Greyson
“This’s his study.”
“His lab. He’s a scientist,” I say.
“Study. Lab. Same thing.” Rayburn yawns wide, his jaw cracking.
There’s a lock on the door-pad shaped like a spider, red eyes blinking real rapid. Rayburn punches in a code and its legs release with a vicious hiss, plopping into his hand, twitching. He pockets it and shoves the door open. A single bulb flickers on.
The lab isn’t big. Nothing in Undercamp’s big. It’s made more bitty by floor to ceiling shelves and the high tables lining the other two. Blueprints are tacked against walls, bundles of papers and books are stacked willy-nilly across the floor. There’re even empty mugs, stained dark from the tea they once held, scattered about as if Pa had just sat them down and forgotten them. I can smell the metallic burn of solder.
“No one’s been in since?” I rest a hand on a shelf. It comes away caked in tacky-brown dust.
“We sealed it after we realised he wasn’t coming back. Reckoned he’d gone walkabout. Lots of folk do. This place’s claustrophobic at the best of times, so it’s normal for people to go walk around the perimeter. Stretch their legs, so to speak, yeah?”
“I can imagine,” Bryn comments dry-like from the doorway. She hasn’t entered, wary of the gloomy corners and shadowy forms hunched against the walls as if coma-fying.
I’m careful not to disturb anything as I weave through piles of seemingly random chaos, but I recognise my Pa’s mind at work from the storage space on L8. Pinned to the wall are two artworks – scribbles really, childish finger paintings – and they’ve got to be mine.
“Did he mention me? My ma?” I smooth out a roll of thin plastic to study the diagrams and scrawled notes. Rayburn joins me, hands linked behind his back like an obedient tot. Had Pa told him off for touching? Rayburn would’ve been about my age when Pa left. Old enough to know better, young enough to be told all the same.
“I’m sure sorry, Grey,” Rayburn clasps my shoulder and squeezes. “He was a fierce private man, never spoke much of his life before he arrived.”
“It’s fine.” I hope my disappointment isn’t clear across my face like a neon sign. “What was he working on?”
“He showed me, actually. Just the once and …” he trails off.
“What?”
“Well, at the time I figured he just wanted to show it off to someone, anyone. No one was allowed inside his lab and rare was he outside it. It gave him a mighty loneliness, I think. And I was real young then. Chuffed this genius recluse sought me out to see his invention so I didn’t think much past my ego.” Rayburn reaches out, flipping through a series of sheets tacked to the wall until he finds the one he’s after. “When he left, he took it with him, and I reckon I’m the only one to have ever seen it. Here.” He lays the one he wants out. “He said it would turn the Triumph inside out, upside down, and put it right again.”
I pin the sheet with an empty mug. At first glance it isn’t anything special. A closer look’s got me running a finger along the sketched lines and nutting out the comments and, sudden-like, it’s familiar. I know these curved sides, the circuitry guts, the angles and lines. From these plans I see in my mind the clear perspex outer dome and the silver dish nestled inside, in its centre a ring of thick metal surrounding interconnected circuits and components. The screws are rusty and the dome’s scuffed.
“I’ve seen this before,” I say. Rayburn stops his pacing. Dust settles. “Pa built one of them. Before he … came here. It isn’t finished. With these,” I wave the schematics, “I can sort it.”
“And you’ve got it?” Rayburn asks, eyes gleaming and he looks about ready to feel me up as if it’s in my pockets. I take a hasty step back, hands out, wary-like.
“At home. L8.”
Rayburn slumps as if his world’s ended.
“Can’t we just get it?” Bryn moves into the room, avoiding the animatronics as if they’ll spring to life.
“Once you’re in Undercamp, there’re only two ways out,” Rayburn explains, then snorts in amusement. “Funnily enough they’re the same way. Up to you if you’re dead or not when you go into the chute. End result’s the same.” He winces and glances at me. “Sorry.”
