The Ivory Tower by Kirstin Pulioff Read Free Book Online Page B

were the cuffs where they’d sewn her number,
277. The high number resigned her and the other orphans to the end of the line
and the scraps.
    She ushered some of the
younger kids in front of her, watching their smiles grow as they bent down to
play. The dry dust shuffled as the smaller kids drew on the ground, oblivious
to the tension around them. Her own smile grew as she saw the familiar lines
and circles they drew.
    Her head popped up at
the sound of the guards marching. Approaching from behind the factory, their
soft tapping grew into a rhythmic boom. The guards walked in unison, their
impeccably pressed uniforms as harsh as their smiles. Colorful patches and
insignias lined the shoulders of the uniforms, and black leather straps secured
their guns and ammunition. The air tightened as the line of men passed. People
averted their eyes. When she looked back down, the scribbles had disappeared
under boot prints, and disappointment replaced the joy on the children’s faces.
    “They didn’t see your
drawings,” Simone said, dropping down to wipe the tears from a cheek. She
traced her fingers through the gritty dirt. Mrs. Booker shook her head in
disapproval.
    With the kids back to
drawing, Simone squinted toward the guards, following the trail of dust to the
main gates. Even the line of dust seemed to be displaced with precision. The
guards marched to the gates, and stood on either side of the doorway, creating
a tunnel of armed men. A round red light crowned the doorway, dormant until the
doors opened. Faded letters blended into the thick steel studded doors, the
designation forgotten. With only a few surviving camps around the country, it
didn’t matter who was taking care of them, just that they were taken care of.
    Simone watched the red
light flash as the door opened. The hinges creaked, threatening to buckle.
    Dust surrounded the incoming
trucks. Covered in studded armor, camouflaged paint, and metal spikes, they
were faint shadows of their original design.  The trucks maneuvered slowly,
filling the silence with the thunder of exhaust. An armored man watched through
a small opening in the top, a gun slung over his shoulder. Large tan goggles
and a domed hat monopolized his face.
    The caravan rounded its
way through the gates and into the circular path of the marketplace, covering
the line of people with a layer of grime that clung under the fall mist.
    The Colonel stepped
out, as foreboding as ever. The camp quietly averted their eyes, listening to
the synchronization between his boots and the second bell. Black gloved fingers
strangled a pen as he marked off numbers, mutely searching their clothing for confirmation.
    Simone kept her eyes
low as a small bag hit her shoulder. Mumbling thanks, she walked away, eager to
open the package. Her knuckles turned white from clenching it. She climbed on
top of a wooden post fence, hooking her legs around the lower part for balance.
    Rations changed daily,
and being a high number, she never knew what would be inside her bag. Some days
there was enough to save, others meant a simple roll, and sometimes, they ran
out before her. She closed her eyes to wish, then briefly peeked inside. Lucky,
this time; she grinned, welcoming the sight of the jerky strip, roll, and
handful of dried berries.
    Popping a few berries
in her mouth, she watched the caravan retreat under the flashing red light. The
berries caught her by surprise as they melted, a surprising blend of sweet and
tanginess settled on her tongue. They weren’t like the tart salmonberries or sweet
blackberries she picked in the forest.
    It summoned a memory of
the bedtime stories her mother had told her. She could remember the gentle tug
as her mother would tuck her hair behind her ears. Her soft voice filled
Simone’s mind with visions of the berries that grew on her hometown farm. Berries,
she said, that melted in your mouth, and left a lingering blend of the sweetest
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