UnBound - Neal Shusterman Page 0,63
shelling? Better if they don’t. At least their demise will be painless—something they might not be expecting. But after all, on an old opium farm there is no shortage of morphine. Kunal worries more for the ones who don’t get unwound. But that’s not something he can ever say out loud.
The doctor lowers his binoculars and hands them to Kunal. “Shouldn’t there be more?”
Sonthi rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. He glances at Kunal, and Kunal glances away, afraid to meet his eye or draw the man’s attention in any way. “We expect another truck tomorrow,” Sonthi says, and the doctor sighs.
“Go back, Kunal. I should be done here in an hour. Draw me a bath before I return—and please mind your posture.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Binoculars in hand, Kunal makes his way back to the Green Manor, trying to mind his posture and ignore his aching ankles.
3 • Colton
He waits alone in a small room, too terrified to even move. The only light spills through slats in the wood. There’s nothing in the room but an old examination table and a chair. Finally a man comes in, dressed casually, but with the requisite stethoscope around his neck. “Hello, Colton,” he says. “I am Dr. Raotdanakosin. I know this is a mouthful, yes? Laotian names are long and never used twice. You can just call me Dr. Rodín.”
Colton doesn’t want to call him anything. “Are you the one who’s going to unwind me?”
Dr. Rodín laughs. “No, no—I see to your health. That is all. Others will do the deed when the time comes. Please say ‘aah.’ ”
He gives Colton the standard checkup. It seems oddly normal for such a dire circumstance. Rodín’s demeanor is that of any physician. Somehow that makes Colton feel even worse—to be reminded of something normal in the midst of this nightmare. There’s also something else about him that Colton can’t place. Rodín is a doctor, yes, but Colton senses that he’s also playacting the role. Colton can tell that he’s more than just the camp’s doctor.
“You came far,” Rodín says as he examines Colton’s ears. “Only to get caught. A shame, yes?”
“How long?” Colton asks. “How soon will they . . . do it?”
“The Dah Zey works on its own schedule,” Rodín says. “Who can say?”
Then, when he’s done, he steps back and does an overall assessment. “Healthy. You were not on the run for long, am I right?”
Colton hesitates. Will a nod get him unwound faster? He doesn’t know, so he doesn’t respond at all.
“Are they really going to shell me?” he asks, knowing the answer, knowing how pathetic he sounds asking.
Rodín considers Colton, looking at him a moment too long. No, he doesn’t look at me, Colton realizes. He looks at my parts. He looks through me. He sees dollar signs. “Brain disposal is official Dah Zey policy,” Rodín says, “but there are alternatives to shelling.” Then he turns to go, but just before he leaves, he adds, “There are alternatives to unwinding as well.”
• • •
He’s taken to a gray cinder-block building and thrown into a room with a dirt floor and four other Unwinds. There are three boys and a girl, who perhaps they mistook for a boy in the dark, but they didn’t care enough to correct their mistake. These kids couldn’t possibly look more defeated, Colton thinks. There’s nothing in the room but five straw mats, an ancient tube TV that probably doesn’t work, and some sort of prewar disc player. Obsolete technology that seems left there to mock them.
“Looks like you had a fun ride, mate,” says a muscular Australian boy who looks about seventeen. The kid has a real loser vibe, like he was beating up geeks before he was on the run.
Colton tries to say something, but he’s still shaking.
“Not much for words, are you?” says the kid. “I’m Jenson. Welcome to the Magic Kingdom.”
The Magic Kingdom is apparently what they’ve been calling this place. Jenson explains that it started out as some Unwind’s idea of a joke, but the name caught on among the guards. Now it’s official. It’s one of the seven Dah Zey harvest camps—the one closest to the Thai border, which is barely half a mile away.
Jenson points to the two Thai boys, the smaller of whom is huddled in a corner fighting back sobs. The other one, a bit heftier, sits with his legs crossed in lotus position, a relaxed expression running contrary to the other boy’s tears.
“Gamon’s the crying one,” says Jenson. “I don’t think