what　thomas　had　seen　yesterday.　he　still　hadn’t　spotted　the　sun,　but　it　looked　like　it　was　about　to　pop　over　the　eastern　wall　at　any　minute.

        alby　pointed　down　at　the　doors.　“this　here’s　the　box.　once　a　month,　we　get　a　newbie　like　you,　never　fails.　once　a　week,　we　get　supplies,　clothes,　some　food.　ain’t　needin’　a　lot—pretty　much　run　ourselves　in　the　glade.”

        thomas　nodded,　his　whole　body　itching　with　the　desire　to　ask　questions.　i　need　some　tape　to　put　over　my　mouth,　he　thought.

        “we　don’t　know　jack　about　the　box,　you　get　me?”　alby　continued.　“where　it　came　from,　how　it　gets　here,　who’s　in　charge.　the　shanks　that　sent　us　here　ain’t　told　us　nothin’.　we　got　all　the　electricity　we　need,　grow　and　raise　most　of　our　food,　get　clothes　and　such.　tried　to　send　a　slinthead　greenie　back　in　the　box　one　time—thing　wouldn’t　move　till　we　took　him　out.”

        thomas　wondered　what　lay　under　the　doors　when　the　box　wasn’t　there,　but　held　his　tongue.　he　felt　such　a　mixture　of　emotions—curiosity,　frustration,　wonder—all　laced　with　the　lingering　horror　of　seeing　the　griever　that　morning.

        alby　kept　talking,　never　bothering　to　look　thomas　in　the　eye.　“glade’s　cut　into　four　sections.”　he　held　up　his　fingers　as　he　counted　off　the　next　four　words.　“gardens,　blood　house,　homestead,　deadheads.　you　got　that?”

        thomas　hesitated,　then　shook　his　head,　confused.

        alby’s　eyelids　fluttered　briefly　as　he　continued;　he　looked　like　he　could　think　of　a　thousand　things　he’d　rather　be　doing　right　then.　he　pointed　to　the　northeast　corner,　where　the　fields　and　fruit　trees　were　located.　“gardens—where　we　grow　the　crops.　water’s　pumped　in　through　pipes　in　the　ground—always　has　been,　or　we’d　have　starved　to　death　a　long　time　ago.　never　rains　here.　never.”　he　pointed　to　the　southeast　corner,　at　the　animal　pens　and　barn.　“blood　house—where　we　raise　and　slaughter　animals.”　he　pointed　at　the　pitiful　living　quarters.　“homestead—stupid　place　is　twice　as　big　than　when　the　first　of　us　got　here　because　we　keep　addin’　to　it　when　they　send　us　wood　and　klunk.　ain’t　pretty,　but　it　works.　most　of　us　sleep　outside　anyway.”

        thomas　felt　dizzy.　so　many　questions　splintered　his　mind　he　couldn’t　keep　them　straight.

        alby　pointed　to　the　southwest　corner,　the　forest　area　fronted　with　several　sickly　trees　and　benches.　“call　that　the　deadheads.　graveyard’s　back　in　that　corner,　in　the　thicker　woods.　ain’t　much　else.　you　can　go　there　to　sit　and　rest,　hang　out,　whatever.”　he　cleared　his　throat,　as　if　wanting　to　change　subjects.　“you’ll　spend　the　next　two　weeks　working　one　day　apiece　for　our　different　job　keepers—until　we　know　what　you’re　best　at.　slopper,　bricknick,　bagger,　track-hoe—somethin’ll　stick,　always　does.　e　on.”

        alby　walked　toward　the　south　door,　located　between　what　he’d　called　the　deadheads　and　the　blood　house.　thomas　followed,　wrinkling　his　nose　up　at　the　sudden　**ell　of　dirt　and　manure　ing　from　the　animal　pens.　graveyard?　he　thought.　why　do　they　need　a　graveyard　in　a　place　full　of　teenagers?　that　disturbed　him　even　more　than　not　knowing　some　of　the　words　alby　kept　saying—words　like　slopper　and　bagger—that　didn’t　sound　so　good.　he　came　as　close　to　interrupting　alby　as　he’d　done　so　far,　but　willed　his　mouth　shut.

        frustrated,　he　turned　his　attention　to　the　pens　in　the　blood　house　area.

        several　cows　nibbled　and　chewed　at　a　trough　full　of　greenish　hay.　pigs　lounged　in　a　muddy　pit,　an　occasionally　flickering　tail　the　only　sign　they　were　alive.　another　pen　held　sheep,　and　there　were　chicken　coops　and　turkey　cages　as　well.　workers　bustled　about　the　area,　looking　as　if　they’d　spent　their　whole　lives　on　a　farm.

        why　do　i　remember　these　animals?　thomas　wondered.　nothing　about　them　seemed　new　or　interesting—he　knew　what　they　were　called,　what　they　normally　ate,　what　they　looked　like.　why　was　stuff　like　that　still　lodged　in　his　memory,　but　not　where　he’d　seen　animals　before,　or　with　whom?　his　memory　loss　was　baffling　in　its　plexity.

        alby　pointed　to　the　large　barn　in　the　back　corner,　its　red　paint　long　faded　to　a　dull　rust　color.　“back　there’s　where　the　slicers　work.　nasty　stuff,　that.　nasty.　if　you　like　blood,　you　can　be　a　slicer.”

        内容未完，下一页继续阅读