I’m gutted. I send a querying tendril out to where Zipper used to be, a solid presence in the back of my mind, before realising I’m being a moody idiot. I sink my nails into my left palm until white half-moons decorate my skin. The pain gives me control.
“Why can’t you go back to the other levels?” Bryn asks. “You talk with that Bones guy, right?”
“Nope,” Rayburn says, popping the p. “No contact. He sends messages through the cargo dumps, but for all he knows we’ve all burnt up in furnaces or been crushed in compactors.”
“And he still sent us?” Bryn squeaks. I’m not feeling too flash-hot right now either.
“Bones’s a gambling man, I reckon. And it isn’t like he’s got anything to lose. Anyways, once you’re Evicted you’re deactivated in the systems.” He tap-taps the side of his ear where the identity chip was inserted on commission, before we were assigned parents. “And there’s no way up between us and them.”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“But, we weren’t deactivated,” Bryn says. Rayburn looks at me and I nod slow-like.
“By all kinds of chaos, you came here voluntarily? Are you wigging?”
“Possibly,” I smirk, rolling up the schematics. “We came looking for Jonas. He knew about my father and the Evictions.”
“Well,” Rayburn laughs, running a hand through his hair, “that changes everything.” He sticks his head out of the lab, looks both ways then yells, “Hey, Bonnie, come here a sec.”
“Wassup, boss?” a young girl drawls, her breather wedged up on her forehead.
“Rouse the Admin, will you? I don’t care if it’s their mealtime, tell them it’s urgent.”
The girl nod-bobs her head and dashes off.
“What’s going on?” Bryn asks as Rayburn ushers us out of the lab.
Rayburn reattaches the lock, its legs flex-twitching before gripping tight.
“We’ve been waiting a long time for a moment like this,” Rayburn says as he jogs at a steady clip, but with legs as long as his, every few steps we’ve got to run a few to catch up.
“Waiting for what?” Bryn prods.
“I’ll explain soon. Hurry up.”
I’m huff-puffing pretty quick but Bryn is in much better shape. Is she a runner? My arm is around my waist, trying to hold together my insides. The giant isn’t even sweating!
“But you’ll be able to get us home, right?” Bryn demands.
“We could sort something.” He tugs her elbow to steer her around a giggling child being chased by an older boy.
Bryn chews her lip, rolling her elbow out of his grip, even as she watches the kids weaving between a trolley and bundles of canvas.
“Good, I want to go home.” Bryn glances at the man. “No offense or anything, your camp is lovely and all, but I don’t belong here.”
“None of us do.” Rayburn’s face is strangely neutral-like in the uneven lighting. “Anyways, this way. LQ, that’s Living Quarters, is just ahead.”
Bryn looks so adrift I move close but when I try to link her arm through mine, she shakes me off. Bloody sky, she’s hard to read.
We turn a corner and step out into an open space, full of tables, bench chairs and even hammocks sway-swinging steadily with the thump-thomping engines. Rayburn’s crew’s hard to miss.
A central few tables of different heights are shoved together, crowded by a bunch in the same overalls as Rayburn’s. It’s got to be some kind of uniform for the snatchers. They’ve all got breathers hanging about their necks and matching dust lines across their cheeks and around their eyes. Elbows jab-jostle as they lean over a big round pot, its handle wrapped in a hideous pink tea towel, dipping flatbread into a chunky-thick soup.
“Flynn, just the guy I’m after,” Rayburn booms, and a man’s head pops up from the crowd with a who, me? expression. He’s the same guy from before, headphones slung around his neck. Flynn’s shorter than Rayburn, but I mean, who isn’t? Now, while I’d describe Rayburn as a giant, Flynn would be a swashbuckling pirate. His dark hair is long and unkempt and his scruffy beard only emphasises the slothfulness leaking from his pores. He’s shirtless and his overalls hang around his waist like limp extra limbs, the arms trailing on the ground all listless-like. Even how he stands is the picture of deliberate laziness as he flexes bare arms, interlocking his fingers behind his head and yawning wide. Bryn squeaks beside me, her face a mix of delight and horror. Rayburn notices, too. The man rubs his face with one hand, his thumb running a circle over a spot above his right eye as if he’s got a headache coming on before dropping his hand with an exasperated sigh, a fond shake of his head, and the tiniest bit of surrender.
