Lyle was not happy about the burn. Him and Gita tore into each other for days, until they went through everything from money to Gita’s dead family.

Dally couldn’t care. The fight was hard to sit through, ringing in his ears along with the permanent fever-ache. But, fighting didn’t fix it. In a week the burn turned purple, then black, wet and soft. It hurt. Of course he knew it would, but it was somehow always still surpising how much it hurt. He tried to only cry at night, when the others were asleep. And, since he was already awake, he had plenty of time to make plans.

First things first, though: each night after falling in his bunk, Dally had struggle through a feverish fantasy about going stray. The forest was dark and wild, and soon Jona would send him into it again, chasing after deer. All Dally had to do was... keep running. He would eat boar and fish and wild fruit, and sing on his own, and never change back to his pathetic home form for the rest of his life. He could lie down in the snow, and let it suck the fever heat right out of him.

It was just a dumb dream. Maybe some other thrall could do that; live in the woods, hunting the beautiful deers until spring. Then the woods would thaw, and the Department of Logistics and Assets would catch up with them. That other thrall could end up in a camp, or get sold back to one of the corporations in a reclamation lot. At least somewhere not-here.

That wasn’t what would happen to Dally, though. When the Deps caught Dally he would end up back here, because he was loved. And when Lyle got him back, Dally would never get another chance to run. His first try had to work. No more mistakes.

What else was there, though? He could bribe Hannock, maybe. With cigarettes he didn’t have. To do a job-ending, illegal favour. Okay. He could... steal a car...?

When Dally’s burn was finally turning to pink scars, twelve of the thralls were told to carry their blankets and spare uniforms to a barn across a field from the house. Dally went with them, and Red. Frost crunched under their boots as they walked, in silence. She still wasn’t talking to him, and he kept choking on the apology he owed her.

Lane wasn’t in the small group, which felt weird, somehow. Then Dally thought a little more, and looked around at the near-human faces of the others. All of them were pretty, and young. If there were any extra parts cut off it wasn’t obvious. Walking across a muddy field to a barn for unknown reasons didn’t even bother them; they knew they were valuable.

The Requisition was coming, Dally realised, suddenly. That was it. This group here was the keepers. He rubbed hard at his chest through his shirt, feeling a fresh ache in the burn. After everything, Lane wasn’t even good enough to keep?

“We should have said goodbye,” he said.

Red glanced at him, sidelong. “We did? I said ‘see you later, jerks.”

“I mean for real.”

For a second it looked like she’d ask, then she glared and kicked at a clod of frozen dirt.

The barn was a crumbling cave of rotten oak, with stalls that were probably meant for horses. With the doors closed the only light came from holes in the roof, and fell in bright shafts full of dust. In the dark the others poked around, finding a mummified cat and a bucket they could melt snow in, and throwing clumps of dirty hay at each other. The whole time they giggled, swapping bits of joke songs. They didn’t know why they were here, but this was the most interesting thing that had happened in months. It still surprised Dally how sheltered these manor house thralls were; where Dally grew up no one could be relaxed about getting sent away to a barn. He himself was quiet, not willing to ruin it for them. There was a vague idea prickling at the back of his skull.

The plan was so obvious he felt dumb as soon as he thought it. He was spreading the blanket on a damp mound of hay when he paused, staring at nothing. Dally didn’t need to run off, he needed to get himself Requisitioned.

He ran a hand back through his hair, swaying in place. Yeah. They would take him all the way to the South Front, where the songs came from; where there were, maybe, a few hundred thralls for every human. And Dally had already killed Seth Greenlees, right? That couldn’t be un-done. It was like Jona said; Dally was a kind of animal, made for war.

Except he was one of the keepers.

After a while he went back to the doors, and opened them just enough to stare across at the manor house. The field in between was mostly mud and wet snow, stretching barely a mile. Okay. All he had to do was wait till the Deps rolled up, and then he could sprint right across that field and fall in their lap. No one would have time to stop him. Just run across the field.

Dally flopped on his back to turn the plan over, feeling it swell up to fill the hollow space in his gut. It was simple enough to work. Not like the thing with Gita.

“You look happy,” Red said, after a while. For no reason, she had angrily piled her blankets in stall right next to his.

Dally forced a smile, panicking. He couldn’t tell her; Red couldn’t lie to save her life.

“Guess crappy barns remind me of home,” he said.

