Tom Isbell - The Prey

“Delousing,” the female guard explains in a flat monotone. She has a square block of a face that seems incapable of smiling. She throws two dresses at them: ill-fitting gray things. A pair of dirty combat boots finishes the ensemble. When the guard turns her back, Hope retrieves her father’s locket from her pants pocket and stuffs it in her boot. That and the scrap of paper.

The woman turns back around, brandishing a large pair of scissors, the blades nicked with rust.

“Don’t move,” she orders, “unless you want this through your eye.”

She snips the scissors twice, then seizes Hope’s hair. Watching her long strands of hair ribbon to the ground, it’s all Hope can do not to cry.

Live today, tears tomorrow.

When the woman finishes, she grabs a broom.

“Here,” she says, thrusting it in Hope’s hand. “Clean up your mess.”

Hope grits her teeth and does as commanded, but not before running a hand over her bald, patchy head. She feels as naked as a plucked bird. But it’s more than that; it’s almost as if—somehow—she’s lost a piece of herself. A piece of her mother.

A male guard with a jutting chin enters. In his hand dangles an odd-looking tool with a pointy end. His gaze lands on Faith.

“Right arm,” he commands.

When Faith doesn’t move, the Brown Shirt sighs noisily and yanks up Faith’s sleeve. He turns on the device, tattooing a number on the outside of her arm. Tears roll down Faith’s cheeks as F-738 is branded into her skin. The guard motions for Hope. She pulls up her sleeve without being told. Her skin prickles as F-739 is engraved.

F-738 and F-739—their new identities.

Photographs are snapped, and then the Brown Shirts usher them back outside to a tar-paper shack. On the front, painted in garish yellow, is a large letter B . A thick chain snakes between the door’s handle and a security bar. The guards open the lock and shove the twins inside.

“You’re in luck.” Jutting Chin smirks. “We have a vacancy.”

Once their eyes adjust to the gloom, Hope and Faith see a series of cots crammed too close together.

And girls. Around twenty or so, all approximately their age. Their expressions are openly hostile.

No one bothers to say anything. “I’m Hope. This is my sister, Faith.” No response. “We’re new.”

“No shit,” someone mutters.

Finally, one of the girls asks, “What happened to your hair?”

Hope runs a hand over her head, still not used to the stubbled absence. “They cut it off.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe ’cause I killed a Brown Shirt.”

If Hope thinks that will impress the others, she’s wrong. The girls don’t react at all. They just climb into their narrow cots and prepare for sleep.

“Come on,” Hope says to her sister. “Maybe they’ll be more talkative in the morning.” She leads Faith to two empty beds jammed into the corner.

“I meant what I said back there,” Faith says, her first words in hours. “About Dad wanting me to die.”

“No you didn’t,” Hope says.

She cleans her sister’s wound as best she can and helps her get ready for bed. They haven’t slept on anything resembling a mattress in ten years, and Hope can’t get comfortable. Only when she lies on the floor is she able to find a position that’s right.

Stretched out on raw, warped pine, she can’t get her mind off these girls. There’s something odd about them that Hope can’t put her finger on. Something deeply … disturbing.

CAT TOOK TWO OF us: Flush and me.

It was midafternoon when we exited the north side of camp. A couple of Brown Shirts watched us with mild interest; there were no fences at Camp Liberty, and in its twenty-year history, no one had bothered to escape. Where would you go?

After a thirty-minute climb, we veered west, heading up Skeleton Ridge. Finally, we came to a stop, lowered ourselves to the ground, and poked our heads above the ridge. Far below us lay a quiet valley: a meandering stream, dozens of scattered boulders.

“Why are we here again?” Flush asked. He was a few years younger, and not as patient as some of the others.

Cat just gave him a look. You’ll see.

An hour passed. Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, we heard the growl of an engine and watched as a faded red pickup truck rounded a far ridge. It came to a stop and two Brown Shirts emerged from the cab, each sporting rifles.

They made their way to the back of the pickup and unhitched the gate, revealing six LTs. One of the soldiers reached up and grabbed an LT by the back of his shirt and tossed him to the ground. We could hear the muffled thud as his body slammed against the earth.

I couldn’t believe it. Why would a Brown Shirt treat an LT that way? Then the soldier jumped up into the truck and began kicking the boys, yelling at them. Each time a boy tumbled to the ground, the soldiers laughed. I wondered why the LTs didn’t fight back—until I saw their bound wrists.

Cat fished a pair of binoculars out of his pack and handed them to me. I adjusted the focus … and nearly lost my breath.

I recognized the LTs. They were a year older than me and had gone through the Rite the month before. One I knew very well: Cannon. The athlete we all wanted to be. And here he was, wrists lashed together, pleading with the soldiers. One of them sent a boot into his ribs. We heard the crack from a quarter mile away.

“I don’t understand,” I mouthed.

“Just watch,” Cat said.

Once all six LTs were on the ground, the pickup driver whipped out a large knife and cut the ties that bound Cannon’s wrists. Cannon rubbed his wrists gratefully.

The soldiers got back in the pickup and drove off.

“What’s going on?” Flush asked. “Is it like a test? Do they have so much time to get back to camp or something?”

Cat barely acknowledged us.

When Cannon untied the other LTs’ ropes, they scrambled to their feet and began to run. In the quiet of the early evening I could nearly hear the whisper of their legs parting grass …

… soon drowned out by the whine of motors. From the same bend where the truck had exited, four ATVs appeared. I’d seen four-wheelers around camp, but these were different. These had been outfitted with metal plates so they resembled some unearthly cross between military machine and triceratops. While the man in the lead wore an orange vest, the others were clad entirely in camo, dressed like it was hunting season.

Which, in a sense, it was.

Slung on their arms were black assault rifles. But somehow different from the M16s the Brown Shirts sported back at camp. Cat read my thoughts.

“M4s,” he explained, “can do everything an M16 can, but with shorter barrels and stocks.”

The Man in Orange stopped, shut his engine down to an idle, and waved a Be my guest gesture. One of the other three took off, exhaust trailing from his ATV. He stopped when he was within a hundred yards of the LTs, whipped up his rifle, and fired. A tendril of smoke plumed from the barrel.

One of the boys stumbled forward, arms flailing. I squeezed the binoculars until my knuckles shone white. But something was missing.