The Fortress

"Move, bitches! Or we will shoot," is all the guards kept repeating, again. It was starting to get old. We moved out of the implantation room and went through a small dark corridor. We walked for a few minutes, and we eventually reached a service counter area, where we were told each to pick up one of those bedding kits that were handed over to us.

The man who was handing out the bedding kits showed his discontentment about having to interact with us. He was bald, had some thick dark eyebrows, as well as a furnished, equally dark mustachio that was long overdue for a meeting with a weedwhacker. He was wearing a denim jumpsuit that had grease stains.

Trust me, buddy, I don't want to interact with you either.

As he passed the packages over the counter, he gave filthy looks to most of us, sometimes snorting loudly, sometimes flicking his tongue, attempting to simulate cunnilingus. He had a sadistic laugh that gave us all the creeps, more so as he attempted to look down people's cleavage.

The glorious bedding kits included a 2 inches thick roll-up mattress, a small 12 by 12 inches travel pillow, and finally a low-quality blanket. All of it was light gray and appeared very unforgiving. Management did not care if someone was over 6 feet and would require a bigger mattress. The product label read "one size fits all." With my chronic insomnia, I have no idea how I will manage to fall asleep at night.

The Fortress was most likely all too proud of its products. I wonder if they produced merchandise fanboys could order online and proudly wear. That reminds me of some deep incel shit. Maybe the parent corporation, which we don't know its name yet, is the one doing it. We are, after all, held against our will in a secret prison in the middle of a Midwest city.

Once we were all finally done, we continued our path down the corridor, towards what seemed to be an elevator lobby. One thing I noted, neither the blue nor the black suits picked up a bundle. I would need to see how long it took them to evolve suit. The place we stopped at was all too white for me: walls, floors, and ceiling, all of it was painted in white. The neons were of bright light, too. The whole place gave me a headache, one of those that makes me want to disappear for a while.

There was no decoration whatsoever, not even one of those ugly motivational posters, or even a The Fortress logo, covering the walls. It was as sterile as a hospital room. I noted there were also no cameras in the entire section.

An elevator finally arrived, and we were all forced in. What lies beyond the lobby was a mystery. I wanted to look, but a guard was in the way. And there were black suits accompanying us, still. Where did the blue ones go to? They were there a moment ago. Back to that mystery section down the hall, like when we play video games, we will have to come back later for it.

The elevator was more of a freight elevator than anything else. It wasn't well lit, it stank, and there were some old stagnant water puddles on the floor. Could it be piss? Could it be vomit? I had no intention of finding out. I also remembered the expression Director Palermo used earlier, that we were cattle. It rang deeply in my mind. And I could see why. We are cattle. We are products and they will use us until we die, or we will die trying.

I quickly glanced at the person I knew, yet they did not look back. Now was not the time to talk with them either. I could tell they were also evaluating the situation, seeing how to escape this hell. They were being extra careful not to get caught evaluating. Who knew what punishment we would earn for even thinking of escaping.

The guards decided to join us. We were now a total of about twenty people in the unit. All tight up like sardines in a can. We started going down. A sign on the inner wall warned this elevator should only carry 15 people maximum. It also bore a The Fortress logo. I caught myself doing a massive eye roll.

Image by Peter H from PixabayThe extra weight in the unit made it jump as we were going down. One of my mates said, "Oh my lord, grant me the courage, I think I will be sick." Someone else casually responded, "Lord could also provide you with a trash can. That would be more useful." We laughed. The black suits laughed. The guards laughed.

Wait, what? The guards could actually show feelings? I was not surprised about the black suits, though. The more I looked at them, the more I saw them as grunts willing to do their jailor's bidding. Coming from the guards it was rather surprising.

The laughter died fast as the elevator sent our stomachs in our heads and we arrived at our floor. The sign outside the elevator read B17. A thought crossed my mind as the freight gates opened up: we are being told we are here to be reeducated, and our work would set us free. They never specified how long we would be here.

This was home.

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this story are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.