Janie and The Gray: Chapter 1

The bell blared. I flinched. The memory that I called home the entire shift was blown away like a dandelion wish. Sandcastles at the edge of the surf, bright blue sky, squawking gulls, electric green ice cream melting down my hand, laughing to the point of tears, the sunset streaked with every imaginable shade of orange and red, the warm feeling of contentment on the quiet drive home. It was all gone — replaced by my wretched reality.

The assembly line slowed to a halt. My hands continued to work through the motions like a tragic game of charades. I willed them to stop and put my arms to my sides, an act that caused a flood of unhappy awareness of the rest of my body — the familiar ache of my feet, back, shoulders, and arms.

That damn bell was my only tether to time in my windowless existence. I added a mark to my mental tally — one-thousand, one-hundred, and seventy-five. 1,175 shifts. 1,175 days of confinement in the factory. 1,175 days since I had seen my family or friends. 1,175 days since I spoke to anyone. 1,175 days of silent and mechanical servitude to my gray masters.

I stood with my back to the wall, shoulder to shoulder with the other prisoners — arms hanging at my sides, palms open against my thighs, eyes forward, neutral expression — while they inspected our stations. The naked creatures moved methodically around the room, counting parts and supplies with their long knobby fingers, scrutinizing every part of the line, before turning their attention to us.

Tonight it was Buttercup, as I called her. Inches from me, she stared as if she’d lost her spaceship keys somewhere in the depths of my soul — eyes like Pop Tarts soaked in matte black paint and set in deep sockets surrounded by rubbery gray skin. She smelled like ammonia and burnt fish. I fought hard against the gag reflex. There was the familiar static sensation — the crackly zing zapped in my mind.

Work, eat, sleep, shit, shower. The same work, the same slop, the same cot, the same toilet, the same spray-down. Work, eat, sleep, shit, shower. This was my life now. No privacy. No talking. No music. No outdoors. Work, eat, sleep, shit, shower, work — in the artificial light of the factory.

They marched us to the cafeteria. Feed time for the quiet cattle.

I stood in the slop line, shuffling two steps at a time toward Delores as she served tepid porridge to my fellow husks of humanity. I held the bowl and spoon in the required position like a good little puppet. Shuffle, shuffle, stop, ladle.

I found myself staring at her — at it. I wondered what was going on inside that bulb-shaped head, behind those tar-pool eyes. Did it enjoy this? Was it living its best life? Had it always dreamed of conquering a distant world so it could make shitty meals? Shuffle, shuffle, stop, ladle.

It showed no emotion. Its mouth was a fixed, lipless slit beneath three nostrils set in a triangle — or what I interpreted as mouth and nostrils. Its taut skin was a uniform plastic gray, completely void of features — not a wrinkle, blemish, or freckle to be found. Shuffle, shuffle, stop, ladle.

An Oil of Olay commercial bubbled out of the recesses of my subconscious. Despite my best efforts to maintain control, I smiled. I actually smiled. It was fucking weird. My cheek muscles burned under the strain. I regained control and surveyed the room. No one had noticed. Victory. Shuffle, shuffle, stop, ladle.

When the borders of your world are visible and the machinations of each day are indistinguishable from any other, even the most subtle change is like a spotlit ballerina pirouetting across a stage in a dark and hushed auditorium. A prisoner delaying obedience, a stolen glance between man and woman; a gray goblin walking around the shop floor the opposite direction; hose water that’s a little warmer; the loss of a ply of toilet paper. These are the things my mind clings to, revered like holidays and cataloged as major life events in the annals of Janie history: Mr. Big Resistance Day, Tragic Lovers Day, Counter-Clockwise Patrol Day, Hose Water Hysteria Day, O Third Ply Where Art Thou Day.

While deliberating over names for the day I smiled, I noticed the doors. The double doors I was pushed through 1,175 days ago were unguarded. Joffrey’s absence was as subtle as the Vegas skyline on a moonless night. Fifteen maybe twenty yards. Clear path. Ran a 12.7 hundred. Quarter that. Three seconds. Maybe four. Push bar. Opens out. Outdoors. Outside. Out of this nightmare. This is it. If he’s not there when I get my slop, I’m gone. Please God.

I gave myself permission to hope — to feel. My heart rattled to life. A chill washed over me. My skin prickled. I saw my world with new eyes. I was not a canary caged in concrete — fragile and weak and helpless. I was a tiger confined by cardboard. The walls didn’t matter. The aliens didn’t matter. They couldn’t hold me. I ached for freedom and I would taste it.

I thrummed with adrenalized anticipation as Delores ladled the slop into my bowl. Her head tilted slightly as she looked at me. Could she see the tiger? The psycho-static pulse told me that she could. I didn’t care. I was a few steps away from my starting line — to the right turn at the end of the table, to the spot where I would break into a run. Four steps, three steps, two — Joffrey. I stopped short of the aisle as the alien passed in front of me along my escape route. He took his position at the door.

It didn’t matter. I couldn’t go back. I closed my eyes and embraced inevitability. I was going out that door. Try to stop me you fucker. I will rip you apart.

I stepped forward and turned to face the door — the bowl of cold slop in my left hand and the spoon gripped tightly in my right. I exhaled deeply and flung the bowl like a frisbee over the heads of the eating prisoners. I launched as the bowl clattered against the wall and floor — my starting gun. I ran. Hard. Dormant muscles jolted and twitched to life.

I covered most of the distance while Joffrey’s attention was on the bowl. He turned to me when I was a few strides away — my adrenaline-soaked brain absorbing the pain of the psycho-static invasion. He grabbed the butt of the weapon slung over his shoulder as I swung the spoon in wide arc. I drove the handle through the skin of his right eye and crashed into his shoulder at full speed. He flew backward against the right door as I ricocheted into the left door. It swung open — spilling me into the outside world.

Disorienting daylight, asphalt beneath my feet, blue sky, the bite of cold, fresh air. A world without walls. I stumbled forward and ran like hell — rocketing through the empty parking lot toward the tree line. Outside.

Thank you for reading — it means a lot. Drop by my Substack to comment or subscribe.