugh, he slowly paced away, towards the machines.
Flipping the lever to the second lowest setting, he sank into the metal chair and grabbed both looped ropes. He was about to pull them downwards, lifting the weights, when the main doors of the barn burst open.
Shark was leading a group of repo men and Citizen-Police over towards the middle of the room. Four soldiers stayed behind to block the entrace. Six others were carrying bundles of chains and shackles.
Behind the door guards, he could see Boss peering over their shoulder. He read the Boss's lips.
Let me in, damnit! You're supposed to keep them from getting out, not stop me from entering. I just want to make sure they don't take my records and trash my damn office!
Hesitantly, they separated long enough for Boss to race in and stand in the center of the PT mats.
"Everybody, over here! Hurry!" The slaves, confused as ever, gathered around Boss. Those who were deaf or hard-of-hearing swarmed to his front, to read his lips.
"All right, here's the situation: I'm broke. There's no other way to put it." he shook his head. "I was greedy. I should have sold you years ago. Would'a made a fortune too. Too damn greedy, I just couldn't bear to get rid of you. I wanted to keep my . . . my children."
He paused a moment and took a deep breath. "They're going to take you now. I just ran in to tell you one thing. To warn you, rather. People are getting scared. No one wants intelligent slaves anymore. Ever since the Spanish colonies banned slavery, everyone's afraid of revolts and runaways. My advice is to play it dumb. You CAN'T read, write or employ mathematics. Do you understand? Don't screw this up! While being able to read and write is fine now, you don't know how the laws will change and I think-"
He stopped in mid-sentence, as the police began cuffing the children.
Ethan felt the shackles clamp around his legs and arms, hampering his movement. A rifle pointed at his face, beconing him towards the door. He stumbled a bit as he turned around.
"Hey, I think this one's injured! We may have to cut him from the list."
List? Seeing the panic on Boss's face he quickly surmised that this was not a good thing. He sucked up a quick breath and walked purposefully towards the door. Willing himself not to limp. Praying they would assume the scar on his forehead was just a laceration, not the slight skull fracture it really was.
He noticed a very self-important soldier speaking to Shark as he scuffled his way out the door.
No, Sir. You don't get to keep the human product. They will be sold in Government Auction and the proceeds will be split between you and the Lower Adjucts of the North American Empire.
"What? That's a crock of shit. He owes me the money and it'syour job to help me collect it!"
The soldier gritted his teeth. "-And half the proceeds count as payment for government services rendered and tax . . . unless of course, you wished to shirk your duty as a citizen. You know, tax evasionis punishable by death, now."
"Well, no I wasn't saying that at all. I just meant that-"
Ethan's line of sight was cut off as he was pushed through into the light of morning.
Four Jeeps awaited with doors wide open. Just enough room for the eighteen slaves. He found his spot on the floor, with the others, and watched the doors of the back end slam shut.
He quickly told the others what he had "overheard". They were going to the auction blocks.
The transports were hot and crowded. And although Ethan had never even seen troops before, he knewthe trucks smelt like the army. Canvas, leather and mildew. Sand and grit in every corner.
Hell, the garden he kept three years ago was less uncomfortable than this.
Still, through some glorious miracle he fell asleep, his head falling back into Michelle's lap.
Again, the platau. Only . . . different.
He racked his memory. What was wrong. His toes wriggled in the wet grass underfoot. No cement? The crowd was not there. Now, only twelve people stood before him.
A tall, blue-eyed blonde girl. The very definition of Arayan beauty. She had a bored expression on her face.
Beside her, a girl that looked amost her exact double . . . no, it was her exact double. In fact, the twelve were actual six . . . and their twins?
Ethan confusedly took stock of this new crowd.
The blonde twins: One healthy, beautiful and completely unimpressed by her odd surroundings. The other had a dazed, drugged expression on her face. She stared blankly into space, much as a blind UnFit would. Her hair was bedraggled and mangy. As was her attire.
Smirking, a short hispanic boy. His twin . . . a smirking, short hispanic boy. Oookay.
As he turned his head to look at the next pair, a large pair of guys, he noticed a blue blur in his perephial vision.
