Some Of Us - A Teen Dystopian Novel

{2} The World Is Flat

This chapter is dedicated to AllHaveWeakness as part of their campaign to show that everyone has both strengths and flaws - even heroic characters. I feel like Richard fits that bill perfectly (as you'll see the more you read!) so I'm supporting the campaign. Are you?

Read on for more from SOU - and don't forget to vote and comment if you like what you see - Ink

The world is flat. You don't believe me, do you? Okay so, we have science proving otherwise. Since the Earth is rotating (and I'd refer you to the Foucault Pendulum experiment of 1851 if you're having trouble with that) we can see that the consistent oval shadow our world produces against the moon in each and every lunar eclipse proves that we are not only round but spherical. Utterly and completely, without a doubt, not flat. 

Forgive me, I'm rambling I know but there is a point to all this.

Definitely round huh?

And yet here I am telling you that the world is flat. Well, that, my dear reader, would be because, as you may have noticed by now, my own world has been greatly diminished - not planet Earth, not New Britain, nor even a segment of it. My world consists only of this H.M.T. Penitentiary in the green rolling hills of Wiltshire. It is akin to the world of a fish in a bowl or an animal at the zoo. In my particular case, the world really is flat. 

Today, I stand in the back corner of the guard's common room, the room they call the Hub. Strictly speaking, I am not supposed to be here. You have no idea how many months it took to gain enough trust to worm my way in. Luckily for me, everyone loves a gangly nerd who can fix their computer for them or unfreeze the screen in the middle of that all-important sports game. And I've never caused any trouble for them, so why the heck not make use of my services?

No, I'm not supposed to be here. But there was no way in hell I was going back to the prisoner's daytime room after yesterday's fiasco. My face is still sore, beginning to feel swollen and puffy but that's okay. It serves as a nice reminder to keep my head down low for a while, at least until Daniel 'Fingers' Alexander has forgotten that I still owe him. 

I lean against a wall, arms folded across my chest. I brush a grimy lock of black hair out of my eyes, the better to see this bustling space. The Hub is nothing if not aptly named. Here it is the centre of activity: everywhere you look there are glittering screens. Fuck privacy. If you're one of the livestock here, you get used to 24/7 surveillance pretty damn fast. Even now my own blue eyes glare back at the world out of one of the screens mounted on the control desk. Somewhere a camera is picking me up to produce that feed.

Only the stubborn try to avoid the cameras. Leroy Jones, my only true friend in this place, is one of those stubborn ones. But it's always wiser to spend your energy in other ways. If you want to live without pain that is, and I do. God damn me, I do.

It isn't as high on security here as most prisons. We don't have Pathfinder soldiers for guards and for that I thank God. But it can lead to trouble when you're housing humanity's most hardened criminals under one roof. Nobody here has anything left to lose after all. Not their freedom and, soon, not their lives.

In the Hub, they are not just the centre of activity for monitoring the lives of the inmates. The place is also a mesh of quietly humming machinery and flickering screens. Radios spin out their incessant chatter and cheer, telling the guards of what they are missing back home.

"The royal press team is continuing to respond with a statement of 'No Comment' to questions on the rising concern for the continuing absence of Prince Jacoby from public affairs these past few months. His father - Our King and Saviour - has been more active than ever to ensure or safety in light of this, but rumours abound that the Prince has gone missing, perhaps fallen into the hands of his enemies..."

But at least the guards get to go home at the end of the shift. Here in the fish bowl, my world is flat remember? This is what I am condemned to miss out on until my life hits an abrupt end in the slaughterhouse at the ripe old age of forty.

Trust me, I'm not happy about it either.

"And now an update on the attacks that have been afflicting the capital this week: three injured in the latest. The terrorist group calling themselves the Colourless Soldiers today claimed responsibility for the attacks. In a statement, it was claimed that the attacks were instigated as a direct response to the H.M.T. program. They are also warning that they will continue until the trade in human meat is shut down. The Minister for Public Defence had this to say..."

Well, at least someone is on my side even if that someone does think it's cool to blow up innocent civilians with no say in the matter. Not that their petty political terrorism will make any real difference in the end. With the population hitting eleven billion at the end of last year and continuing to rise at a staggering rate there are limited resources and limited options when it comes to food. One solution was the arrival of U.V. Farms - great underground caverns where food is grown under artificial conditions. It was both a space saver leaving previous farmland to be developed and a way to put food in mouths. But the H.M.T. Foundation also kills two birds with one stone you see: killing off prisoners means less mouths to feed, killing them for food means more food. Less mouths, more food. It's the only real solution. Even I can see that despite my current predicament.

"The New British Society and the government which stands for it will not allow fear-mongers to control us. The values of the H.M.T. Foundation lie at the heart of our own values: to punish criminals, to feed our people, to boost our economy. We will not allow anyone to threaten them or the safety of the people without due cause. And these people calling themselves the C.S. do not have due cause. The small-time scale and sheer cowardice of their attacks prove this. When they can show us their faces and offer evidence as to the harmful effects on society of the H.M.T. program then we can do business with them. But we will not do business with terrorists.

"He further went on to say that the medical bills of those injured in the attacks would be personally covered by the New British Government as a sign of compassion and teamship in these trying times."

A harsh cry breaks through that snarled voice on the radio. Every head in the place snaps around to face the windows at the back. But there's nothing to see: whoever the screamer is, sounds like they're in the next barn over at least. The guards mutter amongst themselves; a couple even stand with their hands on the Stunners at their hips. I catch all this within my gaze in an instant and then I'm off and running in the direction of the scream.

The corridors are dim and dingy with cracked floors and scratched walls. In places, the floor glistens wetly from the dirt and damp of the constant passage of booted feet. Flickering LED bulbs provide occasional rectangles of light on the grimy floor. Some of them illuminate nothing: they have gone dark and the cobwebs sprouting in their corners tell me they may be dark for some time. Here the walls are formed of soot-stained brick. Elsewhere in the prison, the walls are nothing but black iron bars leading into cells. Above, rickety gangways lead onto more cells.

Booted feet pound along behind me. Say what you will about the guards but even they know that their job security would be at risk if one of the inmates was to die a preventable death. No one wants an inquiry, not while groups like the C.S. are in public wide view. It wouldn't be good for their image.

Even so, it is me who first reaches the doors leading to the yard outside. A familiar figure sits in the control bubble for the door switch. His name is Corrections Officer Tony Carpenter and to be honest, he's kind of an asshole. Right now he sits, a tablet in his hand. He holds it the way you see old-fashioned photographs of people reading newspapers.

"Where on God's green Earth do you think you are going in such a hurry inmate?"