Saviour

Hyder suffers within the confines of the Wall, where the Uppers trap him and other slaves. In the midst of dystopia, Hyder's back-breaking labour takes a dark turn.

Allowing him one crucial attempt to save his mother's life.

A dark and twisty sci-fi short story from S. H. Miah. A dystopian nightmare backdrops a thrilling story you don't want to miss.

Saviour - A Sci-fi Short Story

The sun had long since been covered by the Wall, as its inhabitants called it. The sun—written about in old, banned writings that Hyder had only heard of from Granddad, never read with his own eyes.

Apparently, before the Wall was constructed in all directions, before the Ceiling wrapped over them to cover what Granddad described as the true sky God created, there existed no barriers between humans and the elements.

No blockades, no violence, no soldiers guarding every exit to the outside world—if such a world even existed.

Just…freedom to breathe air that wasn't funnelled through vents. Freedom to experience winds that weren't artificially pumped into the atmosphere. Freedom to move in all directions, movements unwatched, untapped into.

Hyder didn't believe such a thing was real. At sixteen years of age, and now a legal adult according to the Uppers, all he believed in was God and looking after his loved ones.

Granddad, Ma, his wife Lyla, his six-year-old brother Haadi.

Such fairytales only served to ignite hope within his heart, hope of a better future. And that hope—that was a dangerous thing. If the Uppers sensed hope, sensed a will that opposed their own—

Hyder was a dead man walking. Then, he'd be a dead man lying. Not in a grave, but with all the other bodies of dead rebels, squashed together with lifeless eyes, before they were chucked into an incinerator.

Hyder knew that truth better than everyone.

After all, Ba had died at the hands of the Uppers, his body lost forever, likely fused into the wind which they breathed, ashes scattered into millions of particles.

The day they took him was the last time Hyder saw those bright eyes. That bright smile. That vein along his forehead which Hyder liked to trace with a finger when he was a young child.

“Head down,” Ma had told Hyder shortly after the news arrived of Ba's incineration. “No need to anger them, please.” She'd hugged Hyder, who was only eleven at the time, and stroked his hair.

Hyder always liked it when Ma stroked his hair, but with her hands growing frail and the Uppers’ promised medicine never arriving, weakness had overcome her body.

Such that those hair-strokes and strong hugs…they were becoming things of the past, just like Granddad’s fairytale of the sun.

“Don't worry about Ma,” Ma always said. “I'll be alive and kicking, even if they ‘ave to drag me down there.”

Hyder would laugh at the joke, as would Ma. But whilst his laugh turned to silence, hers turned to a violent cough that wracked her body and made her shoulders shudder.

And Hyder's worry, which had disappeared for mere moments, quickly arrived once again. But worry couldn't last long in the Wall, for there was work to be done, or else.

Employment within the Wall was intense, laborious, spine-breaking, and a host of other words Hyder could use to describe utter torture.

Citizens, or slaves as Hyder and the rest of those inhabiting the Wall called themselves, were escorted through dark and dingy roads littered with dust at seven in the morning, sharp.

Also sharp were the guns biting the spines of slaves who didn't shift quickly enough into the formation of three single-file lines.

A few times, when the tiredness had raked itself over Hyder's skin and bones, he'd felt that metallic death touch against his back. That cold, chilling, biting sensation—as though an embodiment of the Uppers themselves and their emotionless nature.

Within the Wall, death was a trigger away at all times. And the guards made sure that fact was known to all slaves and their families, every step of the way.

The roads within the Wall were misty in the morning, artificial wind stifled by the clouds of dust that lurked over every grimy street corner. Dust that glared at Hyder, that challenged Hyder to breathe it in, that dared him to step out of line and find out what a bullet to the head felt like.

The slaves all moved in unison, in one unit. United in their distaste for the Uppers, united in their inability to do anything about their state.

The Ceiling loomed over them at a height of five hundred metres, made of solid metal and rock and utterly impenetrable. Its ridges were sharp and extended down into the Wall itself, likely from years of rogue slaves attempting to claw a way out.

But they never could.

And Hyder suspected they never would, no matter how much they prayed to God.

