“Move!” 99 shouts at me as he pushes me forward. I didn't realize that I had stopped walking.
I follow them along the outside of the stadium, stealing glances whenever I can. We walk a few hundred feet to the other side of the structure.
Ahead of us, there are hundreds of people moving in a single-file line. As my eyes adjust, I realize that they are all outsiders from the city. Spread out to either side of the line are dozens of drones, each holding a gun I don't recognize.
We approach a small, tented camp with multiple drones guarding it. I follow 210 and 99 into the tent. It appears larger inside than it did outside. There are numerous racks of what look like guns with two small barrels prodding out at the end. Those must be what the drones were holding. In the middle sits a table with two people behind it. One has a body built like a drone, but he has a bald head and a scar running from his left temple to the back of his head. The other is more put together. I am assuming she is a scientist. The scientists here don't seem to adhere to the same dress code as at the compound. She wears a light shirt and pants similar to mine. She's young and is too well-nourished to be an outsider.
99 and 210 grab guns and head back out of the tent, leaving me alone in a space that now feels even larger.
“You 80?” The man behind the table speaks without looking up. The two are looking at something laid out over the table that I can't make out.
“Yes,” I respond, fighting the shakiness in my voice.
The man walks around the table, grabs one of the weird guns, and stands right up to me. He looks me in the eye. His face is without a doubt that of a drone, but it's more weathered than the typical drone’s. He's older.
“I'm 13,” he says, his eyes burrowing into mine.
I take a step back and stare at him with deep curiosity. He's an Alpha from the first batch of twenty drones. The scientists never repeated their numbers. I was under the impression that most, if not all, Alphas were dead. It explains his weathered look and why he was not killed after whatever accident gave him the scar. He has been around for decades upon decades. The bodies don't age, but the face tells a different story.
He smiles at me, enjoying the momentary fame. I search deeper in his eyes, looking for any hint of compassion for the world. I would think that he'd been touched by some of the beauty that exists the many years he's lived here. All I see, though, is the indoctrination that all drones possess.
“What happened to your eye?” He stares me down.
I'm flustered by his question, but I give a direct answer. “I was shot.”
“They didn't kill you?” He asks the expected follow-up question.
“They wanted to run tests on me.” I look right back into his eyes, and I notice a slight flinch. He stands taller, as if to regain his superiority, and seems satisfied to end the conversation there.
13 pushes the weird gun to my chest, and I take it in my arms. He exits the tent, and I follow close behind.
“Job is simple,” he begins as we walk toward the long line. “The outsiders bring stones and water to the entrance of the bunker over there and go back to fetch more. You stand along the outside and make sure that they don't act up. If any of them seem to be lagging, use the electric prod to push them along.”
“Yes, sir,” I mutter.
As we get closer, I see that the line leads to a giant hole in the ground right next to the adorned exterior wall. The bunker must be under the stadium.
“Take a spot on the opposite side of the line. Tell that drone to move down to the reservoir.” 13 peels off and heads back to the tent.
I walk to the procession of outsiders and squeeze through a break in the line to the other side. I choose the drone closest to me and step up to him. “13 said that he wants you to go to the reservoir.”
The drone looks at me with disdain and walks off.
As I settle myself into position, I see that all the drones in my vicinity are looking at me. That same disdain colors their eyes. I try to ignore it by focusing on the outsiders who file past me, carrying buckets of water or stones to the bunker.
The want of proper nourishment is evident in most outsiders. Many lack sufficient muscle mass They struggle with the buckets, and their bodies only hold up through the will of their bones. Some have sores on their skin. Others still have teeth or patches of hair missing. A lot of the outsiders here appear worse off than those that Atom and I saw near the pyramid.
“Move it!” I hear one of the drones yell, a bit further down the line. I look as the drone shocks the older outsider with the split end of his gun. The outsider's body shakes, and he takes a few steps before falling to the ground, clutching his chest. The line of outsiders continues around the fallen man without breaking their stride.
The drone taps the outsider's body with his foot and gets no reaction. “Dead!”
Two drones standing off to the side run over and drag the limp body away. My eyes follow as long as they can. The drones take the body to a ditch and dump it in. My stomach turns at the lack of humanity, and I do my best to avert my thoughts and
