NUMB

Day One - Jet (pt. 1)

The Compound. It's kind of an eye sore, to be honest. I can see why the town below petitioned to have it painted. Although, the color they went with—a desaturated blue only a few shades away from being grey itself—doesn't really help much. I enter through the wall that surrounds the building. The wall, that thing is massive. Overkill if you ask me. It's gotta be at least sixty feet high, maybe more.

The Compound itself is six stories high, judging by how many rows of windows there are. It curves, the building making a sort of half circle shape. There's a chain-link fence connecting the two ends of the building, enclosing a good sized yard that has concrete instead of grass. I glance over my shoulder as the wall disappears from beside me. There's a cutout just above the gate I walk through where three big guys stand. There're guns on their belts and the guys themselves look like they could squash me like a bug. Above the cutout is another one that spans the length of the wall. A few more of the guards, Wardens, walk back and forth there.

This place looks more like a prison than an assisted living community in my opinion. In the month I've been here, I've still not gotten used to it. I'm technically supposed to come in through the gate on the East Wall, since that's where I'm usually posted, but it's easier to get to the North Wall from my house and it's not like it takes forever to walk the distance from the gate to where I need to be anyway.

Coming in from the north side means passing the courtyard. The section that's enclosed by the chain-link fence. There're always a few kids hanging around in the morning, or during their breaks between classes. All of them wear these uniforms that look like the kind inmates in a prison wear, except theirs are white.

Seriously. There's a pattern around here.

The kids shuffle around or just sit there, staring. There are some who talk to one another, but in hushed tones. Most of them look miserable. But that's not true, is it?

They call them Numb. People who can't feel anything, no external stimuli. I've also heard that they don't experience emotions. It's hard to imagine and sounds like something out of a sci-fi movie, but it's supposedly true. It's the reason I'm here in the first place.

I zone out, remembering the conversation with my best friend Seth that made me apply here in the first place. 

///

"Hey, do you know anything about that place up on the hill?" I asked as we sat on the back porch of his parent's house.

"What place?" Seth picked at a scab on his arm, a horrible habit he'd taken to recently.

I frowned at him. "The only place up on the hill? That Compound place. The one nobody really talks about."

Seth finally looked up at me, his eyes—which were always bored by default—narrowed in thought. "How am I supposed to know anything about the place if nobody talks about it, Jet?"

"I don't know. I just figured I'd ask."

Off came the scab, which he then proceeded to pull apart until it was in little pieces on the leg of his jeans.

"Do you think it's true that the people who live there can't feel anything at all? Like, is that even a real thing? People who are basically like robots?"

"I don't know, Jet. It's gotta be at least a little bit true if they've got an entire building full of them up there."

"Yeah, but why put them up in that building to begin with? Are they dangerous somehow? They're just people, right? Why separate them at all?"

"Dude, are you just gonna sit here and ask me a bunch of questions I'll never be able to answer?"

I looked over at him, at his arm where blood was sticking to his skin in place of the scab. "You're bleeding." He licked his thumb and pressed it against the cut. "I'm thinking about applying to work there. Y'know, see if I can find anything out about the people up there or something."

Seth stared at me for a while. The sun beat down on us, making beads of sweat form on his scalp and the back of my neck. After the minutes dragged on, he finally broke his gaze away from me and brushed the scab pieces off his pants. "You'll do it no matter what I say, so knock yourself out. Just don't go up there and do something stupid."

///

I rub at my eyes and then check the time. It's only eight AM. I've been up since three, here since three forty-five and I still have so long to go. The morning shifts are awful. Not only do you have to be up before the sun, but it's always chilly and we aren't allowed to wear jackets so we're stuck with the fog making everything damp and no relief from it. Even going in the break room doesn't help because it's just stuffy in there so you can only spend a few minutes at a time without feeling like your lungs are being filled with cotton instead of air.

Jackson—the one who trained me, who has been here for six months longer than I have—is prattling on about something that I lost track of twenty minutes ago. He's been oddly energetic today. I can't complain though. Him being so awake has made it easier for me to stay awake.

Beck, the guy I answer to, comes to see me during one of my ten minute breaks to tell me that I'm being trained for Compound Patrols—something I've been asking about for weeks now. I can hardly contain my excitement. He levels me with a look that gets me back under control.

"You'll start in the courtyard, with me, at three. Be there at two-fifty so we can get you in the gate and give you the rundown on the patrol before the Numb are let out for their free time."

My morning shift ends at noon, which gives me a couple of hours between then and when I need to report for C-P. I use the break to get something to eat in the cafeteria and then sit in my car to grab a quick nap.