THE BLACK DOT

1

“Are you kidnapping us?” the little girl with fishbelly-white hair asked. She couldn’t see the driver, but sometimes he liked to open the wicket on the screen separating the front seats from the rear to say:

“Keep your mouth shut!”

“Trust me,” groaned Chip. “That won’t work.” He was perched against the backdoors, his red eye glowing in the dark, his crimson sweat-dampened hair scruffy. A chest harness covered his bottle-green jacket, and his gauntlets were cuffed at the wrists.

“Are you taking us somewhere bad?” she asked.

The driver said nothing.

“My mom used to say never accept rides from strangers,” she said. “Especially when they drive vans or smell like cat pee.”

“What did I tell you?” the driver said.

“To keep my mouth shut,” she said.

“So why are you still fucking talking!”

She shrugged. “Bored.”

A grunt. “You’re lucky I don't kill you.”

“You’re lucky my sister’s not around,” she said. “She can kick your a-hole.”

“Oh really?”

“Damn straight,” she said.

He belly-laughed. “You're really somethin’ else, kid.”

She pursed her lips. “Do you have guns?”

“What?”

“In the shows the kidnappers always have guns,” she said.

He fell silent.

“Hello?”

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped. “Can you shut her up?”

Chip's laugh was nothing more than a close-mouthed squeak. “Bet you regret taking us, don't you?”

“The fuck's wrong with her?”

“Asperger's,” he said.

“Christ.”

“Whose burgers?” she joked.

“Kill me,” said Chip, scrubbing his temples.

“He can’t do that,” she said.

“Why not?” he complained.

“Because he needs us alive. It’s like the movies.”

“Sarah,” said Chip.

“Yes, Chip?”

“Can you please, pleaseeee be quiet? Just this once?”

“But we’ve been driving for hours!”

“I know, kid, trust me. I don’t like it either,” he said.

Sarah turned away and silence immediately descended. She went back to blowing raspberries. She could hear noises coming from outside, police sirens and beeping cars, but nothing exciting. She was completely and utterly bored. She wanted to go home and watch TV, eat chips, something.

The drive continued for another ten minutes, and by that point Sarah began humming a melody from an EDM song. Slack Off Smoke; it was played almost everywhere in the city. Soon the humming turned into singing, and then the driver told her to shut up again.

When they finally reached their destination, Sarah was dry-throated and tired.

The driver locked the vehicle in place, stepped out, and opened the rear. Cool air swept in, carrying a black-smoke odour. She saw a red-brick building surrounded by giant, thermoplastic ducting hoses and L-shaped ventilation pipes, all leading to an even larger industrial building sitting under a crisp, moonwashed sky. The words on the red-brick building, highlighted on an orange holo-sign, read:

ブルフォード

Whatever that means.

Shirtless men with chunks of flesh missing from their bodies stood holding assault rifles, their eyes glowing with the same orange – if they had eyes – and their twill cargo slacks scuffed and lazily threaded.

Robot zombies.

The driver grabbed Chip first, roughly, and then shoved him over to the scary-looking men; he did the same with Sarah.

“Careful,” the driver said, “this one’s a talker.”

“Is she?” one of the men said, his voice crackly and robotic. He smelt musty, like he hadn’t showered in weeks. “You like talkin’, do ya sweetheart?”

“I guess so,” she said, scrunching her nose. “Are you a monster?”

He cocked what was left of his eyebrow. “To you I am,” he grinned. “But you’ll learn to love me.”

“You smell awful,” she said, a faint and rather innocent smile on her face.

His grin disappeared. He grabbed a great sheaf of her hair and pulled.

Sarah yelped and clenched her jaw eye-wateringly tight. “Stop stop stop!” she cried.

“Not so big-mouthed now, are we?” he said. “You’re not at home anymore, bitch. Mommy and Daddy or your big sister ain’t gonna protect you. You belong to us now, you got that?”

She tried to push his arm away and break free.

He slowly bent down until eye-level with her, pulled out a small pistol, and pressed the muzzle against her cheek. “You hear what I said?” He cocked the hammer – click. “Or do I have to make things clearer?”

She grimaced. “Yes!”

“Yes, I do?”

“No! I understand!”

“Good,” he said, drawing the weapon away.

“Sarah,” Chip said from behind. “It’ll be alright. Just do what the man says and you’ll be fine.”

“Yeeaaah,” the man added. “Do what the man says.”

She bobbed her head slowly, twiddling her thumbs in the cuffs. “... What’s your name, sir?” she said, her voice slightly hoarse with emotion.

“Rick Steel,” he said, “but to you I’m Mr Steel, got it?”

“Yes,” she croaked.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Mr Steel!” she said.

Her lungs were tight with fear, and her heart wouldn’t stop thumping.

“That’s better.” Mr Steel shoved Sarah next to Chip. “Now, here’s how it’s gonna work. I run this base, I’m the top-dog. No one does anything without my nod, and none of you speak unless spoken to. I’m gonna work you two until either Luna’s dead or until she turns herself in. That’s if Glitch wants to let you go. I can keep you here for as long as I want. Any questions?”

