Chapter One
"So, you got a name?"
I am busy watching the twin lights through the glass. They illuminate the long ribbon of concrete we travel on. We are going very fast; faster than I could ever run even if my feet did not ache so bad. I hope we do not hit anything in the darkness. I am glad he did not hit me. It would have been…messy.
"Hey," the man whistles drawing my attention, "I said, you got a name?"
I consider that for a moment. I know what names are people at section six have them. Even the soldiers who never speak have them. They wear them on their clothes sometimes written in blocky white letters or on little white plastic squares with pictures hanging around their necks. Sometimes when they are important like the man in dark blue and Griss they're displayed on little gold rectangles over their breasts. I have never had a golden rectangle or a plastic square, my clothes are pale blue and plain with one pocket. Which is just as well, pockets are for pens and little folded papers with chemical notes and appointment times scribbled on them, I have neither. I asked a soldier once what my name was he sneered at me and reeked of fear when he answered, "Bitch, like you need a name." It did not sound like a nice word. Dr. Patrice told me I should not repeat it. But it is the only one I have.
"Bitch." I tell him confidently.
He snorts, then starts to laugh.
I frown. "Is that wrong?"
He sobers quickly eyes darting from the road to my face. I'm not sure what he sees there but the truck slows noticeably before he turns back to the glass and we speed up again, going faster now then we were before. His jaw clenches for a moment. "You're serious aren't you?" He speaks to the glass not to me, but I answer anyway. I am the only other person here.
"It's the only name I've ever had."
"That's just sad kid. I've heard of some messed up shit but that…" he pauses shakes his head once. I watch his knuckles tighten on the scuffed and worn wheel he uses to steer. "Well, we can't call you that. My name's Bryn. Bryn Colt."
I consider that for a moment too. I have never met someone with two names. Soldiers have one name. Doctors and scientist also have only one, but they do not go without their titles; and they get angry when someone forgets.
"Do you need both names?" It seems selfish when I have none. "I could be Bryn." It's a nice sounding name, I like it.
"We can't both be Bryn," Bryn tells me. "I'll stay Bryn and we'll think up something to call you."
"Something other than Bitch?"
Bryn's jaw tightens. "Something other than Bitch, anyone ever calls you that again I want you to pop 'em right in the mouth."
I don't know how to do that. I wonder if Bryn will teach me.
We drive for a long time, sometimes Bryn speaks. Sometimes he goes quiet for a long time. He seems to go quiet most often after I have spoken; when he asks a question I do not know how to answer, or tells me something I do not understand. It is a good thing I am a quick learner because it is obvious I am doing something wrong.
When the light comes back it does so slowly; gradually in the same way it faded. This time my eyes do not burn. It starts so slowly at first I do not notice; still staring out the front glass of the truck as we drive. That is what Bryn calls it; driving. I'm not sure when I was able to see more then the stretch of concrete in the two beams through the glass, but when I realize I can see trees out the side window to my right. I stop talking so I can stare. Taking it all in. It's so big, this outside, we have been driving very fast and it has yet to end. Though sometimes the trees end in great big spaces Bryn calls fields and there are blocky structures much too small to have a section six inside them. Houses and barns; farms Bryn calls them.
They are fascinating each one slightly different growing more distinct as the light turns the world around me from many shades of grey to brilliant greens and blues and there is even some red, and yellow. I have never seen so much color. Section six was always grey, or white: like the scientist and doctors' coats. Color was not important, white paint is easier to patch when something goes wrong. It went wrong a lot.
"Can't believe you're still awake." Bryn tells me.
"You have not given me a serum to sleep." I am still staring out the window, this time at another blocky structure with an unusual roof line. It has lots of rectangle glass in its sides, and a second roof with open walls wrapping all the way around its base. It's strikingly beautiful. Like a painting that once hung in Dr. Patrice's office before they made her take it down. Bryn is very quiet. I realize I have said something else that is wrong.
He is staring at me instead of the road when I turn my head. I wonder if that is dangerous. "They give you a serum to sleep?" He asks me an odd expression on his face.
"Yes," I tell him. "That way they know I am rested." There was one to wake up too, but he should know that: everyone does.
"What kind of a nut house did you escape from exactly?" Bryn is eyeing me like some of the soldiers used to; but he doesn't smell like fear. Now that it is brighter inside the cab I can see that his eyes are the exact shade of the little bottle of warm honey Dr. Patrice would sneak into the lab sometimes to dribble on my sandwiches; they remain fixed on me so bright they almost glow. His skin is smooth and tan except for his jawline which is still wide and stubble rough in odd patches. His hair is not as dark as I originally thought, it hangs almost to his chin in dark chestnut waves I wouldn't quite call curls.
I consider his question for a moment. "Doctor Reese likes peanuts."
"A peanut house?" Bryn says and for some reason this makes his lips turn up on one side; it's an unusual expression I've never seen before. It does funny things to my stomach.
