Chapter 54: Number 73’s Eyes Were Bloodshot, Yet a Smile Hung on Their Lips
Rewind to that morning.
The Black Fields Quarantine Sector.
Having received her protective hazard suit, Long Ya, along with everyone selected in this draft lottery, passed through several security checkpoints. They lined up before a row of open dormitory cubicles, listening to an overseer clad in a deep-blue uniform lay down the parameters of their mandatory service.
“Attention, all conscripts! I am Chief Overseer Nelson.”
A man bearing three silver stars—one large flanked by two small—along with two silver bars on his epaulets stood before the gathered crowd. His expression was grim, his gaze razor-sharp.
“If you intend to complete your two-month service in one piece and walk out of here alive, listen carefully to every single syllable that comes out of my mouth!”
“The hazard suits issued to you must be worn at all times while in the Black Fields. Decontamination is mandatory upon leaving. You may only strip off the gear once the scanner turns blue as you cross through the decontamination airlock. The hermetic seals on your suits must be inspected twice daily, morning and evening. If you discover a breach in your suit during your shift, report immediately to the nearest overseer!”
“Operations run twenty-four hours a day on a three-shift rotation! Every laborer works an eight-hour shift daily! Refer to the personal schedule distributed to each of you for your specific rotation.”
“Throughout your term of service, there are no leaves of absence, and absenteeism will not be tolerated!”
“If you have questions, ask them now!”
A hand rose timidly from the crowd, a quivering voice asking, “What… what if we feel ill, or… or get injured on duty? Can we not take sick leave then, either?”
The corner of Nelson’s mouth twitched, curving into a humorless smile. “If you are injured, locate your assigned overseer immediately. That overseer will assess whether your physiological condition permits you to continue your operational duties.”
He paused, adding coldly, “Believe me, none of you want to meet the criteria for absenteeism.”
Long Ya scrutinized this “Chief Overseer” Nelson with measured eyes.
His uniform was far from pristine, the cuffs frayed from heavy wear. He spoke plainly, his breakdown of the regulations concise and unyielding.
She detected no active hostility in his voice—only a grim, unvarnished gravity.
Nelson immediately launched into the precise operational protocols for working the Black Fields.
No sooner had he finished than another officer in an overseer uniform marched over, whispering urgently into his ear.
“…Did you get all that?! The Black Fields are rife with hazards! Every regulation I just spoke of is posted on the wall inside your dormitories! If you want to keep breathing, sear every single rule into your memory! If you have questions, direct them to your designated overseer at any time!”
Leaving behind that final warning, Nelson turned on his heel and strode away in haste.
“Numbers 82 through 90 report to Overseer Nine! Numbers 91 through 102 report to Overseer Ten! Enter your assigned dormitories according to the designations stenciled on your hazard suits! You have thirty minutes to suit up and commit the regulations to memory!”
Another overseer barked the order.
From the moment she stepped into the quarantine sector, every official had radiated the same aura: strict, harried, and under immense pressure.
It gave off a suffocating sense of urgency.
Long Ya was Number 87. She lifted her chin to check the line; Overseer Nine stood right beside their cluster—a tall, stony-faced officer who looked carved from granite.
Dormitory 87 was easy to spot; numbers were painted above the open doors of the twenty cubicles lining the wall.
—Calling them dormitories was generous; they resembled concrete packing crates.
The space was tiny, without a single window.
At a glance, the cell contained nothing save a narrow cot and an iron rack meant for hanging the hazard suit.
It measured seven or eight square meters at most.
Every surface—including the ceiling and the bare floor—was coated in a thin, pale blue film of unknown purpose.
Long Ya flipped the light switch, pulled the heavy door shut, and found the complete list of regulations Nelson had referenced posted squarely on the back of the door.
Committing them to memory within thirty minutes was a tall order; the sheer volume of text was staggering.
—Iron black wheat requires irrigation three times daily, utilizing exclusively the issued containers. The liquid level during each cycle must be held precisely within the designated fill line.
—All standard iron black wheat stalks in the plots are immobile, singular tentacular appendages. Should an active, multi-clustered tentacular formation be observed, immediately plant a red flag from your bucket beside it, withdraw to a safe distance, report to your assigned overseer, and await tactical intervention.
—Stalks exceeding 0.5 meters that sprout yellow crystalline formations at their apex are classified as mature. Harvesting requires severing the stalk flush against the soil, excavating the root ball, and depositing it into the collection bin for consolidated processing.
Immature iron black wheat is pitch-black across its entire surface, devoid of crystalline formations at the crown. Should any stalk exhibit pigmentation other than black, or should an immature stalk develop a crystal, or should a mature stalk develop a crystal of a color other than yellow, immediately plant a blue flag from your bucket, notify the nearest overseer, and proceed to the next crop.
—During labor, if green spots or shimmering green phantoms manifest in your visual field, or if anomalous weeping, shrieking, or wailing echoes in your ears, immediately cease work, withdraw from the field, raise your right arm toward the overseers, and await assistance.
—During harvest, should a severed stalk emit a black gaseous vapor, immediately deposit it into the collection bin, seal the lid securely, report to an overseer, and proceed to the designated decontamination station for chemical cleansing.
