The corpses dissolved in what the manual defined Draining Division Zone (acrostic on which some wiseass had invented the name Demographic Drop Zone), poured in the Drainage Area underneath and from there on it was plausible that they were just lost forever, absorbed by the soils. Within a certain range around the Tank, the underground had to be soaked with them.
A loud metallic noise informed them that the truck’s distribution valve had closed.
The Operator quickly moved to unplug the hose from the nozzle and close the wicket gate. Giovanni had to make an effort to stop fantasizing about the dark lair where tenths and tenths of corpses were still silently melting, and looked at the official. In turn, the soldier stared at the clipboard Keeper Corte had in his hands: was is a tremor making it vibrate? Probably. It was because of the cold, no doubt. What else could it be?
Giovanni, who was still keeping hold of the pen, quickly signed at the bottom of the Cleansing Bill. He then gave the clipboard to the lieutenant who, without a word, ripped the carbon copy and handed it to him so that it could be filed in the Tank-related documents. In the meanwhile the anaconda was rolling back to its nest in the back of the tank truck.
“Do you know what to do now?”
Giovanni hoped not to be wrong. “Of course, sir. Open the Drainage Openings for at least an hour.”
A laconic “Good work, Keeper” was all the officer answered him. Maybe he had tried to trick him again and had no success. Or maybe not. Maybe it was his way to tell him you’re good. Giovanni was growing excessively defensive attitude towards the NCOs.
Alone again, closed up in lift’s cabin, he let out a long sigh studying the puddle of dirty snow that was expanding under his feet. With his back leant against a wall he let the vibrations penetrate in his bones like an invigorating massage. He caught mid-air, with a quick movement, the bill that was slipping through his fingers, risking to become an intelligible scrap of paper. In case of an inspection he would be accountable for his negligence. Sure, that was just a copy. The original would be stored in the Camp’s central archives. But that was his copy, the one that had been given to him. He was accountable, like for everything else. He thanked the heavens for his quick reflexes despite the physical and mental torpor.
He was right to think that the first Cleansing would unnerve him. Not for the procedures themselves – which had been carried out as expected, apart from the hitch of him almost signing too early – but for the images that got into his head and, sooner or later, would undoubtedly come to him in his dreams.
The first thing he did after going back to his apartment and filing the copy of the Bill in the appropriate binder was to activate the Gates’ commands from the console in the Control. It was the first time he really did so, but it was a very easy procedure. Two simple levers under the DO label had to be lowered. Cla-clack, almost at the same time. And two small red lights informed him that everything was going as expected.
On the roof of the tank two large horizontal panels in reinforced fiberglass were being lifted by hydraulic pistons. Their task was to avoid saturation from the gasses produced by the acid’s corrosive action in order not to make the convicts die too soon and avoid any infiltrations in the Ring at the next Unloading. The Shutter’s door were hermetic, but as an additional security measure there would be no deliveries in Cleansing days until the late afternoon.
There had to be many inches of snow on the roof; but the engines activating the GOs were calibrated to face natura obstacles. The Openings would stay open for at least one hour: the estimated time for the miasma to disperse. It was the Keeper’s task to close them and write everything down on the Register.
After being sure of zealously complying to his duty Giovanni stooped to look at the Well. He squinted to see better.
The bodies belonging to the most superficial layer seemed a lot smaller, like worms plunged in their putrid phosphorescence. It was the effect produced by the lowering of the level. The distance between them and the camera had increased, since many had been – to say it in lingo – drained. Giovanni felt his stomach twitch thinking about the Draining Division Zone, the shapes that the corpses must have taken down there…
The convicts that hadn’t been reached by the acid were thrashing more vehemently than usual because of the panic caused by the inexorable descent. There was also the devastating effect of the vapor emitted by the corrosion of flesh and bone.
The Openings undoubtedly helped make it vanish, but in the meanwhile the lungs of everyone that was still alive were filled with gas and it surely wasn’t pleasant. Giovanni wondered what they could vomit, having nothing in their stomachs… probably even their their screams were distorted, their throats filled with natural and chemical gasses produced by the Elimination process.
Driven by a sudden, morbid curiosity, Giovanni slowly reached out for the green button labeled AUDIO CHANNEL. He had never done that before, in that month or so he had been there. Nor had he ever wanted to. But in that moment – slave to emotions he had never felt before, his brain trapped in barbed wire, his whole nervous system flowing with an undefinable aggressiveness and unjustified remorse – he thought that hearing the screams and howls and roars at high volume would be helpful in a way he couldn’t explain. Unable to scream himself, maybe satisfying that perverse need could be a way of venting.
But his intentions remained such. A sudden beep forced him to come out that dangerous mood, and a message appeared on the Postman’s screen. “The first Cleansing went ok. No confidence to civilian operators.”
Before he could even think about an answer Giovanni noticed there was a fax waiting for him. He took it and read it impatiently. Two triple deliveries, that afternoon. Good, he had all the time in the world to calm down. So, who was it this time? Thieves, murderers, children prostitution panders. Worms. Worms even before becoming so inside the Tank. It was a pity they wouldn’t be alive to see the joy of the next Cleansing.
He had to dedicate some time to lifting weights. It did him good. It calmed his nerves and built his muscles. He would also run later. But first he had to answer to that message, because if he didn’t somebody could think he did not take their approval and advice into consideration. He didn’t want to give such an impression, of course not.
He stared at the agony inside the Well for a few more seconds. Then he turned his gaze back to the internal communication screen. There was nothing about him almost signing the Bill at the wrong time. It was for the better. Had there been anything about it he would probably really scream. Just to relieve the tension in his chest.
After a short reflection he decided that a laconic “Thank you” was enough.
9 – The White Triangle
His memory gave him a sudden gift during the third week of February.
He had had two triple deliveries in the morning. And a single one awaited him at 5:00 P.M.. He never understood the process behind such unbalanced subdivisions in the day. These matters were tied to the NMO’s judiciary system and he, as a civilian, had no right to know anything. Unless, at the end of the year, he would confirm his presence as a soldier; in that case he would gain access to a good part of the notions that were unknown to him. But – unless he changed his mind in the meantime – he wasn’t keen on doing so. He was proud to give his contribution to the Order, but once he put his hands on the compensation… well, his expectancies for the future were way different. There was the tropical island. The rest would come naturally.