The Uppers were on top, the slaves at the bottom. A hierarchy that had never changed, and never would.

Lights weren't turned on at seven in the morning, so the slaves trudged along in a murky darkness that enveloped the world in a strangle hold. The dimness seeped into their bones, and they battled drowsiness with every step to the buses which transported slaves to work.

Hyder usually sat at the back, hands in his lap, in a singular metal block designed as a seat, with bars separating each slave from another.

The metal was devilishly cold despite the long sleeve ragged t-shirt Hyder wore, crunching a chill from Hyder's butt up his spine and right to his skull. He didn't dare glance left, where another slave sat stock-still whilst the door to the miniature prison cell banged shut.

Eye contact was forbidden, after all, with other slaves or with guards.

Those guards, with guns raised and ready to fire, inspected the slaves every step of the way. Rough hands prodding every part of their body, strip searches at random if they were in the mood, and sharp grabs and hits at the crotch if a slave decided to make a noise out of turn.

The day Hyder's life changed forever—he was sitting on the transportation bus as usual, breathing in the stale air with small, uncontrolled pants. His arms and legs aching from the back-breaking work of the previous day. Back slouching as the bus growled and lurched through the roads, other buses prowling to the front, side, and rear.

Hyder glanced out of one of the bus's windows, saw the rows of dirty tin houses line up to watch the vehicle pass as they always did.

Huddled eyes inside, peeking through curtains as the slaves were forced to work.

Work in the mines would begin at seven thirty sharp. Normalcy, the usual, nothing out of the ordinary.

Lights turned on at eight, sharp.

And with those lights flashing, Hyder's life would change forever.

***

The mines always led downwards—that was the rule. Dig down at the bottom, with stairs accompanying each descent into the pit of work. Never dig sideways, never stray from that singular direction as though it, and only it, existed.

The stifling heat of the mines was always the first thing that wrapped over Hyder's body and squeezed. A devilish heat, one that snaked and coiled and wisped as though possessing a will of its own.

After being led to the mines and forced, at gunpoint, to form single file lines, the slaves would descend those stairs. One slow step at a time, commencing at fifteen past seven sharp.

The air grew hotter the lower they went, foreheads sweatier, legs more exhausted, eyes wishing for just one more wink of sleep.

Those who had had enough sometimes jumped over the sides of the stairs and killed themselves. Blood splattered at the bottom like a bullseye target for the rest to aim for should they wish to end their lives.

It was always an option for the slaves, but an option they seldom took. For a reason Hyder could never quite grasp, the will to survive thrummed through them all like a constant beneath their rising heartbeats.

A guard would lug the dead body away, whilst the rest of the slaves continued working amongst the hellish cold and acrid stench of blood.

Today was no less sickening.

Hyder raised the pickaxe above his head and hacked down at the dimly-lit ground—the lights had yet to come on, after all. A tuft of dust whipped up and smacked his cheek, but he wiped it off quickly and returned to work.

Rise.

Smack.

Rise.

Smack.

Little by little, the rock beneath him crumbled, splintering into millions of little rocks and shards. Those shards dug into his skin, but after years of labour, he no longer felt pain.

Just an existential ache deep in his bones, as though attached to his soul itself.

And beneath the rock he'd just hacked at, a fragment of something red glittered in the dimness. Its brightness shone through, much like that sun Granddad always spoke of.

Except this material was very much real, not like the legends of old.

Groans and grunts of other slaves echoed around the mines. Tiredness and lethargy gripping them all in a vice much like the Uppers themselves. Around fourty slaves were thrown into this particular pit, with similar pits dotted all across the confines of the Wall.

All slaves hacked their near-broken pickaxes with that singular focus of finding the red element. All sucked in breaths of dust, unfazed by the stings that seized the back of their throats and the blur blocking their eyes.

Hyder wiped his eyes free of the blur after the last smack of his pickaxe, before glancing down at his feet again.

Hyder could only glimpse the red metal for a second or two, gaze at the sheer otherworldliness of the metal's sheen, bask in the pulse that the metal exuded as though having a life of its own.

The light within the element reached out as if imploring Hyder to capture it and keep it forever. And Hyder ignored the impulse to crouch down and take a part for himself.