Sarah raised her hand.

“Yeah?”

“Can I have something to drink please?” she asked, nervous.

Laughter from the group.

“She’s ballsy, I give her that,” one said.

“Sarah,” Chip said quietly, and when she looked up at him he shook his head.

Mr Steel chuckled, walked over to her, and got down on one knee. “You thirsty, sweetheart?”

“Oh boy, here it comes,” another said.

“Please, mister,” she begged. “I haven’t had anything to drink in hours.”

“Aw…. Well that’s too bad, isn’t it?” Mr Steel laid his hand on her shoulder. Then, after a moment, he said, “You have an MD installed, little girl?”

“No,” she said, thinking of her sister.

“Figures, no kid’s brave enough to have that operation. What about you?” He stood up and faced Chip. “You look like the type. You have an MD?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Got it installed two years ago. Expensive, isn't it?”

He smirked, and the group laughed evilly once again. “Bic?”

“Yeh?” a man from the group said.

Mr Steel never took his eyes off Chip. “Show Sarah to her cage.”

“Where’s that?” he said.

“Bottom floor,” he said. “Throw her in 32.”

“What about the other fella?”

“I’ll deal with him,” he said.

“What?” said Chip. “What are you gonna do?”

“Don’t worry, we’re not gonna kill ya… yet.”

More chuckling.

“Bic?” said Mr Steel, turning.

“Yeah, I heard ya.” Bic grabbed Sarah by the shoulder and walked into the building, leaving Mr Steel to deal with Chip.

What does that mean?

She didn’t know, nor did she want to stick around long enough to find out.

The boredom she had felt before coming here had vanished completely; she was scared, thirsty, and wanted her sister. She licked her lips, feeling her throat grow sore from the lack of moisture. She looked around the place. The first few areas were empty: the waiting hall, the corridors full of doors painted with red numbers, and the bathroom-sized elevator which they had to take to the bottom floor. She heard people’s voices from the other side, and when it opened she saw another hallway, except now it had windows. She peeked inside as they walked.

Children. She saw children, lying on cots, each dressed in a silver jumpsuit with their door-number printed above the breast pocket.

They looked about the same age as her, but they were gaunt and pallid, as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks, and as if they hadn’t seen sunlight for months. She wondered if she would end up like that – she certainly hoped she wouldn’t – and if anyone would get her out of here. What was it Mr Steel said about Luna?

He won’t let me go until either Luna dies or turns herself in….

Yeah, that was it.

“Excuse me, sir?” she said.

“Yeh?” Bic said.

“What am I doing here?”

“I’m showing you to your room,” he said.

“I know, but why are there so many kids down here?”

“You wanna hang with the grown-ups?” he said.

“No,” she said, “but – ”

“Then keep quiet,” he said.

“But they look so sick.”

“Enough questions.”

She pouted, even more worried than before.

The walk through the underbase was long and tiring. Her wrists were starting to ache, and the cuffs kept bumping into her corner bones.

Eventually, they entered a far-reaching hall longer than it was wide. It was composed of not one but three different grated platforms which, when connected by the stairways, went around and around, and across them more doors were neatly fixed. It was a dark place, and at the very top was a pill-shaped gondola rumbling from one side to the other. This looked like one of those prisons Sarah had seen on her late-night drama shows – The Running Man, it was called, and her favourite character was the handsome Ronnie Conway.

A minute later she and Bic were standing in front of a galvanised door labelled 32 (which was in serious need of a polish), and through the small double-paned window she saw a brown room with fluorescents hanging from the ceiling. There was a single bookshelf, the floor was made of spruce-wood, a display of multiple busted flat-screens stood on the right side, and a single, vellum carpet lay sprawled at the centre.

Bic pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, inserted one in the lockplate, and rotated it until the keyhole clicked. The door squeaked open, and she could see the left side more clearly. Built into the wall were two bed areas, one above the other, with steel rungs climbing the left side. The top bunk read 01 while the bottom read 02. Next to them was a splintered wooden door.

“Andy,” Bic said. “Got company for you.” And he unlocked Sarah’s cuffs. “You might like her.”

A groan.

He shoved Sarah inside. “Your first day starts tomorrow,” he said. “Eight o’clock sharp. Understood?”

“Can I have something to drink please?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

“But – ”

He shut the door, and his pounding footfalls clanked along the stairway until they could no longer be heard.

She sighed, looked at the beds, saw Andy turned over on the top, and climbed into the bottom bunk. There was no blanket, the sheet was thin, and the mattress was hard. This place was awful, there was a constant thrum coming from the fluorescents, and it smelt like dust and old newspapers.

She felt sick to her stomach. She missed her sister dearly. She missed Chip, too. She loved talking to him, even if he didn’t seem all that interested in what she had to say; at least he never told her to shut up like a lot of other people. Like that rude driver.

