Ty, a shift manager with an alcoholic wife, creates a female replicant in a dystopia veering toward full mechanization. For Ty, the surreal drudgery of working in a retail environment is interrupted when robotic interfaces are installed at his job...
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The three bed sheets made for a fantastic rope.
Sam tied it to a thick, copper pipe running alongside the attic wall. Then she waited until after the house settled below before carefully opening the window.
If this was only a neighborhood, it would be easy to get out. She wasn't going to be part of whatever was happening behind the closed doors downstairs.
The air carried a sweet, clean scent. A velvet curtain had painted over the sky, strewn with stars and white streaks of clouds.
A beautiful night for an escape.
With a decisive nod, she crawled through the opening onto the stone ledge. It felt less-than-sturdy, so she hurriedly hugged the flimsy rope to start her awkward descent.
One hand down, one foot down.
Sam's mind flashed to every movie plot featuring a stupid scene like the one she'd put herself in. Don't look down, or something to that effect. Yet, she couldn't stop herself from glancing at the ground. Vertigo hit her, and she closed her eyes, clinging to the sheets.
The ground, the unforgiving cement front-door stoop, was so damn far away. She forced herself to peek one more time, already knowing the truth.
The makeshift rope was not nearly long enough. Even if she mustered up the balls to reach the end of it, there'd still be at least a six-foot gap for her to clear. Sam didn't fancy limping away to freedom.
For a few awful moments, she hung, deciding if the fall would be worth it or not.
Briefly, she bit into the sheet to release a muted but guttural scream.
She began the hard work of placing one hand up, and one foot up.
~*~
A stranger visited Sam the next morning.
She had tossed and turned in the bed, partially because the old mattress sunk in the middle, and partially because she hated herself for not trying harder to leave.
A knock on the door shot her out of the musty bed. She checked the pipe, unsure if she had righted the sheets. She had.
The bedroom door opened, a pasty and pudgy man smiling at her in the doorway.
"Morning," he softy intoned, like they knew each other.
His look, much like his voice, unsettled her.
Trying not to show her discomfort, Sam offered a curt nod in response.
Without closing the door, the man introduced himself as the caretaker of the compound.
"Did you like the basement?"
A regular Ritz Carlton, she had to stop herself from retorting.
Instead, she just shrugged.
"Now that we know you're agreeable, you can start earning your way out of here."
He explained how new "guests" were first kept in the basement, and if they proved calm, could move upstairs to work with the other guests.
"What kind of work?" Sam sat on the edge of the bed, not looking at the still smiling caretaker.
"For your country," was all he said.
The subtext seemed clear.
"What if I refuse?"
"If you refuse, you'll return to the basement. If you're continually, difficult," he smacked his lips, "you'll be transferred."
Sam could only imagine the next type of compound she'd be sent to, and was loathe to find out what could be worse than this.
"If you try to escape, Helia will be locked up here with you."
At the name, Sam's head snapped up. She felt like the caretaker had punched her in the gut. Had they seen her failed attempt?