Because once a guard saw a slave had found the element, he—

Grabbed Hyder and threw him back. Hyder landed on his butt, right onto a sharp bit of rock. It nearly punctured his skin, but the pain radiated through like constant syringe insertions anyhow.

Another slave's pickaxe thwacked the ground right beside Hyder's skull. Hyder yanked himself up in time to watch the guard kneel down and retrieve a contraption from his pocket.

A strange kind of metal device, far stronger than the pickaxes allocated for the slaves. The guard pressed that metal device into the ground and a whirring sound emanated.

A whirring sound so powerful it was as if the mine itself was being uprooted.

The red metal poked through as the rock around it fell away. Its internal light bashed against the element's walls, as if attempting to escape, such was the strength of its illumination.

The mine lit up from the element's light like a ray of hope. But, like all hope within the Wall, it was quickly snuffed out.

What the red element did, the purpose of the light it housed—information only known to the Uppers.

Once the device had, under the guard's instruction, scraped the red metal from its surrounding rock on all sides, the element was placed into a pitch black bag.

As opaque as the Wall itself.

Hyder waited for the guard to turn to him, and in that turn Hyder spotted something intriguing. Something he'd been eyeing for weeks now.

A little flask constantly attached to the guard's belt, hidden beneath the thick army jacket they donned.

A flask containing a substance guards drank when the mine's dust tinged their throat and caused a violent cough.

The slaves, of course, battled through the coughing fits and hauled up their pickaxes. Struggling whilst the dust didn't relent its attacks.

“Work, now,” the guard shouted, glaring down at where he'd thrown Hyder.

As usual, Hyder climbed to his feet, grabbed the pickaxe amidst the dimness of the pit, and returned to hacking.

Rise.

Smack.

Rise.

Smack.

Rise—

The lights flashed on, signalling eight sharp had arrived. Bright beams bashed into the back of their heads, causing that ever-present sting Hyder's mind had never gotten used to.

In the Wall, the dark was too dark and the light too light.

Then, the roof of the mine above them exploded.

***

Shock struck out as the slaves stared at the guards, the guards stared at each other, and the sneering rock walls stared at both of them as though daring them to make a move.

The air grew painfully hotter as Hyder risked his eyesight peering into the lights above, attempting to decipher the source of that explosion.

And why had the lights turning on been a trigger for it, and not something else?

Dust rained down from the walls and high ceiling as though wishing to bury the slaves, and guards, panicked for the first time in Hyder's life, rushed to the stairs with hurried steps.

One guard tripped over a tough bit of rock. Slammed face first into the ground. Stumbled to his feet, gun in hand and pointed at slaves as though the impulse was instinct.

That fall was a victory in Hyder's eyes, albeit a small one.

Shocks seized the mine like a fist closing around them. The ground rumbled. Crackled. With the anger each of the slaves had poured into it over years of hacking away for that red metal.

Hyder stepped forwards and a bit of rock, not dust, smacked the ground right where he'd been standing. Noise ringing in his ears. Echoing like an entire workday of hacks forced into his hearing.

Wisps of dust curled around his feet as he inched towards the stairs—if an evacuation were to take place, Hyder would need to run. And fast.

The typically heady smell of dust was nearly intoxicating. Hyder coughed, chest wracking, then caught himself by slamming a hand across his mouth.

Stepped forwards once more.

“No movement,” a guard shouted. Gun raised. Pointed directly at Hyder, between the eyes. Death raising its threatening finger.

The acrid smell of rock and old blood sunk into Hyder's nose. He tasted something stale across his tongue—the taste of his blood that was about to be dashed across the mine walls should he take a wrong step.

Shouts from guards above, who'd already climbed the stairs, signalled that the panic was yet not over. Hyder glanced up, the pickaxe an annoying weight in his right hand, and watched as guards sprinted up through the curling dust and smoke to find the culprit.

Whoever they were.

Whoever that utter hero was.

Above, far above at the top of the mine, lights flickered a wink at the slaves, as if letting Hyder in on a secret.

A heavy silence, broken only by the cracks of guard boots on stairs, phased through the mine.

The light flickered again, darkness blinking for the briefest of seconds.