"It's the only nuts I know," I tell him positive that this at least is the right answer. I am after all a fast learner.
"I'm not so sure about that." Bryn says.
When we finally stop the sun is high overhead the truck engine rattles; wheezes and coughs as it dies. I wonder for a moment how Bryn will resurrect it again. It sounds like it might be dead for good. But then many things that are dead come back.
I stare through the glass at the house we sit in front of. It is not one of the grander structures like we have passed along our journey. Which is too bad; I would have liked to see what they looked like inside as well. This structure is an almost a single story, except for the small square of glass set in the steep triangle of the roof just above another roof that is longer, flatter and stretches the length of the white house's front and one side with evenly spaced poles made of wood. The paint is peeling in a few places, and the stairs creak.
"It's a porch," Bryn informs me when I ask him if he's not done building it yet, if that's why the walls are missing on one side. He pauses standing next to me on the porch, he is looking down at my feet. I realize I have left bloody footprints on the wood behind me. "Where are your shoes?" Bryn asks me.
"I don't have any shoes."
"Of course you don't." He grumbles opening a door that seems rather pointless being made of mostly colored glass. Doors are supposed to be made of steel. I know that. I wonder why he doesn't?
I watch him push the door open then turn back around to face me. He hesitates for a moment then moves towards me. "What are you doing?" I lean away from him studying his hands.
"You're not going to bleed all over the carpets, they're a pain in the ass to clean." That must be why he is carrying me. Which makes sense, these carpets are not white like the walls in section six. They must be difficult to replace. "Guess we'll put you upstairs." He adds, which I don't have an opinion on so I remain silent.
Bryn carries me up a narrow flight of wooden stairs, they sound hollow under his boots and creak every few steps. I wonder for a moment if we might fall through. He pushes open the first door on the right in a short hallway and uses his boot to kick aside a small yellow rectangle of rug leaving a smooth block patterned floor that's cool on my toes when he sets me down.
It's a small room; a bathroom based on the toilet and sink. There is also a strange basin that is white and chipped on one corner showing metal underneath, based on the faucet on the wall it must be a shower though I've never seen one that needed a metal bucket this size for a bottom. It does not appear to be a room built for two people and Bryn curses trying not to bump into me when he bends over to pick up the rug. He rolls the yellow rectangle and shoves it beside the toilet so it is out of the way of my bloody feet. I guess he does not want to replace it either.
"I'll get you a towel. I'll be right back." He backs out of the door leaving it open behind him. It is obvious with my bloody feet he intends for me to shower so I remove my top and pants folding them neatly and placing them over the edge of the sink. I'll have to ask Bryn where the recycle bin is, it doesn't seem to be located in this room. While I wait for him to return I trying not to rock on the balls of my feet listening to the silence. Griss hates when I fidget. His soldier's don't fidget. They stand like statues and wait for orders. I guess that is why I am not a good soldier.
I hear heavy footfalls in the hallway a minute later Bryn pushes open the door already speaking. "Here we go. It's a little threadbare but it's…JesusChrist!" The towel he was carrying folded in one hand is all but thrown over me while he turns his entire face away. His skin has turned an intriguing beat red from his neck all the to his hair line. I worry for a moment based on his behavior that he's been shot. "You're naked!" He sputters turning his head so far it looks like his neck might snap.
"Was I not supposed to get cleaned up?" Perhaps I misunderstood.
"Yes! But you're not supposed to be naked in front of other people!" Bryn's hand is now clapped over his eyes. He is talking very loud for such a tiny room.
"I've been naked in front of lots of people." I tell him not sure what the problem is. No one has ever been bothered by it before, as far as I can tell in section six no one even notices.
Bryn stops covering his eyes, lowers his hand so it appears he's blocking my body from his line of sight despite the towel now covering me allowing him to stare at just my face. His eyes narrowing for a brief moment then his jaw clenches making the muscles in his neck just under his ears stand out. "I'm liking this picture you're painting for me less and less by the minute. Just what kind of sick fucks have you been living with?" He growls shaking his head and turning away before I can ask him more about the picture and tell him that I have never painted anything in my life. But it's just as well; I have a feeling I am getting things wrong. Again.
"Just get cleaned up there's soap right there, and I'll try to find you something to wear…I'll leave it outside the door." He starts to leave but stops with his back still turned to me speaking over his shoulder staring at the wall so hard I glance at it as well wondering what he is seeing, but it remains blank and pale yellow like the rug I am not allowed to touch.
"Will anyone be looking for you?" he asks.
I cock my head to the side wondering how much I can trust this strange Bryn Colt. He is not a scientist, or a doctor. And he is definitely not a soldier though he carries a gun. He is an unknown entity with two names that smells like anger when he thinks about me being naked in front of other people and smells afraid when I'm naked in a room with only him.
I decide to take a chance. "Yes, and it would be best if they did not find me."
"At least on that we can agree." Bryn says. Then he shuts the door.
to be continued...