Steven dos Santos - The Sowing

My kneecaps feel like they’re about to pop from resting on them so long. “I’m sorry.”

Leander plops the mop into the bucket. “You will be, Sparkles.”

I grimace. “You do realize none of us are getting out of this alive—”

“Shut up!” He bangs the bucket against me, spilling a clump of gore on the floor with a loud plunk. “Everything out of your traitor mouth is a dirty lie!”

He shoves me aside and squats with the brush. It squeaks against the floor, reminding me of the sound of rodents.

It’s no use trying to explain anything to him. He’s too blind and brainwashed to understand. I’m just about to turn away when I notice that he’s scrawling something with his index finger in the grayish matter under the bucket’s shadow.

I crane my neck.

U were right

At first I think I must be seeing things. But one look at Leander and I can see this is no joke. His finger dips into the bloody sludge again.

They killed him, gonna kill us

His eyes pierce me, then dart to the ceiling just outside.

I follow his gaze.

Of course. There are cameras surveilling us, equipped with audio, not to mention an Imposer sentry making her rounds.

His eyes flash back to mine and he scrubs the message away. “You’ll say anything to place the blame on everyone else but your rebel self!” He brings the brush back to the bucket, wrings it again, then continues to polish.

Now it’s my turn to communicate with him. What if it’s a trap? Should I risk it? Then again, what choice do I really have? I’m going to need help to get out of here.

I slosh some of the filthy liquid onto the floor and scrawl my own message.

We have 2 work together

“You’re only getting what you deserve,” I grunt, turning away from him.

“You can’t even look me in the eyes, can you, coward?” His dripping finger scribbles another message.

What’s ur plan?

After he’s sure I’ve seen it, he scrubs it away again.

I fake a yawn. “I’d rather look at this mess than filth like you.” I make a show of scrubbing harder, then I squiggle another note.

Vent shaft in my cell after dark. Access to compound. Need tools.

This time he’s the one to wipe it away after reading it.

“Yeah,” he snickers. “Take a good look at this mess, Sparkles. Before the end of the day you’re gonna look even worse. That’s a promise.”

He doodles another message.

Already on it

His hand digs into a pocket in his pant leg and he slips something from it into his brush, continuing to scrub. His nod is almost imperceptible.

As I scrub, our hands brush against each other and we swap brushes.

Then I lean back and sit up, stretching for show again, and flip the brush over behind the bucket to get a better look.

Embedded into the brush’s bristles is a rolled-up piece of torn fabric. I pluck it out and unfurl it.

It’s a bone fragment about three inches long, jagged at both ends. Leander was probably thinking about using it as a weapon. It just might work to pry open that vent. I shudder. I can’t tell if it belonged to Rodrigo or Mrs. Grimstone. No matter. Either way, something good may come of their gruesome deaths.

I tuck the bone into the lining of my waistband, hoping they won’t search us before taking us back to our cells.

Leander scrawls another message.

Don’t worry. Will get D and A on board. No one messes with our squad.

I nod.

“What’s going on here?” Slade’s voice startles me.

“We were just finishing up, Sir,” Leander responds.

“Stand up, both of you,” she hisses in reply.

We exchange a look and climb to our feet—

That last message is still on the floor.

Slade’s eyes inspect the cell. “Hmmm. Not bad. Looks like you two deadbeats might be of some use after all.” Her gaze digs into me. “What’s the matter, Spark? You look ill. I’d have thought you’d be over your squeamishness by now.”

“No, Sir,” I squeeze out.

“What are you hiding behind that bucket?”

Leander’s face turns red.

“Nothing, Sir.” I feel my throat tighten up.

Slade takes a step toward us. “Out of the way!”

Just before she reaches us, I move, banging my foot against the bucket. It teeters and splatters the floor. Slade pushes past me and I turn. Most of the message is erased—except for the last word, which Leander quickly steps on and smudges away.

She stares at the slimy puddle a moment, then shoves us away. “Incompetents, both of you. Ensign! Get them out of here.” A jittery soldier just a few years our senior appears and escorts us back to our cells.

As soon as he’s gone, I pull the bone fragment from its hiding place and run the tip of my finger against its sharp, jagged edge.

We won’t be here much longer, one way or another.

I barely have time to wedge the bone into a corner crack in my cell when the others are herded back through the cell block at gunpoint by Styles and Renquist.

“We haven’t got all day!” Renquist barks.

The six of them look as bad as I feel. Dark hammocks cradle bloodshot eyes. Their skin is mired in gruesome muck.

As they pass me, both Dahlia and Arrah make eye contact with Leander and me, a mixture of confusion and resentment. They’re probably wondering why we were separated from the rest. At least the two of them look like they’re keeping it together, still holding their heads high.

That’s more than I can say for the rest of the Incentives.

Styles waves his weapon at me and Leander, who’s also standing at the threshold of his cell, across from me. “You two! Get your asses in line with the rest of ’em!”

Leander and I join the formation. Soon we’re trailing through the familiar maze like rats until we reach the showers.

“Strip!” Renquist orders.

No one says anything as we slip out of our clothes. Exhaustion is much more potent than modesty.

Styles lets out a sinewy whistle. He sidles up to Dahlia and tugs at the torn shirt draped over her bare shoulder. “Need any help with that?” he snickers.

She gives him a look that could cut and cauterize and turns away, flinging her clothes at his boots.

His walkie crackles to life. Get the Incentives prepped and over to the tanks, stat!

Cassius’s voice.

Tanks ? What is he planning on doing to us now?

Before we can head under the shower heads, Renquist steps forward holding a hose, which uncoils behind him like a monstrous serpent. He’s grinning. “Sorry, folks. Haven’t got time for anything else.”

Styles lets out a whoop as if it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard and spins the valve on the wall. They hose us down.

After what seems like forever, the onslaught stops and we’re left naked and freezing, hugging our bodies, the chamber echoing with chattering teeth and rapid breaths.

“Let’s go!” Styles snarls. He leads the way while Renquist follows behind. From somewhere ahead I can hear the soft sounds of sobbing, but I’m not sure who it’s coming from.

As the passageway veers into a new direction, I again concentrate on memorizing it, the number of steps, every turn, every grate. The corridor finally opens into a large room with gangways crisscrossing pools of black water, almost like the hangar bay the Eel docked in when we arrived.

Instead of submarines, however, dark sacks hang from the ceiling by cables. They’re like chunks of meat hanging in a butchery, except they’re vaguely formed into the shape of a human body. I swallow past the knot in my throat.