Seconds later, a second explosion rammed into the mine.

This one a lot worse.

***

Hyder stared up with the other slaves, mouth agape, shock running waves around his body. His fist tight around the pickaxe. Legs rooted to the spot. Rock walls leering at him, before leaning over slightly.

As if the mine itself trembled with fear, hunching over from the weight of dread.

A shard of grimy rock flew down from above, cracking a slave on the skull. Blood, ghoulish red in the beams of blinding light, slapped the ground. Split across the rock. The slave keeled over, scream reverberating off the walls, before cutting out into silence.

And that silence perforated the thick air. Slinked over Hyder, raising the hot hairs on his arm. Trickling sweat down his right cheek. Pushing the pungent smells of death and dirt into his nostrils.

Was the entire place collapsing? Would Hyder even make it out alive to his family, to his loved ones?

Another piece of rock fell, then another, like projectiles from the Ceiling. The lights blinked out all the while, plunging them into stark dimness again. More screams from more slaves getting hit.

The guards, who were on the front steps of the staircase leading up to safety, abandoned the thought of the slaves—if they ever had any in the first place, that was. Instead, they rushed up the stairs, guns holstered to their hips, all whilst the slaves watched more rocks crumble from the ceiling and attack them.

Hyder stepped forwards once more, now that guards weren't pointing barrels at him, and then again.

Before a huge piece of rock dislodged from the ceiling, as though freeing itself to fight, about the width of three slaves spreading their hands wide. Blocking out the light as it fell. It plummeted to the ground, crushing five slaves under it, all whilst Hyder glimpsed them splatter into red. And nothing but red.

Horrified, he turned to the stairs and began running, dust kicking at his heels to pull him back. Other slaves followed him, grunts and shouts ringing out across the mine walls. Hyder grabbed onto the first chilly railing and dragged himself forwards, legs aching and arms tired.

The entire mine shook on its hinges, as though about to cave in on itself, as a third explosion overtook the world. The mine jittered as Hyder climbed each step, guards above no longer paying attention to anything but their own safety.

The steps were dusty to the point of slippery, and Hyder's make-shift and near-destroyed sandals could barely generate enough grip. The dust flying into his nose brought with it the scent of something burning, something foul.

Lights flickered, highlighting shadows before hiding them again. Then the lights went out entirely.

Hyder hopped up the next few steps, stumbling despite his hand wrapped around the railing. No single file lines here—it was every guard for himself, every slave for himself.

Bodies swarmed behind Hyder. Other slaves panicked, easy to tell from the fear on their swollen faces. Whilst death wasn't an uncommon occurrence, seeing it up close terrified Hyder, and would surely terrify them all too.

The top seemed an eternity away, guards blocking it from Hyder's view. More bits of rock crashed into the main pit of the mine, which now resembled a grave of rubble when Hyder glanced down for a second.

If Hyder had been down there still—he'd have died in a few heartbeats. If he'd stayed there moments longer, the stampede of slaves to his rear might have ended his life too.

Minutes later, minutes that flowed as well as the sludgy mud on street corners back at the surface, Hyder halted his steps. A guard stationary in front of him, like a massive wall partitioning the slaves from safety.

“Stay back,” the guard shouted, flinging around to face Hyder. Gun pointed straight at Hyder's eyes, black barrel presenting a void he could be banished into with one push of the trigger. “Do not move an inch.”

Guards weren't afraid to kill, especially in situations as dire as this. So Hyder didn't move. Pickaxe in one hand, clenched tight, railing freezing his right palm. Stairs jutting into his sandals, smells of damp dust and burning camped in his nostrils.

This guard was a nasty piece of work—the same guard that had grabbed Hyder earlier and thrown him back when finding the red metal.

The guard turned to the front again and tiptoed in front of Hyder, but a little pivot to the right whilst leaning over the railing revealed rubble that had fallen in front of the open exit. Small holes in the rubble were being opened by the guards to find a way out.

They were locked inside the mine, with rocks falling fast and crashing into the bottom. Should they not get out in time, Hyder would be crushed. And dead. Without doubt.

Yet the guards near the exit persisted, jamming the butts of their rifles into small holes and poking through the rubble for a way out.

