Rose, for the time being, is secured to the front of the line, all the while she is face-to-face with the business end of an M1 carbine.
She manages to smile at the green men. They do not smile back. They only return an icy stare. They glance to one another, shaking their heads. Rose doesn’t like the way they treat her and the other children. She wants, more than anything, for people to like her… someone to love her. She feels so lonely and sad in this strange place.
One of the green men rolls his eyes and groans. They don’t like her, or any of the other children here, and they make it very clear by the handing out the roughest treatment possible, during the morning line-up. She wonders if they even like themselves. Probably not.
She’s shoved towards the next door in line, so the child kept there can be retrieved, and fixed into the section. Rose’s teeth rattle, and her breath is forced from her lungs, as the butt of a rifle impacts, soundly, on her scapula. It’s followed by the barrel digging painfully between her cervical vertebrae, to emphasize the green man’s intent for her to get moving. She guides the section forward.
She can feel resistance in the section as they go. She figures its Hawthorne who’s pulling, ever-so-slightly, backward, as she’s trying to move the section forward.
She turns to look back to him, and she’s met by the boy’s face; his affect is flat, but even so, she can sense the turmoil and sinister nature of the boy worming beneath his skin. She can observe no more because suddenly her head is turned back, to face forward, by the tip of the green man’s rifle barrel.
The green man who carries a heavy ring of keys calls out, “R – Zero – Six – E, sibling, Ivy.” He steps aside as Ivy cautiously leaves the safety of her room.
More of an abused animal than a child, Ivy steps into the hall, moving no faster than cold pancake syrup flowing up a steep hillside.
A green man becomes impatient, and shoves her, causing her to stumble. Rose reaches out, to keep her from falling, and receives a rifle butt in the ribs for her effort.
This girl is the one who let her little fingers roam under the door last night. The green man said ‘sibling’, once before, referring to Hawthorne, and now again with Ivy.
Her features are much the same as Hawthorne’s. It’s enough for Rose to see them as brother and sister; twins to be more accurate. Greasy, coal-black hair, thin, crooked noses, and ivory skin veiled in a sickly pallor. A brother and sister, here together in this awful place. She finds herself envious of them, for having each other, when she has no one.
Ivy raises her eyes from the floor just long enough to get a quick look at Rose and lowers them back down. When Ivy is added to the section Rose is no longer the leader, so a green man digs the rifle barrel into Ivy’s back, instead, to guide her along. Rose breaths more comfortably now that the rifle is no longer boring into her, but nevertheless, she feels no safer.
The same process of gathering children into a section is being repeated on the other side of the corridor, and another group of six children is secured into a section of their own.
A small, frail, blonde girl is the last to be brought from a cell. Rose watches closely as a soldier kneels to place something cylindrical around one of the girl’s hands, completely encasing it. The cylinder is padded on the inside and rusted on the outside because it’s made from some sort of inferior metal, hastily riveted together. A green man locks the cylinder into place, tightly, around one wrist. It must be very tight, and painful when worn because the little girl frowns in discomfort as the lock is fastened.
When the green man goes to place the second cylinder on the girl’s other hand something awful and unexpected happens. He accidentally brushes against her palm. That slight caress gives him immediate pause. He rises from where he had knelt, stiff as a board, his foaming mouth and agape as if he is trying to scream. Nothing comes out, not a sound. He’s in too much agony to scream.
His eyes are as large as dinner plates. He’s sweating heavily, skin growing pale, and struggling for breath. He’s going into shock. Tears stream from his eyes. His rapid pulse can be timed by each beats of his bulging temples. The carotid artery in his neck swells with each strained and dysrhythmic beat of his heart.
The black dog barks, jerking firmly at its leash, twisting and turning to escape its handler’s hold. Steadily it backs away from the unusual commotion.
Rose’s section jostles from side to side. The children shift, and waddle, in line to see what’s happening. Nervously they anticipate the hell-storm that’s sure to descend upon them.
Green men loft their weapons, and they mean to use them, too, until something dies from lead poisoning. They each draw a bead on the blonde girl’s skull. Tension heightens.
The bitter scent of fear fills the air. Collectively the green men move their fingers from the safe position, which rests beside the trigger guard and place them on the crescent moon-shaped triggers. Each man stands eager and ready to apply enough pressure to the trigger to pop the little girl’s head open, like a pumpkin. Green men shout for the blonde girl to lay flat on the floor.
What happened was an accident, not an attack. Anyone who cared enough to see the truth could have seen it. One hand is safely entrapped in a heavy metal mitten, and the girl leaves it to dangle at her side. She raises her free hand into the air, palm outward, showing her unconditional surrender and willingness to comply with the command she’s been given. She’ll do exactly as she’s been told. She offers no challenge. She knows the consequence of doing anything less is deadly.
Rose notices small silvery hairs covering the girl’s palm. Wisps of hairs, only visible because the light has illuminated them at just the right angle. On the tips of each of the fine hairs hangs a tiny drop of milky-yellow fluid. Apparently, the girl can deliver an unbearably excruciating sting with only the smallest of touches.
The injured man writhes on the floor in a fetal position, gasping for air, his arm is swelling more with each passing second. It’s grown at least twice the size of the other. He cradles it to his chest. Instinct demands he protect it from further harm. It’s turning an unusual mottled-blue color too. The pain, driving him to the brink of madness. A potent toxin injected through his epidermis, into the dermis below, has found its way into the man’s bloodstream, and rockets through his body. His face, eyes, and tongue are beginning to swell severely. He vomits on the floor.
The blonde girl is lying face down on the floor, and she doesn’t dare to move, so much as a hair out of place. The green men would have shot the blonde girl right then and there, sending her brains flying out in all directions, like grey confetti, had it not been for Dr. Shaw running in, hands waving wildly, shouting at the green men.
“Don’t shoot! She’s important to the research! Stand down!” says Dr. Shaw, who wastes no time telling two of the green men to take the injured one to the infirmary, right away.
Rose searches for the little girl’s name plaque; it says NETTLE.
Rose’s section is forced to walk or shuffle, rather, to another floor. They turn right three times, and then once to the left. The way leads them to a room full of books. Rose believes that this day must be Monday because this is the Library Day mentioned on the chalkboard hanging in her room. Now she knows the day of the week, and she feels better knowing what day it is. Just that tiny bit of knowledge helps to allay her fear in some small fashion.