…
The fine print spanned across more than half the door’s surface.
Regulations this meticulous… Long Ya shuddered to think what horrors had been endured to codify them.
How many lives had been ground to dust just to draft this list?
Furrowing her brow, Long Ya rapidly stepped into the hazard suit, sealing every seam before forcing herself to drill the rules into her head.
Before long, the thirty minutes elapsed. The piercing shrill of an overseer’s whistle called them out of their quarters.
Encased head-to-toe in the sealed suit, Long Ya fell in behind Overseer Nine, marching toward the Black Fields.
Passing through two heavy containment airlocks, she finally laid eyes on the Black Fields for the first time.
—Vast.
As far as the eye could see stretched an endless expanse of pitch-black soil.
Freezing.
The moment she stepped past the final airlock, a biting chill seeped into her bones, piercing right through the layers of the suit.
Suffocating.
Across the sprawling acreage, figures toiled in silence within their gridded plots, yet not a single voice carried over the wind. Overseers clad in blue uniforms cradled rifles against their chests, their unblinking eyes scouring every inch of the plots.
Grotesque.
Dense thickets of glossy, pitch-black tentacles thrust out of the dark earth. They didn’t look like anything meant to be consumed; they looked like the clawing hands of corpses waiting to drag the living straight into the abyss.
The realization that she had survived on rations pressed from these things for years sent a sudden heave through Long Ya’s stomach.
She felt like vomiting.
Gritting her teeth, she forced the rising bile back down her throat.
…
Long Ya followed the overseer to her designated sector.
Each laborer was responsible for roughly fifty square meters of terrain. Overseer Nine led her and Number 86 to a plot marked by an iron placard reading E-5.
Number 86 was an older woman whose demeanor had been erratic and uneasy from the moment they arrived in the quarantine zone.
Within plot E-5 toiled a lone figure encased in a hazard suit, currently irrigating the black earth with a wooden pail.
“This is Number 73. The three of you will rotate shifts over this plot. Your weekly schedules have been posted in your dormitories, but I will reiterate the roster once.”
“Number 73 works from 02:00 to 10:00. Report for staging at 01:30, assume your post at 02:00, and depart promptly at 10:00.”
“Number 86 works from 10:00 to 18:00. Report for staging at 09:30, assume your post at 10:00, and depart promptly at 18:00.”
“Number 87 works from 18:00 to 02:00. Report for staging at 17:30, assume your post at 18:00, and depart promptly at 02:00.”
“The time is currently 09:05. Numbers 86 and 87, you have fifty-five minutes to observe and learn Number 73’s operational protocols! At 10:00 sharp, I will escort Numbers 73 and 87 out.”
Having delivered the briefing, the overseer turned to the remainder of his detail: “Numbers 88 through 90, with me.”
The directives were issued with clinical, rapid-fire efficiency.
Once the overseer had marched away, Number 86 murmured with nervous hesitation, “So… once ten o’clock hits, that’s when my shift starts, right?”
Long Ya wasn’t sure if the question was directed at her.
Right now, only the three of them stood within this plot. Number 73 had merely glanced up when the overseer brought them over, immediately dropping their head to continue watering the crops.
—Scooping a yellowish liquid from a dark trench running alongside the plot using the wooden pail, then pouring it methodically over the black tentacles rooted in the soil.
Water one stalk, shuffle back to the trench, scoop the liquid, and pour again.
Head bowed, movements mechanical and numb.
They clearly had no intention of entertaining Number 86’s questions.
Long Ya had intended to remain silent as well, until Number 86 pressed again.
“Dear… when ten o’clock hits, I take over, right?”
A tremor shook her voice.
Through the transparent visor of the hazard suit, Long Ya caught the woman’s eye and offered a brief, flat “Mm.”
“Ah, good.” The woman hesitated, glancing around the grim expanse with wide, panicked eyes before asking, “What… what’s that high wire fence over there for?”
Long Ya followed her gaze.
That chain-link fence—easily the height of three grown men—had caught her eye the moment they walked in. The heavy barrier cleaved the entire farming sector into two distinct zones.
It wasn’t an even split, either; it looked closer to an eighty-twenty divide.
Their side occupied barely twenty percent of the acreage, while the far side claimed the remaining eighty.
Peering through the mesh, she saw individual plots mirroring their own.
Unlike their sector, however, there were no newly drafted conscripts being shown the ropes over there.
Though neither the rulebook nor the overseer had spoken of it, Long Ya already knew the answer from the whispered warnings Gerry had shared the night before.
Beyond that razor-wire fence lay the agricultural sectors worked by the penal colony.
Before she could speak, Number 73 abruptly dropped their pail, stepped forward, and shoved their visor inches from theirs.
“Over there? Over there, they’re all maniacs! They scream like beasts, they go mad, they bite your flesh right off your bones!”
Number 73 hissed the words in a feverish, trembling whisper.
Beneath the clear visor of the suit, Number 73’s eyes were bloodshot and wild, yet a wide, erratic smile stretched across their lips.
Long Ya’s brow knitted tight as she took a sharp step back.
This person’s mind had clearly unraveled.
