As You Were

Prologue

I figeted in my chair, staring at the clock. In 10 minutes, the Cleaning will be finished. I just need to survive for ten minutes. As long as they haven't figured out my real mother's parenthood, I'll be safe. Nine minutes passed, and I almost breathed a sigh of relief. Then the door flew open.




"We need Abigail Wood." The man demanded. I tried to pretend that they hadn't just said my name. But everybody stared at me, giving me away. Of course. There's a death penalty for hiding someone like us. Someone like me. I stood, trembling. I was lucky. This was the last Cleaning, I'd survived 6 months. I looked around, making eye contact with everybody there. I wished I'd seen something in their eyes, even if it'd just been sorrow. But all I saw was repulsion. I was different, and therefore hated. And that hatred I saw in their eyes was the only thing that accompanied me out of the building. I was met by about three other girls and one boy at the outside. I noted that I was the oldest there, something the soldiers picked up on as well.




"You're going to get into the trailer. No muss, no fuss. You're going to follow our orders to the letter. Set an example." One soldier ordered me, and I felt something cold and metal touch the back of my neck, and it took me most of my resolve to not flinch. It was one of those things that you know what it was without ever having felt before. It was a gun. I nodded, fearing what would come out of my mouth, that if I opened it, I would cry.




"You say, 'yes sir'." Another soldier told me.




"Yes sir." I said softly.




"Better. Now move!" The first soldier barked.




"Yes sir." I whispered, then boarded the trailer. It was an old horse trailer, but someone'd laid fresh hay, as if that was all we were to them, just animals. The other four came in as well, and I got a good look at them. Two of the girls were in the grade below me, and a third was in eighth grade. But it was the boy who caught my attention. He was barely sixth grade, and they were hauling him off like he was a criminal.




"What's going on? What are they going to do to us?" One girl asked. I took stock of her. Eighth grade, straightened bleach-blonde hair, but scared.




"I don't know." I lied. I had a sinking suspicion in my stomach. They could do so much to us and no one would care. Rape, labor camps, torture, even executions. I can't tell them. So I stayed still as they closed us in.




"Who are you?" The boy asked.




"Names don't matter where we're going." I told him.