Brought Down

9. The Factory

Garrett

"I won't do it." He stares at me as if I were crazy. "Not a chance."

"Up to you." I continue to circle the large room, checking I haven't missed any openings, any new holes in the walls that haven't been there on my last visit. The room on the third floor of the abandoned textile factory has served us as a refuge on a few occasions, and I feel relatively safe here.

Julian remains by the rusty cistern with rain water that I have rolled inside before sealing the door. The dirt has dried all over him, and he constantly picks it off his skin and clothes, scratching as if attacked by an army of fleas.

"I won't bath in it," he repeats once I get back to where he stands. "It's radioactive."

"Not nearly as much as the dirt you're covered with. You'll need to wash your clothes, too."

"They won't dry by the morning. What do you expect me to wear then?"

"Your skin," I say. "Which you won't be wearing for long, if you don't wash this shit off right now." I take off my old, worn out black jacket and drop it to the floor. "You can put this on for now."

He just stands there, shaking. At nights, it's freezing, and I don't envy him having to get into the cold water. But scratching is the first sign of the effect the dirt is having on his skin, and it's going to get much worse. He knows it as well as I do.

"Look away," he says.

"Yeah, right, so that you could stick some pen in my throat? Don't be shy, we're all boys in here."

He looks at me, then at the water tank. Then, he begins to undress, starting with his shirt. It's not easy, with the fabric rigid from all the dirt, but he peels it off eventually. He's skinny, and I can count his ribs from where I stand. Not a very royal figure. Then I remember that he hasn't eaten anything in almost two days. Considering that, he's functioning pretty well.

He sticks his fingers under the belt of his pants and looks at me again. I roll my eyes and look away. I can still distinguish his figure from the corner of my eye, but I'm no keener to see any details than he is to show them. He peels his pants off, and then I hear a splash as he enters the water. Then comes a pause, after which he lets out a string of such elaborate curses that I snort with amusement. This is good stuff. I wish I could write some of it down.

"Don't forget to wash your hair," I say.

"G-got any sh-shampoo?"

I look at him in disbelief before realizing it was a joke. His face and shoulders are visible over the rim of the cistern, and as I laugh, he replies with first a crooked smile, then a grin.

"I'm glad you're enjoying this," I say.

"I m-most c-certainly d-do not," he says, "it's just that it's all s-so insane, it's almost f-funny."

"Not almost," I say. "It's funny. Now dive in. Rub it all off."

His face disappears. After a few more minutes of splashing sounds and occasional expletives, I hear him climbing out of the tank, and look away again. There are sounds of wet footsteps as he walks to the place where I left my jacket. When I look at him again, he's wrapped in it, shaking so badly it looks as if he's about to topple over. When on me, the jacket reaches the top of my thighs; on him it, gets almost down to his knees.

"Your clothes," I remind him.

He obediently picks his clothes from the floor, returns to the cistern and halfheartedly swings them from side to side in the water.

"Can you m-make a fire?" he says.

"I can, but I won't," I say. "No need to draw any more attention than is necessary."

"I'd say it's n-necessary."

"I'd say it's not. Wouldn't want the things to try too hard to get in."

He takes the clothes out of the water and hangs them on the side of the cistern. Then, he comes over and sits on the floor a few steps away from me, gathering his knees to his chest under the jacket, so that only his bare toes are visible.

"You call them things?" he says after a while. "They have scientific names, you know. Longus pedibus, magna aranea occisor, and others. The new fauna. We have a whole department studying them."

"We just call them 'things'," I say.

He shrugs. "Well, it just shows your level, if you know what I mean."

I look at him in disbelief, but he doesn't meet my eyes.

"Looks like nothing can teach you manners," I say.

"You don't even know what manners are."

"I just gave my coat to a damsel in distress." I gesture at him. "How's that for manners? Or should I take it back, my fair lady?"

"Don't call me that." He glares at me. "I'm no lady."

"Nor are you a gentleman," I agree. "Although with a little more boobs you could pass for a woman. Can't imagine what could make you pass for a man, though."

He seems to be at a loss for words, but his eyes almost shoot fire, and I can't help but laugh at his expression.

"Stop laughing!" he explodes. "Why do you keep laughing at me?"

"Because you're amusing."

"No, I'm not!" He gets to his feet, turns away and walks to the far wall, where he sits down again, looking purposely away.

"Oh, does it mean we aren't friends anymore?" I say, but he doesn't react. "Too bad. I got a sugar and corn energy bar here that I thought I'd share with you, but if you're not interested..."

He turns his head as fast as only a starving man being offered food can. I take the energy bar out of the inner pocket of my vest—it's half melted, but still edible—and begin to unwrap it. As I raise my eyes, Julian is on the floor right next to me, looking at the bar intently.

I break it in two halves and hand him one. He shoves it in his mouth immediately, as if expecting me to demand it back any minute. A couple of smart remarks about manners come to my mind, but I hold them back. There's nothing funny about being hungry, and how easily it can reduce any of us to an animal level. In fact, I can give him the second half of the bar as well. I'm not really hungry yet, and I have a couple more in my vest. But I do want to make a point.

"Want this?" I say, showing him the second half. He reaches for it, but I move it away. "No. You must ask nicely."

He stares. I can't quite imagine what's going in his head right now, but it's clear he doesn't like people telling him what to do.

"Just say 'please'," I prompt him. "That's what nice ladies do."

His eyes turn into two angry slits. "Thanks," he says, moving away, "but I'm not really hungry."

"Too bad." I'm a little surprised, but if that's how he wants it, so be it.

I put the remaining half of the energy bar into my mouth and chew it, while Julian watches me with such a pained expression as if I was chewing off his own arm or leg.

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