Even though the slaves were the ones holding the pickaxes. But the guards, at least Hyder thought, were so entrenched in their arrogance that the thought of being saved by the slaves disgusted them.

Another bit of rubble smashed into the pit of the mine, causing dust to fly up and into Hyder's face. More and more rock fell, some bits large and others small, all creating a death trap that Hyder had to escape from.

If he was ever to see his family again, if he was ever to fulfil that faint hope of witnessing the sun Granddad spoke of, he needed to act. And fast.

Before everyone was buried alive.

“I got a pickaxe,” he shouted, voice tight from being used little. “Can ‘ack through if ya need it.”

“Quiet,” the guard in front of him shouted.

Despite the mere inches of space between the guard and Hyder, the guard raised his gun and pointed the barrel. Straight at Hyder's chest.

“Scum like you do not deserve to live, yet the Uppers give you jobs and a wage. Quiet, and be grateful, or you die.”

The guards all wore masks, but this one had distinctive red eyes that leered at Hyder. Not the eyes of a person, but some inhumane creature as though a large cockroach. He was tall, too, at least a head taller than Hyder if not more. And that trigger finger wasn't as hesitant as Hyder wanted to believe.

Hyder had to be careful, as he leaned over the railing again. More rock tumbling to the ground and shaking the entire mine. The opening for an exit still hadn't been broken, and the air grew suffocating, as if strangling them to death before they ever got buried.

“Got a pickaxe,” Hyder yelled again, even though it could risk his life. “If ya ain't gonna let me do it then take the damn thing from me at least.”

Dangerous words when levelled against guards, but the direness of the situation must have dawned on them. Because the guard in front of Hyder snatched his pickaxe and handed it right to the guard at the front.

More pickaxes came from behind, handed over by the slaves either out of fear or a sense of survival, Hyder didn't know. Slaves followed one another, like packs of scared ants scurrying away.

And then, with knocks and bangs that shook the ceiling and walls, the guards broke open the exit out of the mine. Air, fresher than Hyder had ever breathed, flew into the mine, though it staled as it reached where he stood. Little crumbles of rock stumbled down the stairs, but they did little to hurt Hyder.

He was out, he was free.

At least, he thought so.

Because the guards weren't letting slaves out, not yet. No, they were taking safety for themselves first.

Each guard rushed through to the fresh air, away from the danger, whilst Hyder sucked in a mixture of dust and acrid particles. That fresh air, that sense of freedom, wouldn't be his just yet.

Once the guards were through, with more rocks smashing the pit behind them, they forced the slaves to line up in two single file lines in front of the exit, despite the tumult of remaining in the mine.

The walls trembled as fragments of the ceiling dislodged and flew through the dimness to hack the ground. Some bits even hit the base of the stairs, metres away from slaves still at the bottom of the line.

“You,” the guard said, pointing his gun at Hyder. The same guard who'd thrown Hyder back before. “To the back. Now.”

Hyder nearly froze at the instruction. To the back? But why, when he had been the first slave to move to the stairs, and the first to hand over their pickaxe?

“For your tone,” the guard said. He jabbed the rifle into Hyder's chest, trigger nearly clicking. “Go.”

Hyder shuffled to the back, through the huddled slaves, whilst dust rained on his shoulders and neck. He shivered from both heat and cold, whilst the slaves finally began moving up the stairs, up to the relative safety within the confines of the Wall.

With Hyder relegated to last place. But he was a slave, what rights did he have? What rights did he deserve?

The right to create his own future.

The last guard bringing up the rear was that same inhumane freak who'd taunted Hyder, grabbed him, threatened him with death the way a slave hacked rock. The one who'd pushed him to the back because of Hyder's tone alone.

That guard waited at the exit, eyeing Hyder with those large glowing red eyes, and Hyder made a split second decision that would change his life.

The other guards had gone ahead, rounding up the rest of the slaves, whilst Hyder lagged a bit behind. On purpose. So the last slave in his line wouldn't notice him.

Then Hyder acted.

“What are you doing?” the guard muttered. “Ungrateful—”

Whilst the guard's rifle was lowered, Hyder didn't give him a chance to fire.