She sat in a foetal position, her head propped on her knees, hugging herself. After a while, she started humming Slack Off Smoke and clearing her throat, hoping that would somehow get rid of that hay-prickly sensation.

Something dropped from the top bunk and rolled out onto the edge of the vellum carpet. A bottle, half full of water.

“Take it,” a voice said; teenaged, not high-pitched, not deep either.

She hopped off the bed, grabbed the water bottle, and found that there was nothing in it.

“It’s empty,” she said, disappointed.

“The bathroom’s behind the door,” he said. “Fill it from the tap.”

“Tap-water?” she said. “Isn’t that bad for you?”

“Probably,” he said.

She looked at it, licked her lips again, and then opened the oak-wood door. A small bathroom, as expected, with a rectangular shelf built into the kelly-green wall. Toiletries – toothbrushes, paste, and mouthwash – were spread across it. Torn stickers on the mirror, a leaky faucet over the porcelain sink. This was one of those places.

She gazed at her reflection, at her nylon jacket with the bunny embroidering above the breast pocket – the one her sister had stitched. She frowned. She placed the bottleneck under the tap and squeakily rotated the faucet. The water flew down and filled it up. She gulped more than half of it, felt sweet relief wash through her, then went back to the prison-room.

“Thanks,” she said.

Silence.

“Is your name Andy?” she asked cheerfully, already knowing it was.

“Guess so,” he said.

“My name’s Sarah,” she said. “What’s going on? Why am I here?”

“What do you think?” he groaned.

“I don’t think,” she said. “I say things. People often tell me to shut up.”

That got a laugh out of him – a breath from his nose. He turned over. He was black and had an afro. “You're funny,” he said.

“That can’t be right,” she said. “You’re supposed to be annoyed.”

“Are you trying to annoy me?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I don’t like annoying people.”

He sat up. “Then we have something in common.”

“We do?” she said. “How long have you been here?”

“I don’t count the days.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen,” he said.

“Do you – ”

“Yeah, I do,” he said, sitting astride the bunk. He was dressed in a silver jumpsuit. “We’re slaves to the Legion,” he said.

“Slaves?”

A nod. “You ever package drugs?”

“Drugs? Like medicine?”

He shook his head. “No, not that kind. Bad drugs, like Afterburner, Jade....”

“Is it safe?”

“Not at all.” He showed her his hands and, even through the dark, she saw the chafed marks and cuts. “They don’t give you any safety gloves. Saves money, shows how little they care, sugu-sugu.”

Sugu-sugu?

“How do I get out of here?” she asked. “People want my sister dead.”

“People?” Andy said, and he leaned forward.

She nodded. “Yeah, they said someone called Glitch would let me go if she turned herself in or… was killed.”

“Jesus,” he said, looking concerned. “So you weren’t picked up off the street? Are you an orphan?”

“Kind of,” she said. “My mom died, and I don’t know where my dad is. I live with my sister in her apartment in L’illian.”

“Oh,” he said, and settled back. “Well, most of the kids here are orphans. In fact, I think they all are, and you’re, I guess, kind of an exception.”

She revisited her earlier question: “How do I get out of here?”

“You don’t,” he said. “I guess, not until your sister turns herself in or…”

“Don’t say it,” she said.

“I won’t,” he said. “But that’s what it looks like.”

She sat on the carpet, cross-legged. “Are you an orphan?” she asked.

“Yup,” he said. “Gang members killed ’em, and my grandma died a long time ago. She used to take care of me.”

“When are you allowed out of here?”

He shrugged. “I’m never getting out. Some of the people in here are way older than I am, and I’m pretty sure once the Legion’s done with us they kill us.”

That last part frightened her. The idea of death was nerve-wracking. “Kill us?”

“Or, you know, sew your mouth shut,” he joked darkly, making a zip motion across his lips. “If law enforcement found out about this place they’d be effed.”

She twiddled her thumbs as she processed the image, and then her face smoothed. “I don’t like it here. I wanna go home!”

“We all do,” he said. “Well, not all of us have homes anyway. Some kids prefer it here, believe it or not.”

She had trouble believing it, but she understood how difficult life was on the streets – after all, she and her sister had been there before – and she gave him a sympathetic look. “Thanks for the water.”

“No problem,” he said. “You remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

“My sister,” he said. “She likes to ask questions, too. Also, you don’t snore, do you?”

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Good,” he beamed. “’Cause I’ve had a long day, and you’ll have a long one tomorrow.” He yawned and rolled onto his bed. “G’night, Sarah.”

She sat there for a moment, staring at the plastic bottle and thinking about Luna, and then about the terrible bed. Soon, she grabbed the carpet off the floor, dragged it onto the bottom bunk, and wrapped it around her. She slipped towards sleep slowly, anxious about the next day, and about what Mr Steel said earlier. The last thought that crossed her mind before the darkness claimed her was:

What’s sugu-sugu mean?