“If you weren’t so glitching useful, I’d’ve tossed you overboard years back,” Rayburn says. Flynn shoves a large chunk of soupy bread in his mouth before striding over, clasping Rayburn’s arm in his own for a shake. It almost devolves into a wrestling match until … well, you know how I said no one’s taller than Rayburn? Wrong. Totally glitching wrong. A colossus, his hands the size of dinner plates and arms thick as tree trunks, steps in and easy separates the two, his skin dark as ink and his scalp-hugging hair an iridescent blue.
“What’s in the water here!” Bryn mutters, agog. A young woman, her mousy features sharp and her long hair plaited neat-like, snorts.
“Oh they were this big long before they got here. They’re genetic mutants, the both of them,” she states. “I’m Juni by the way.”
“I’m Greyson and this is Bryn.”
“It’s always good to see new faces,” she says, before our attention was drawn back to the others.
“Hey there, Boss, don’t go weasel skinning.” The colossus’ voice is sure softer than I’d imagined. “He’s good for morale.”
“As the camp’s jester!” Juni teases. Flynn attempts to take a bow but only manages an awkward bob due to the colossus’ hand wrapped around his nape.
“Right, thanks, Col,” Rayburn says, shaking off his own restraining hand. “Introductions, then,” Rayburn continues. “Bryn, Grey, these ugful mugs make up Section Eight, and were your Snatchers this fair morn.”
Bryn gives them a shy wave and I nod. It’s unnerving to realise this rough bunch were the only things saving us from a very messy death.
“Team, these are Bryn Morgan and Greyson Ward.”
“The professor’s kid?” An older man, in his late thirties at least, shouts.
“Yeah,” Rayburn says. “I’ve got you here cos …” he holds up his hands to stop the questions and, careful-like, signs as he speaks, so there’s no mistaken him. “Bryn and Grey are still Active.”
The silence’s eerie. If we were back up top I’d’ve assumed they were all messaging frantic-like to one another but no one even twitches. There’s a heaviness in the air. A restless waiting hidden beneath noise and movement, made only noticeable in the holding-breath quiet.
“Boss?” A voice interrupts from a corridor. The messenger girl from earlier is lingering, and Rayburn ushers her closer. “The Admin’s a grumbling but ready for you.”
“Ta, Bonnie.” He turns to us, his glee like a beacon. “Right, Flynn. I need you to get Bryn and Grey sorted.”
“Aww, why me Boss?”
“Why not you? I know you’ve the girls and lads in storage wrapped around your bitty finger.”
“A finger ain’t it,” mutters a lout near the back.
“It’s the bedroom eyes,” Flynn grins, fluttering long lashes.
“I don’t care how you glitching do it. They’ll need full suits, goggles, breathers, the lot.” He turns his smile on us. “It’s getting late, I’m sure you’re both ready for some coma time.” Rayburn looks into the soup pot and a string-bean of a man darts forward, mopping up the last of the soup with a piece of crust and lifts a brow, all challenge-like, at Rayburn. “Get them something to eat, too. My tab.”
At the word ‘tab’, Flynn straightens, sweeps a hand up in a mock salute and gestures us to follow.
Rayburn steps close, so Bryn can hear him clear, his hands still signing wide enough it’s like he’s yelling. “Trust Flynn. He’s good folk. Bit wiggy but aren’t we all?”
“You going to tell us about this plan of yours?” I ask, straightening so we’re standing not quite eye-to-eye, but pretty close. Rayburn’s lips twitch though I’m not sure if he’s about to laugh or frown. “Do we even have a choice?” I add.
“Course you do. There’s always a choice,” he says, but we both know that isn’t always true.
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