The Spinning Factory

No one could quite remember how long they had been on the bikes. Sweaty, skinny, musty bodies pedaling on angrily buzzing stationary wheels in the dark. Nor did they have any idea why they were pedaling.

The surroundings offered no clues. The large room’s walls were bare except for the backward turned clocks and the sign that read, “Exertion is Liberty” above the progress screen which served as the only source of light with its bright, bold graphs, ever-moving numbers, and an encouraging cartoon busy bee that softly swayed until he was engaged. Every three miles they would get a treat, a protein cube, or a pat on the back that they administered to themselves. Bathroom breaks had become non-existent since they had installed the funnels that ran from inside their pants to stiff, plastic containers on the side. But what were they to do?

“The war ravaged everything,” the men in bright orange sweater vests had told them. “There’s nothing left out there.”

Godfrey felt a deep stabbing in his stomach. A sharp, guttural pain, an emptiness almost. His bike dinged. Three miles. A protein cube fell out of the compartment. He grabbed it, threw it back without hesitation. He wondered how long he could go on. He feared his muscles might seize up like Thomas Toothfine, who had fallen over and hit his head on the handlebars of another bike. Or that he would end up like July Stevens, the girl in the back who never could keep up, always hanging over the handlebars, out of breath, saying, “I can’t. I just can’t,” until she eventually just stopped, refused to go on. They drug her out screaming, “I tried my best, how could I have done any better?” Or even worse like Ana Mendez whose shoelaces got caught in a winding pedal that almost shredded her legs like cheese in a grater.

He wondered what had happened to them after they were gone. Did they beat them bloody in the hallway? Toss them on the side of the road, leaving them to their own devices in the desolate war-torn desert? Anything was better than the constant pedaling, he thought, the gnawing of the rough circles. He thought about tossing himself off the bike. Faking a head injury. Making himself bleed even. What if they kill me? he thought. What if they take me outside and shoot me like a sick horse? Make protein cubes out of me?

He fantasized about the men in bright orange sweater vests shoving him out into the alley behind the building. Pulling out a massive, long barrel pistol, letting it glint in the sun like they were in an old western. He thought if he had to die, he would rather die in the sun. The heat surrounding him like a loving hug, the brightness blinding him to the point of apathy as one of them raised the gun to his head. He would move ever so slightly, ensuring it hit exactly right so there was no chance of survival. The temple, the right felt right. The bullet would go straight through, without stopping, and then…

“It’s Employee Appreciation Day!” the cartoon busy bee interrupted, coming alive on the screen. “Today’s winner will receive two extra protein cubes and a trip to the Meditation Booth. Remember, you’re only as good as your work!”

Perfectly on cue, everyone grew higher off their seats, pumping their legs furiously in the darkness, trying to make it into the abandoned elevator that was suspended between the first and second floors: The Meditation Booth.

The dark and decrepit tiny square with thick, tough carpeting and bars forming a cage was a place where you could be by yourself. Take a nap, meditate, whatever you chose for seven minutes. One time Godfrey had been in the Meditation Booth, zoned out listening to the easy-listening music about six minutes in when something shiny caught his eye. He had bent over and saw one half of a gold, heart-shaped locket wedged in the corner. It was latched onto the carpet, which pulled up as he grabbed it. He carefully ripped it back further, revealing a fist-sized hole in the floor.

He thought about the hole a lot after that and the person that had owned the locket: Daisy Appleton. She had spun beside him before. He would focus on the locket bouncing around her neck as he rode. He used it as a distraction, something to get lost in; he loved her for that. She had been dedicated, winning at least a handful of times. Could she have been making the hole bigger, bit by bit, chipping away each time she went in? He couldn’t be certain because he hadn’t won since, but he liked to imagine that she had eventually made it large enough and escaped. That she trekked along the desert roads until some sympathetic soul picked her up and that she finally got to sleep in a bed, a soft, warm but cool in the right places bed. And food. Real food. He began pedaling harder. He had to get back inside there.

The busy bee popped up on the screen again, “almost time to announce the winner. Power through!”

He looked around at the red-faced workers. He might have a shot if not for Kirkpatrick. Kirkpatrick’s lead was unstoppable, his spot in first place had been undefeated for as long as Godfrey could remember. He had energy for days and his legs were so strong he usually rode without even holding onto the handlebars.

“Pick it up, you’re almost there!” the busy bee said.

Godfrey bore down, his tunnel vision closing in on the screen. Keep pedaling, he thought. He stared over at Kirkpatrick. He could tell he wanted it bad. Maybe he even knew about the hole. No way was he going to let him get out of there before him.

