FOLLOW THE LEADER
by Wendy Scott
by Wendy Scott
Darkness swallowed dormitory B49. The lights had been extinguished an hour before at 8 pm. Stevie listened for the rhythmic breathing from the cots, aligned with military precision, one metre apart. Twenty beds, divided into two rows, sat on opposite sides of a red painted aisle. Identical grey bedding topped each hard mattress. The sheets were starched so stiff they were difficult to tuck under the corners, and the pillow was as unyielding as set concrete, but its worst feature was the coarseness of the blanket's weave that threatened splinters.
Controlling his breathing into an even flow, he opened his thoughts to the ones forbidden by the masters. Silently, he recited his litany of self, as he had every night for the past five years.
"I am more than the number B49-17.
My name is Stevie Robinson, my birthday is the 11th March, and I'm 12 years old.
My father's name is Mark.
My mother's name is Katie.
My sister's name is Jenny.
My family existed.
I vow to always remember our life together before the invasion."
Tears gathered, but he was careful not to snuffle aloud. The cameras and microphones embedded in the walls monitored any transgressions every minute of every day.
Further, up the row, bed springs creaked as B49-3 tossed in his sleep, deep in the throes of another recurring nightmare. The silence shattered. His roommate screeched into the blackness, "Mama!"
Heart palpitating, Stevie squeezed his eyes closed, stilled his body, and faked sleep. Moments later, boots thundered into the dormitory, followed by scuffling sounds as the offending boy was dragged out his bed and marched away. The doors crashed shut, muffling the boy's protests. Stevie had witnessed numerous night raids, so he knew to remain frozen.
A torch button snapped on, then measured boot steps resonated on the wooden floor boards. Three paces. A pause. Stevie imagined the torchlight scanning over the statue-like faces. A few paces at a time the master inspected the dormitory until he halted by Stevie's cot. The smell of leather polish ripened the air. Stevie focused on breathing. In and out. In and out. No twitches. Feigning sleep. Early into his captivity he'd learned the harsh consequences of non-conformity.
Finally, the boots trod away. Before he exited the master intoned, "The Leader watches over you all."
Controlling his breathing into an even flow, he opened his thoughts to the ones forbidden by the masters. Silently, he recited his litany of self, as he had every night for the past five years.
"I am more than the number B49-17.
My name is Stevie Robinson, my birthday is the 11th March, and I'm 12 years old.
My father's name is Mark.
My mother's name is Katie.
My sister's name is Jenny.
My family existed.
I vow to always remember our life together before the invasion."
Tears gathered, but he was careful not to snuffle aloud. The cameras and microphones embedded in the walls monitored any transgressions every minute of every day.
Further, up the row, bed springs creaked as B49-3 tossed in his sleep, deep in the throes of another recurring nightmare. The silence shattered. His roommate screeched into the blackness, "Mama!"
Heart palpitating, Stevie squeezed his eyes closed, stilled his body, and faked sleep. Moments later, boots thundered into the dormitory, followed by scuffling sounds as the offending boy was dragged out his bed and marched away. The doors crashed shut, muffling the boy's protests. Stevie had witnessed numerous night raids, so he knew to remain frozen.
A torch button snapped on, then measured boot steps resonated on the wooden floor boards. Three paces. A pause. Stevie imagined the torchlight scanning over the statue-like faces. A few paces at a time the master inspected the dormitory until he halted by Stevie's cot. The smell of leather polish ripened the air. Stevie focused on breathing. In and out. In and out. No twitches. Feigning sleep. Early into his captivity he'd learned the harsh consequences of non-conformity.
Finally, the boots trod away. Before he exited the master intoned, "The Leader watches over you all."
***
Clad in identical uniforms, the boys from B49 trooped into the instruction room, their orderly line pausing as each boy bowed before saluting the oversized portrait of the Leader. A shadow of crew cut hair, a creased forehead, lips thinned into a disapproving line, and demon eyes bored out of the frame as if tracking each boy's movements. The identical image dominated the boys' access zones: the dormitory, the canteen, the corridors, and the ablution's block. The Leader's face had become more familiar than Stevie's own. It had been five years since he'd seen his reflection in a mirror.