Hours passed in the mouldy dark. By midday Dally had paced the whole barn probably a hundred times, finding nothing but rusted tools and owl pellets. He rocked on his heels, then paced again. The others were singing louder, with only a little edge of nerves underneath. He opened the barn doors, closed them again when someone hissed at him. Right; Hannock had told them to stay here. Fine.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

With enough digging he found a thin crack in the wall, so he wouldn’t have to open the doors. If he pressed his face to the damp wood he could watch the sway of the trees around the house, and the empty driveway.

No one came. After a while Red tore open one of the food sacks with her teeth, and they all dug out fists full of dry biscuit. There was a bit of complaining; this batch wasn’t even red anymore, more like pink-grey. For sure less meat in there than usual. By the time night fell, even the others had stopped singing.

“The hell is going on?” Kit finally asked. “Where are the others?”

“Dally knows,” said Red, suddenly.

“What?” Kit said.

Dally froze, as all eyes turned on him. “I don’t know for sure,” he stammered.

“C’mon, Harper.”

Shit.

“...I think it’s a requisition. I think boss is hiding us.”

That did it. All of them started asking questions at once, and someone kicked over the bucket of melting snow as they stood. One of the youngest, Nesette, started crying as they backed out of the puddle.

When were the deps coming? someone asked, and why now? Was every thrall in Wesend going? How many? Where?

“I don’t know,” Dally kept saying.

“The hell? Why didn’t you tell us?”

Dally didn’t know that either. “I- I should have.”

“They’re all gone!”

They weren’t, though. Not yet. The gravel on the drive turned blue-gray in the dusk, still perfectly raked. After a while the group broke up into smaller huddles against the cold, pressed in nooks to whisper to each other. Dally huddled too, with his arms crossed across his chest. His stomach kept churning. He should have told them, yeah. Why hadn’t he? Just because he didn’t want to talk about anything. And he was the one that should go - the others all liked it here. And, though he kept looking through the crack in the wall, the Department didn’t come.

Okay. He was going to stay awake, and be ready.

Three days later, they ran out of food. Hannock had been visiting once a day, and took this news with the same bland snort as everything else they complained about. Finally he waved that a couple of the thrall should go with him to the house. The two came back in an hour with sacks on their shoulders and wide eyes.

“They moved most of the bunks,” Kit said, “like we never even lived there.”

“How are the others?” Dally asked, “Hey, how’s Lane?”

“Hm?” She glanced down in confusion at Dally’s collar, where the burn rose above his shirt. Their fight hadn’t exactly been a secret. “Fine, I think. I only saw him from far off.”

Dally mumbled his thanks, and walked away rubbing his eyes. He was too tired for more pacing, now. Maybe this was all a false alarm, anyway? Maybe Lyle had stopped them from even getting inspected. Dally leant against the wall of Nesette’s stall, and after enough needling got them to start a game of serbat. At least Dally’s rhymes were bad enough to make them giggle.

At some point he must have fallen asleep, because he flailed awake with excited whispering all around him in the dark. There was a far away drag-skitter of big machines.

“Is it the Deps?” Red asked.

Cursing, Dally tripped and stumbled to the crack in the wall. Outside was mist and moonlight. There were lights moving along the drive, hot lamplight gleaming on the fog and the chitin legs of haulers. They were moving away from the house. Dally was missing them.

He had to push past the others to reach the doors, but when he got there he couldn’t open them. Chain rattled on the other side as he yanked, kicked.

“Don’t,” Red hissed.

“They’re gone,” someone said.

Dally was already changing shape. His clawed fingers gouged into the gaps in the door. As he wrenched at it he snarled, feet clawing trenches in the dirt. Something cracked, the sound a crisp echo in the dark.

Red’s hand fell on his shoulder. “Stop,” she said, “Dally, stop -“

He shook her off, baring sharp teeth. “I’m going with them.” Another crunch, a long splinter came away in his hand.

He didn’t see Kit coming, until her arms locked around him. In a hard yank she dragged him off the door, long enough for Red to get a hold on his free arm. The two of them tore him away, howling and struggling. His own breath rasped in his head, drowning out the silence where there had been the sound of the haulers.

“You’ll go to the back room again,” Kit said, harsh. “You’ll take us with you.”

Kit was right, but it took a while for Dally’s body to slow down. Finally he slumped, breathing hard against Red’s arm. He squeezed his eyes shut. The two of them let him go, slowly, pushing him to sit on an upturned trough. Red thumped down next to him, the tin buckling under their weight. He could only see the others in thin shafts of moonlight, but felt them watching him.

“I’m sorry,” Dally whispered, to Red’s blank shadow. “about the rat.”

She snorted. “You know I would have just given it to you, if you asked polite.”

“I know.”

Eventually she slid to lean against his side. “Don’t worry about it.”