He tossed the half locket into the spokes, jamming up his bike. He hated to do it, but it was all he had. That sent Kirkpatrick flying to the ground where he writhed in pain. “Ow, ow!” he moaned causing the men in the bright orange sweater vests to rush in. “Back on the bike,” they said.

He tried to stand, grabbing his calf, his eyes pleading. “I just need one— “

“Now!” one of them bellowed. Then they beat him about the head with their fists before dragging him out the door.

Godfrey locked eyes with Sinead, barely able to see her by the light of the screen. She was number two, the only one left ahead of him. His left knee began clicking, his gut ached, and his sweat was suffocating him like a mask of lava, but he kept going. She stood up to get more power, this was not her way as she usually played it slow and steady, but with Kirkpatrick gone things had changed. She gave him a cocky smile, but she wasn’t used to the high velocity and she came down wrong, twisting her ankle with a loud crack.

Godfrey’s bike dinged and the busy bee danced on the screen, “Congratulations to the winner, #460. Enjoy the Meditation Booth and two extra protein cubes!” He felt the urine funnel detach. “Dismount… now,” it said.

He choked down his anxiousness and jumped down, avoiding the envious glares as the men in bright orange sweater vests led him down the damp, dingy hallway to the elevator. One of them opened it and Godfrey stepped inside, greeted by the easy-listening music. He stood for a moment before sitting down and pulling up the heavy carpeting from the corner. He stared at the man-sized hole, half not believing it was there. He knew he would be able to fit with his thin frame.

He went feet first and tried to ease himself down but towards the end, he got stuck and twisted his arms in a panic before managing to maneuver his way out of it. He dropped down in front of closed elevator doors. His arms felt like jelly and he thought his shoulder might’ve been dislocated. He grabbed a piece of wood, wedged it in between, and yanked it to the side. The doors rattled open.

As he jumped through, he heard the guards say up above, “Times almost up.” Godfrey scanned the area. There was a set of doors at the front. He charged at them before noticing chains were woven through the door handles and interlocked.

He heard murmurings above, “through the floorboard!” Then someone shouting orders. His eyes landed on the men’s room sign. Maybe there were windows. It was locked, but the women’s was open. He quickly slid inside only to find there were, in fact, no windows, no toilets or sinks even, just empty stalls and medicine cabinet mirrors lining the wall. On the last one was the other side of the locket, draped over the top. She had been there. She was showing him the way out.

He looked closer. Crumbled pieces of paper were shoved all around the sides of the mirror. He began pulling at them, smoothing them out to find a blueprint of sorts. Crude drawings of little stick figures on bikes attached to squares marked “batteries”, “motors” and, “inverters” with a line drawn underground and going all the way to the hills where boxes were marked “houses” and lit up in bright yellow marker for lights. Houses that were supposedly destroyed. Houses where the rich lived, before the war. At the bottom, it said: “A New Generation of Power Through Unwavering Biking for the Upper Class.” He turned to notice the slight light that was circling the mirror in the spaces where the papers were. He pulled on the mirror, it moved. He yanked at it again, as shouts in the hallway got closer. “Search the whole floor!” One of them hollered.

He put his shoulder into it. The whole thing fell out, crashing at his feet. “In the bathroom!” another one said right outside the door. Godfrey stared at where the mirror used to be, into a tunnel with a bit of light at the end. He jumped onto the mirror and hoisted himself up as they busted in, yelling, “Grab him!”

On his hands and knees, he traveled like a rabid squirrel through the tunnel. They were gaining on him, but once again his slenderness was a benefit, and they were stuck at the end. He continued, thoughts of freedom flooding his mind. He could already feel the sun kissing his face. Maybe she would kiss him, too. His heart pounded, he was getting out of this place, all he had to do was keep going.

Then a familiar sound crept upon him. At first, he thought he had to be imagining it, the awful whizzing of the wheels, then… “Push through, you’re only as good as your work!” Godfrey slowly peered out. It was a room just like the old one, with the chipper busy bee and dead-eyed, worn out, defeated workers including Kirkpatrick, Sinead Perkins, Thomas Toothfine, July Stevens, Ana Mendez, and Daisy Appleton without her heart-shaped locket. All there spinning. Endlessly spinning.

The men in bright orange sweater vests yanked him down. He struggled with them, frantically pushing, punching as he headed for the only door. He flung it open, falling into a dark, empty room as he tried to hold them at bay with a large desk. He stood, taking in the massive observation window. Out in the distance he saw the houses on the hills were brightly lit. Power. Electricity. It was all true. They had pedaled in the dark so the rich could live in the light. A hand landed on his shoulder, then they were all on him, dragging him back… back as the awful buzzing noise overwhelmed him.