Without a murmur the boys filed to their designated desk and stood beside their seat. Stevie glanced at the empty space allotted to B49-3. A sickly sensation puckered in his stomach but it wasn't due to the beige mash the servers had dished up for breakfast. Years ago, his taste buds had withered away as he learned to chew the gluey texture for its sustenance value. Refusal to eat resulted in ejection, and reassignment to the intensive reprogramming wing. For boys who cried out in the night, the punishment was the same. None ever returned, and within days a different boy would be slotted into their place, and assigned their numerical identification. The Leader’s message clearly delivered. They were expendable cogs in the Leader's war machine, merely insignificant numbers. Individuals didn't exist.
Head straight, eyes forward, Stevie snapped to attention as the master strode into the room. "Be seated."
Chairs scraped across the floor boards in synchronised motion. The master's laser gaze scanned above the boys' heads. "It seems a reminder is necessary. Our lesson will focus on our basic principles until the Leader is satisfied that B49 understands their function."
Lies. Propaganda. Brain-washing. A turmoil of thoughts swirled through Stevie's brain, but he kept his expression bland and his body language submissive.
Do. Not. Attract. Attention.
The master picked up a cane and whacked it against a board, directing the group's focus to the three sentences printed in regulation white chalk.
"Recite together." He traced the written words with the tip of his cane.
Obedience—Leader knows best.
Conformity—Leader made everyone equal.
Conception—Leader created each of us for his divine purpose.
The taps acted as a metronome commanding repetition until their voices sounded like they'd gargled gravel.
"Halt." The master consulted the clock on the back wall. "Proceed outside for drill instruction. Convene back here in one hour. The Leader watches over you all."
Without a murmur the boys filed to their designated desk and stood beside their seat. Stevie glanced at the empty space allotted to B49-3. A sickly sensation puckered in his stomach but it wasn't due to the beige mash the servers had dished up for breakfast. Years ago, his taste buds had withered away as he learned to chew the gluey texture for its sustenance value. Refusal to eat resulted in ejection, and reassignment to the intensive reprogramming wing. For boys who cried out in the night, the punishment was the same. None ever returned, and within days a different boy would be slotted into their place, and assigned their numerical identification. The Leader’s message clearly delivered. They were expendable cogs in the Leader's war machine, merely insignificant numbers. Individuals didn't exist.
Head straight, eyes forward, Stevie snapped to attention as the master strode into the room. "Be seated."
Chairs scraped across the floor boards in synchronised motion. The master's laser gaze scanned above the boys' heads. "It seems a reminder is necessary. Our lesson will focus on our basic principles until the Leader is satisfied that B49 understands their function."
Lies. Propaganda. Brain-washing. A turmoil of thoughts swirled through Stevie's brain, but he kept his expression bland and his body language submissive.
Do. Not. Attract. Attention.
The master picked up a cane and whacked it against a board, directing the group's focus to the three sentences printed in regulation white chalk.
"Recite together." He traced the written words with the tip of his cane.
Obedience—Leader knows best.
Conformity—Leader made everyone equal.
Conception—Leader created each of us for his divine purpose.
The taps acted as a metronome commanding repetition until their voices sounded like they'd gargled gravel.
"Halt." The master consulted the clock on the back wall. "Proceed outside for drill instruction. Convene back here in one hour. The Leader watches over you all."
***
Under the direction of another master, the boys marched around the quadrangle in orderly lines under an overcast sky. Beneath his cap, Stevie swept his gaze around his surroundings. Windowless concrete high-risers towered around the compound, each one housing identical dormitories. Electrified barbed wire fences and fortified watchtowers incarcerated the thousands of boys within the indoctrination camp. Overhead, a drone buzzed, surveying the sea of uniforms for any sign of non-conformity.
A mine field separated a squat building from the rest of the compound. It accommodated the reprogramming centre. The only entrance was via a rusty metal door. Stevie's nostrils twitched, the air tainted by the black smoke belching out of the stack of soot-stained chimneys on its roof. The air stunk like burnt barbecued ribs. The boys' route included parading past the centre's outside gallows platform. Relief flooded Stevie when he spied the empty nooses. A brief respite as today, they wouldn't be forced to stop and stand to attention, witnessing the distorted faces of those who broke the Leader's rules.
For years, he'd shared a room with B49-3. They'd eaten, washed, and marched to the same regimented routine day-in and day-out. He shuddered to think of what the other boy was suffering inside the bowels of the centre. Trained sadists, the masters displayed no capacity for compassion.
Behind him, a voice whispered, "His name is Tom."
Heart thumping, Stevie's foot fumbled the next step. He didn't dare turn his head and acknowledge B49-18's forbidden comment.
