Looper
A Novel by Ann Bakshis
Copyright © 2016 by Ann Bakshis
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living and dead, actual event, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Published by Ponahakeola Press, 2016
For Aunt Jeanne, who always encouraged me to keep writing.
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
One
Working in the grove is the only time I get to be outdoors. I’ve never been past the high concrete walls that encompass the property. I don’t even remember what the front door of the main house looks like. It’s been years since I saw it. Leaving the orphanage is highly restricted by the government. There are only two ways of leaving: when you turn twenty-one and are allowed to reenter society, or what there is of it, which is by permit only, or in a body bag. That’s happened here too many times for me to keep count. There are a few who try to escape, finding weathered holes in the wall, but they only get so far before they’re shot from someone patrolling the outside. I’ve only met one person from the outside, but that’s only when he brings in work. The only other people we see are the staff, many too old to still be alive, or too mean to reside with the regular population. The Head Master doesn’t even pay us a visit. The only time you see him is when there’s a new arrival, but no one new has shown up in the last several years.
The temperatures have been steadily falling each day as winter approaches, but that doesn’t stop the heads from making us work outside. The crops have stopped growing, but there’s more in the grove than just vegetables. Our job for the week is to work on the carriages that run along the cable line through the city. Maintenance workers enter at the back of the grove, dragging in the rusty, derelict cars, and placing them under the pavilion off to the left of the entrance. We’re tasked with scraping the rust, sealing holes, and repainting the cars black. The government is too stingy to buy new carriages, or even upgrade the ones they do have. We’re taught at an early age that surplus is bad, everything has a purpose no matter how old or trivial, and ornamentation and frivolity is only for the well-deserved. Those of us who live in the Outer Limits are subjected to these rules and regulations on a daily basis. If it’s repairable, fix it. If it’s too damaged, destroy it. No wants, no desires, and no dreams are the daily opinions fed to us.
My hands freeze as I wait by the back door for the workmen to bring in our workload for the day. The wool hat on my head is too small and my gloves have no fingertips. My clothes are thin, like me, full of holes that I don’t have time to repair, and dingy. We’re allowed to wash our clothing, and ourselves, once a month. Each person is assigned a specific day. Mine is tomorrow, but I’ll probably be stuck working and not get a chance to clean up. At the moment, I’m the only one outside, which is typical. I’m the first one out and the last one in. I’d sleep in the grove if they let me. I hate being stuck in that large house with so many people. I share a room with four people, or at least I used to. Now it’s just Brink and me. The others were moved to second-level housing when they turned twenty-one. We all came here when we were young, some as little as a few weeks old. I’ve been in the orphanage since I was three. I’m told my parents were killed in an industrial accident down at a smelting plant across town. That was sixteen years ago. I have no memory of them, which is probably beneficial since I don’t have any attachment to the life I may have once had.
Lil comes bounding down the dirt path from the house. She’s always a little too happy for my taste. I try and avoid her when I can, but it’s hard when she practically stalks me on a daily basis. Why she likes me, I don’t know. Her blonde hair is cut short, well hidden under her hat. She never misses her day to do laundry and to shower. I’ve missed three in the last four months.
“Vernon isn’t here yet?” she asks, jumping to a stop next to me.
“He’s late as usual,” I respond sharply.
“Brink’s been looking for you since breakfast.”
Great. What does he want now?
Brink and I share a room together, but I know he wants to share a bed. I’ve been avoiding him the last several weeks as much as possible now that it’s just the two of us. I’ve been hiding in the grove since early morning. I try and eat breakfast before everyone else gets up. The cook, Tilda, allows me to slip in and grab what I want. She is the only nice person on the staff, at least to me anyway. She can be rough and grouchy with the others, but somehow I’ve managed to get on her good side. Not sure how I did it, but I try to do everything I can to keep it.
The double doors covering the back entrance squeak open as Vernon begins pushing a carriage through. Lil takes one side, and I take the other, trying to keep them open. The doors are dead weight. Thick wood secured poorly by rusted bolts inside crumbling bricks. It’s amazing these doors have lasted as long as they have.
“I have two more that need repairing,” Vernon hisses. He’s missing several teeth,