With all the strength Hyder could generate, he grabbed the guard by the shoulders and pulled him back onto the staircase. The guard yelped, struggling to raise his gun, but Hyder kneed the guard in the stomach.

The sudden motion caused the guard to keel over whilst Hyder's eyes blurred. As though the energy within him was depleting. Exhausting itself in one last ditch attempt.

As dust flung itself into his eyes and mouth, its nasty tang worsening the blur in his vision, Hyder pushed the inhumane guard onto the railing. Then smashed a shoulder into him, head down low, throwing the guard over the stairs and onto the mine's pit below.

And, whilst the guard fell over the cold metal, Hyder grabbed the flask hooked onto his hip and ripped it away. Before stashing it in his own sleeve, where hopefully the guards wouldn't realise.

The world swirled before him. His breathing rushed in hard and fast. But he was alive. And he didn't need to look down to know the guard was dead.

Hyder joined the line of slaves at the back, that flask nearly burning a hole through his sleeve. Mind whirling with worry in case the guards realised one of their own was missing.

But, whilst the guards kept track of slaves and their grimy faces, they didn't keep track of their masked selves as well. Hyder had noticed that from years of being stuck under their boots.

“You will be sent home today,” one guard shouts from the front at the two lines of slaves. “And questioned meticulously as to who caused this…incident. Ingratitude has made some of you spineless enough to bite the hand that feeds you.”

The threat hung in the air. But Hyder would seize the first day off in his entire life. A day of…what, staying at home with his family?

Taking his rest with that flask of medicine, medicine his mother needed, tucked in his sleeve.

If only he could pass the search before entering his house.

Which, of course, was no guarantee.

***

The Wall's streets were constantly under the cover of darkness, as though every corner held secrets that needed to be hidden. Hyder and the other slaves were led through the stench of dust and old dead bodies to the grimy buses they had been transported to the mines in.

All the while, those two single file lines kept formation like army ranks. Except Hyder fought for no one but himself, and that churn in his stomach couldn't be mistaken.

He was scared. Doubly so, because if the guards caught a contraband item on him, it was death without question.

And not a merciful bullet to the head, either. But torture, the kind meant for rebels who disobeyed the Uppers. Rebels who wished to wage war on those who controlled the Wall and everything within it.

Then, after the torture, he'd be chucked into the incinerator to burn into nothing. His family wouldn't see him. None would. Ever again.

The metal box within the bus felt cramped as Hyder squeezed himself in, letting a guard lock it behind him. Rustiness crept into his nose, causing the air to smell grainy. Cold, a biting cold, gutted his skin no matter how he sat. The ride was less bumpy and more chaotic, as though the bus itself sought to expel Hyder to the harshness of the outside elements.

All Hyder could do was keep his hands in close, fingers playing with each other for comfort. Right sleeve hiding that chilly flask of medicine against his wrist.

Even though Hyder had planned to steal that medicine at some point for Ma, he didn't anticipate the sheer dread coursing through him after he took it.

The bus screeched to a halt at its usual stopping point. The suspension dropped with a hiss, but to Hyder it felt like plummeting, a sinking sensation sizzling his stomach.

The slaves were led out in those lines, bus doors leading out to caked dust and withering winds and a floor that chafed with their steps. Air bashed into Hyder's face as though seeking to scratch his eyes out for his crime.

The searches started, one by one, with guards at the front letting slaves go to their homes after confirming they held no contraband with them, like bits of rock or, worse, the red element the Uppers sought to keep.

Hyder's turn arrived far sooner than he expected, and it took every ounce of energy to quell the nerves threatening to break out. Over the guard's shoulder, he glimpsed his own small house, the curtains slightly open with someone inside—likely Ma or Granddad—peeking through.

“Arms up and to the side,” the guard ordered. “Palms open.”

Hyder did just that, just about balancing the flask, the liquid of which was sloshing, on the top side of his forearm. Though the flask was light, it weighed tons as the guard ran his hands first down the inside of Hyder's arms.

Fingers prodding his skin, looking for anything untoward.

Nothing.

And as the guard searched with his fingers around Hyder's open palm, Hyder tilted his forearm slightly, letting the flask fall silently to rest on the bottom side of the sleeve.