From the front of the line the master roared. "Keep in time." The cane whacked on the concrete. "Left, right, left."
The path turned sharply by the outer fence. A flash of purple and yellow caught Stevie's attention. A lone pansy grew between the cracks in the pavement. He risked peeking at the master before stooping down and plucking up the flower. Careful not to crush its petals he tucked his stolen prize up his jacket sleeve. A tidal wave of adrenaline coursed through his veins; he hardly believed he had dared to jeopardize his life for a pansy.
No outcry ensued and he concentrated on keeping the rhythm. Sometimes the authorities planted informants among the dormitories. Boys who traded secrets for extra rations. He could not afford to slacken his guard.
A mine field separated a squat building from the rest of the compound. It accommodated the reprogramming centre. The only entrance was via a rusty metal door. Stevie's nostrils twitched, the air tainted by the black smoke belching out of the stack of soot-stained chimneys on its roof. The air stunk like burnt barbecued ribs. The boys' route included parading past the centre's outside gallows platform. Relief flooded Stevie when he spied the empty nooses. A brief respite as today, they wouldn't be forced to stop and stand to attention, witnessing the distorted faces of those who broke the Leader's rules.
For years, he'd shared a room with B49-3. They'd eaten, washed, and marched to the same regimented routine day-in and day-out. He shuddered to think of what the other boy was suffering inside the bowels of the centre. Trained sadists, the masters displayed no capacity for compassion.
Behind him, a voice whispered, "His name is Tom."
Heart thumping, Stevie's foot fumbled the next step. He didn't dare turn his head and acknowledge B49-18's forbidden comment.
From the front of the line the master roared. "Keep in time." The cane whacked on the concrete. "Left, right, left."
The path turned sharply by the outer fence. A flash of purple and yellow caught Stevie's attention. A lone pansy grew between the cracks in the pavement. He risked peeking at the master before stooping down and plucking up the flower. Careful not to crush its petals he tucked his stolen prize up his jacket sleeve. A tidal wave of adrenaline coursed through his veins; he hardly believed he had dared to jeopardize his life for a pansy.
No outcry ensued and he concentrated on keeping the rhythm. Sometimes the authorities planted informants among the dormitories. Boys who traded secrets for extra rations. He could not afford to slacken his guard.
***
The clock hand ticked over to 8 pm, and the dormitory plunged into darkness. Stevie waited ages before rolling onto his stomach. He extracted the flower from his pillow case and brushed the petals across his nose. The floral bouquet reminded him of the tubs of pansies his mom had grown on their porch. After gardening, the pansy fragrance lingered on her skin.
Memories cascaded like a broken dam. Blowing candles out on a chocolate frosted banana cake. Giggling with his younger sister as their dad spun them around in circles on the back lawn. Wet kisses from his puppy, Sparky. Rainbow lights flashing on the Christmas tree. His mom reading him a bedtime story before pressing a goodnight kiss on his forehead. "Sweat dreams, son.”
He smothered a sigh with the pillow. Silently, he recited the words that kept him sane.
"I am more than the number B49-17.
My name is Stevie Robinson, my birthday is the 11th March, and I'm 12 years old.
My father's name is Mark.
My mother's name is Katie.
My sister's name is Jenny.
My family existed.
I vow to always remember our life together before the invasion."
Stevie swallowed the flower, destroying the incriminating evidence. He added to his mantra. "The Leader watches us, but I’m watching back. In my heart, I will never follow the Leader."
Memories cascaded like a broken dam. Blowing candles out on a chocolate frosted banana cake. Giggling with his younger sister as their dad spun them around in circles on the back lawn. Wet kisses from his puppy, Sparky. Rainbow lights flashing on the Christmas tree. His mom reading him a bedtime story before pressing a goodnight kiss on his forehead. "Sweat dreams, son.”
He smothered a sigh with the pillow. Silently, he recited the words that kept him sane.
"I am more than the number B49-17.
My name is Stevie Robinson, my birthday is the 11th March, and I'm 12 years old.
My father's name is Mark.
My mother's name is Katie.
My sister's name is Jenny.
My family existed.
I vow to always remember our life together before the invasion."
Stevie swallowed the flower, destroying the incriminating evidence. He added to his mantra. "The Leader watches us, but I’m watching back. In my heart, I will never follow the Leader."
“Thanks for supporting me!”
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