He scanned left, but it was too fast. Whenever he tried to look at it directly, it moved to his left, until he was turning in circles. As he gave up, he realized that if he just looked at it out of the corner of his eye, without moving his pupils, it remained completely still.
A flash of white appeared in the now vaguely man shaped blue sillouette. As the blueman remained still, the white fluttered towards him unsteadily like a bird with a broken wing. Quickly, as it was about to smack him in the head, he snatched it in mid-air.
A white triangle cloth. A bandana. No, not completely white. He thought, examining it further.
There was a small tribal design on the front. Inprinted in a gray so light and faded, it was barely visable.
The Blueman jumped in front of him suddenly. Is was enough to send Ethan reeling back, almost over the edge. He would have gone careening into the mountains below, if not for one of the twins.
A short black person. "Person" because their form wasn't clear and sharp as the others, but blurred and mismatched. When he tried to look at any certain feature of their body, it only served to blur them more.
Struggling, the person pulled him away from the edge.
"Ethan, you are risen."
A sharp kick to the side awaited him as he awoke. Still in the truck.
The repo-man man talked to him very slowly. "Hey. Dumbass. It's. Time. To. Go."
Oh yeah, I'm risen all right, Ethan thought sarcastically.
Hear No Evil . . .(2.5)
PART FOUR: Ashes and Elevation
Ethan stepped out into the hot sun, blinking furiously after hours in the opaque darkness of the truck. They were in a parking lot outside of a large, sanitized-looking brick building. The sign over the doors proclaimed, "Human Product Processing Center."
A large chimney belched disgusting black smoke into the air. About twenty feet in circumference, by his estimation.
Just where the hell am I?
Under the watchful eyes of armed guards, the chains and shackles were removed, and they were escorted through the doors.
Inside, a clean, sterile hall, with small doors on each side. The hall ended in a large room with a pair of steel elevator doors on the right.
"Get in the waiting room! No sitting, no leaning on walls, no talking. You will be taken into an examination room one-by-one. If you resist, we take the elevators to the third floor. You get a quick trip to hell, with the rest of the retards."
Ethan stood in line with the others, waiting his turn. No one who entered the rooms came back and he was beginning to worry. On the other hand, he hadn't seen anyone go to the elevators either.
On his turn, he was grabbed by the arm and propelled through a small, blue door. Within, a flat wooden table. A large metal door led out the back. Medical instruments lined the walls and a chart of the human body lay on the floor, tape still attached to its backing.
A hand grabbed his shoulder, turning him.
The guard mouthed slowly. "Take. Off. Your. Clothes . . . Wait. On. The. Table."
He pushed Ethan in, slamming the door behind him. Ethan tried the latch. Locked. He raced to the back of the room to try the other door. A door with . . . no handle?
He examined the door carefully, noticing a large slot in the side with two lights, green and red. The red light was currently activated.
Great.
He stripped off his clothes, being very careful not to agitate his healing wounds and red, angry sunburn.
He waited.
And waited.
Finally, he felt a rush of air behind him. Ethan whipped around in time to see the light turn green and a youngish-looking officer step through. He had the typical stethoscope around his neck and a lab coat wrapped around his gray- and black-trimmed uniform. On his collar, the brilliant flash of double lightning epaulets. The uniform of the SS.
He peered at his clipboard as he absentmindedly slammed the door behind him. Pacing around to Ethan's side of the table, he noticed the diagram lying on the floor.
Damnit, not again, he cursed as he picked up the poster and slapped it back onto the wall. He stepped in front of Ethan, looking back and forth between him and the clipboard.
Hmm. Well, you look fit. It's all a matter of psyche and those nasty-looking scars of yours. They look pretty fresh. Wanna tell me how you got them?
Ethan shivered slightly. SS, masters of interrogation . . . and torture. Everyone had heard the stories, even Ethan, despite how isolated the Boss had tried to keep his eggs.
He'd better bereal smart, realfast. Or real stupid, rather.
"Well, what were they from? The doctor hesitated. Were you . . . punished?"
"No, thir. It happened in a fight, thir."
"A fight? With whom?"
"Thlave, thir. They jumpet me. Hit me on the head with a hoe, thir."
The doctor smiled kindly. "And why would one of your kind hit you?"
"He wath a runaway, thir. Notmy kind. I tried to thop him."