Just as he had planned should he ever steal the flask.

But would his plan work?

Should the guard look closely, inspecting a little lower than normal, Hyder was done for.

Dead.

Without a shadow of a doubt.

The guard tensed for a second, touching Hyder's hand, pressing into it.

“You injured yourself,” the guard said, pressing until a little blood poked out of a small cut Hyder hadn't even noticed. “Do not let it happen again.”

Hyder resisted the sigh of relief bubbling up, and instead nodded, then kept his head down as the guard completed the rest of the search, hands passing over Hyder's shoulders, head, then thighs, calves and feet.

Thankfully, not finding the flask in the process.

Somehow, Hyder had done it.

And seconds later, after walking as calmly as his excited legs would allow him, he reached his front door. Bundled inside, and met the faces of Ma, his wife Lyla, younger brother Haadi, and Granddad.

Finally, he let out a sigh of relief as they embraced him wholeheartedly.

***

Later that day, as the lights on the Wall’s Ceiling clocked off at eight in the evening and wrapped those within in darkness, Hyder crept to the musty room where Ma slept. Though musty it was, the air held with it the scent of something fresh, perhaps like the rose flowers Granddad mentioned when speaking about the old tales of life outside the Wall. Hyder breathed in, and felt revitalised as he grabbed a rickety old chair from the room's corner and pulled it up to Ma's bed, then sank into it with a sigh.

The chair comforted Hyder's back with the touch of nostalgia—after all, it was the same chair Ba sat in almost every day after working in the mines. In fact, Hyder could almost smell his father's heady scent, as though his sweat smelled of musk.

The room itself wasn't too large—nothing in the house was. About the width of Hyder lying down three times across in all directions, the room was an out of shape square of sorts, with concrete flooring and the odd weed poking out to welcome the room’s inhabitants every time they came in. Hyder knew, from experience, that the weeds were as resilient as the slaves—no matter how many times they were beaten, they always stood back up, feigning strength.

“What is it?” Ma said from the bed she slept in, thin rags covering her body but doing little to battle the cold seeping through from outside.

The Uppers regulated the temperature at all times. Which meant the cold Ma felt was a deliberate attempt, in Hyder's eyes, to worsen her condition. After all, though those like Ma stayed at home and were vital to keep slaves like Hyder in check, they weren't useful for procuring the red metal from the mines. To the Uppers, those like Ma were useless, expendable.

Hyder leaned over the side of the bed, taking care not to jostle Ma too much, and handed her the flask he'd stolen from the guard. The flask was a secret from the rest of his family—if they didn't know, then they could survive a questioning.

The guards, after all, would question who had caused the explosions, and if they found a guard missing, would question who had killed him.

The less Hyder's family were aware of, the better.

Ma drank from the flask, coughed once, then sat up straighter, as though its effects were immediate.

“Medicine from the cough, Ma,” Hyder explained, eyeing her closely in case another coughing fit occurred. “Got from guards that drinks it when they got a cough. Good for ya, hopefully.”

“God will be our saviour from the Wall,” Ma whispered after taking another tiny sip. “And He is saving me through my son.”

Ma smiled, wider than Hyder had ever seen, as she crawled over the bed and hid the flask where Hyder couldn't see, before turning back over and kissing him on the forehead whilst holding his hair.

A warm kiss, that of a mother's love, something the Uppers couldn't rob the slaves of even if they tried.

Perhaps Granddad’s hope of seeing the sun again would materialise for Hyder and those suffering within the Wall. Perhaps God, the Being they believed controlled everything inside and outside—perhaps He would be their saviour, so that Hyder could see a world wherein the Uppers didn't subject him to endless labour, didn't force his family to wait in worry every day.

Hyder would pray for such days to come, whether sooner or later. But for now, as the fresh scent of roses spread throughout Ma's room, and as Ma and he traded warm smiles despite the cold within the Wall, these fleeting moments of familial love away from the Uppers…

These moments were all Hyder needed.

Feel free to read any of my other free short stories, or click the all fiction tab above for info on where to find my longer works.

JazakAllahu Khayran for reading.