[Day 193] Eugenia part 5

Read part 4 here!

Only 17 hours later -I compulsively checked my watch- the bus stopped in front of a large facility. It was white, and looked like a reformed psych ward. We were somewhere in the desert, because the only things surrounding the building were dirt, rocks, and an extended clump of dead trees. It looked like a fire had ravaged it, and the unrelenting climate hadn’t given the forest enough nutrients to regrow.

A man stepped onto the bus and briefly welcomed us. All I could remember was that he said “It’s better this way.” After that, I shut down.

They allowed us to pick our own roommates, so Zia and I stuck together at every possible interval. The rooms were stark and plain, but I couldn’t bring myself to mind. We wouldn’t be staying in them long.

No one talked to us. There were only about twenty other people in the facility altogether, including the wardens and the cooks. I guessed that not many children tried to get away; this was just a sad fact of life.

Before we were allowed to enjoy some much needed rest, a grave looking man and woman visited our rooms. Zia and I were poked, prodded, measured, and put to several physical tests. I could tell from the increasingly morose looks on our examiners faces that we weren’t performing very well. My best friend and I were not the strongest of our age group. After about an hour of near-silence, they two adults convened briefly and then marked the back of our hands with purple “X”s. I didn’t know what this meant, but there was an inkling in the back of my mind that whispered conspiratorially about work camp not being the only option for “disposal” of the less intelligent.

Zia and I didn’t talk before climbing into bed.

The next morning, at breakfast, there was a commotion. A man, unshaven and wild-looking, forced his way into the dining hall. Zia and I were at the table closest to the door, so I could smell his bourbon-tainted breath as he spoke. “Get out.” he growled, staring at us. “It isn’t fair. Get out. You still have a chance.”

By now, some of the wardens had caught sight of the man. They didn’t look angry; just sad.

The man backed away. “There’s another way. Another way.” He locked eyes with me as he backed away. “Gruber. My name is Gruber.”

I slowly raised my hand to him, in a slight wave. “I’m Meg.”

He nodded and turned away, running with a surprising burst of energy. The wardens looked at one another and went off in pursuit. But I knew they wouldn’t catch up to him.

Somehow, I knew this would be our last meal. The looks on the faces of the workers were grave as they shoveled more and more food onto more and more trays. I clenched my hands together to stay calm.

As I observed my fellow thirteen-year-olds, I noticed that my hunch the night before was correct. There were two colors of “X”s, purple like my own, and red. The children with red looked much stronger than the others. So what would happen to the purple kids? Finally, after an extended three hour stay in the dining hall, the wardens lined the purple children up by the date we were “taken” and marched us deeper into the building. Two priests stood on either side of us, reading our last rites. I glanced back at the red children being marched in the other direction, outside and presumably to the work camp. Disgusted that our government had been lying to us for years, I shook visibly as we walked. Some of the children began crying, understanding what was going on. Others continued on stone-faced, and others still just stared at the cement floor as they shuffled forward. I was in a group of my own, taking in my surroundings warily. It didn’t seem like we were going too far below floor level, and there were many windows dotting the walls on either side of us.

Finally, I could see a chamber void of windows in front of us. The line gradually stopped moving, and I watched from a distance as the wardens began to hand out white robes for us to change into. I glanced down at my current attire; jeans, teeshirt, zip-up sweater. A warden handed me my own robe, but I didn’t change. I just stood there, looking at the line, and all my peers, and the robe in my hands. Then I looked at Zia, who was dutifully donning the execution outfit.

“Zia,” I whispered, a plan formulating.

She just shook her head at me.

“No. Zia. Listen!” She looked up sadly. “I have an idea.”

“Please. No stories. It’s too…”

“I don’t want to tell you a story. I want to make our own story.”

“What are you talking about?” She slipped out of her undershirt.

“Stop undressing! I’m talking about… you know… getting out. Escaping. Like Gruber said.”

“Meg. The man was drunk and delusional. He’s an Outlier. They’re bad people.”

“No, they’re not! They’re us, plus a few decades!”

“They’re wrong. We’re wrong. We aren’t worthy.” It sounded almost like a chant as she spoke.

“Zia, how can you believe that? Do you really think you’re an abomination?”

“I must be.” She whispered.

“Please, Zia. Come with me.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Zia…”

“If you run, I’ll scream.” She warned. Children finished changing were filing into the chamber. “I won’t let you be an abomination.”

A warden had noticed I wasn’t changing, and was starting to pace his way back to me.

“We don’t have much time, Zia.”

“Change into your robe.”

“No.”

“Then you leave me with no choice…”

I was already running when she opened her mouth to scream.

Continued in part 6