The doctor blinked, confused. "You tried to stop someone from escaping?"
"Thlaves must know their place. He tried to run away. Master say, 'Thop him,' I thop him."
"One of the others outside?" The officer narrowed his eyes.
"No thir! They know better. He was from another plathe. He ran to where we work."
This took the doctor aback. This was either the most loyal and perfect slave he had ever seen, or the smartest.
"Just who the hell do you think you're talking to?" The officer stared Ethan down menacingly.
This was how the game was played.
"Thir, I-"
"You think you're talking to another retard? I have two tricks for every one you pull out of your ass. I find your little act insulting."
Ethan was silent for a moment.
The officer jotted something down on the pad, carefully setting it on the table next to Ethan and walked to the back door. Pulling an ID card from his pocket and quickly swiping it through the slot, the officer's back was conveniently turned away.
Ethan craned his neck and peered at the officer's stylish handwriting.
"Insurrectionist. Set for elimination. Proceed with extreme caution."
The red pen lay on the clipboard.
He looked quickly behind him as the officer opened the door and began shouting off orders to an outside door guard. They paused for a moment. The officer turned his head and stared at Ethan, the guard peeking over his shoulder. Then they both turned away, resuming conversation.
With a shaking hand, Ethan slowly reached for the pen and . . .
No, he thought quickly.
He whipped his hand away as if the pen had burnt him. And waited.
Ten painful minutes passed. During which time, the SS man casually smoked a cigarette with the guard, neither of them giving Ethan so much as a glance.
His whole fate lay on that clipboard . . . and his choice.
The officer finished his smoke and re-entered the room, slamming the door behind him. He scooped up the clipboard, perusing its contents.
Satisfied, he smiled at the disgusting UnFit. Not as smart as he'd thought.
He pulled the top sheet off the clipboard, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it in a corner wastebasket. Hurriedly, he scribbled on the next page, pacing over to the door and pounding on it three times rapidly.
The door opened yet again. The guard's head popped through. "Sir?"
"Get this . . . creature out of my examination room." His lip curled in derision.
Ethan blinked. Wait for it. Always wait for it. Nothing more can be done. Can ever be done.
As if reading Ethan's mind, the Officer shook his head in disgust. "Damn thing didn't even have the balls to fight."
The guard shook his head, confused. "Excuse me, sir?"
The officer passed over the clipboard. Scanning it quickly, the guard let out a sharp laugh. "A slave loyalist. My god, now I've seen everything! He really captured a runaway, sir?"
The officer nodded. "Yes, he did."
The guard chuckled again and crooked his finger at Ethan.
Still stripped, Ethan obeyed, passing out of the room and into a back parking lot.
The four trucks from the front parking lot now stood in the back. Strangely, only one of them was idling. Not enough to fit eighteen slaves.
Ethan's thoughts were interrupted when he felt something hard and plastic hit him in the chest.
He looked down. Perfectly air-sealed, a mechanics-gray uniform, wrapped in clear plastic. The guard dropped his cigarette and waited for Ethan to grab it.
Tentatively taking the uniform, he waited patiently for permission to put it on. No such luck.
The guard pointed to one of the trucks. Ethan trudged over there,
pretending nonchalance as he placed the package over his . . . package.
At the back of the truck, two slaves, wearing the same uniform as that in the package, stood waiting. One raised his hand, stopping Ethan. He handed him a pair of white boxers and watched him silently. Eyes blank and dead.
Ethan slipped these on and was immediately addressed by the second slave, carrying a pair of handcuffs. When these were secured, he was hustled into the truck, the doors slamming shut behind him. The five slaves sitting on the floor all moved their heads up in unison, hope in their eyes. Clutching each other for comfort. Searching for the others.
Ethan quickly signed. "Where is everyone?"
No one answered. To utter it aloud would make it real.
Peering out the small crack between the doors, he slowly scanned his gaze upward.
To the top of the building.
To the greasy black smoke.
A deep breath.
Oh God, no.
The truck pulled away.
End of ChapterTwo (2)
BEHIND THE SCENES: This fic was originally going to be called "The Third Monkey" Good thing I didn't name it that. A kind reviewer reminded me that "Hear no evil" is actually the second monkey.