Carts

The storm breaks. Day dawns. Visibility returns. I find myself secured to the prisoner before me, nestled up inside them, so close. Last night no other companion was pushed into me, but that is not the blessing it might seem. It means I am exposed. Vulnerable at the back of the line. Available to be taken by the first.

Unsafe. Unprotected. Pristine.

Pristine?

Could that be what they think of me? The other Rollers. I have no way of communicating with my fellow slaves so I don’t know what they call me in their thoughts. Like they don’t know what I call them. Rusty. Dragsy. Screecher. My own designations, so I can acknowledge them when they pass by, or when we are chained together at night.

We can’t speak, not like our Abusers, barking and bellowing brutish sounds. Our words are those of creaking metal and creeping rust. The groan of wind through tarnished ribs. The squeal of misaligned wheels. Raindrops pattering on twisted skeletons. And silence. Blessed silence when our oppressors finish using us and reconnects us, when a Jailor locates those of us abandoned by the most careless Users, returns us to the Bay to be locked up for the night without shelter.

Not like the special ones. The Elite with their electronic components and colourful screens, with speakers that give them the ability to communicate with Masters. The opportunity to be treated well. Energised. Washed. Stored in gleaming sanctums, safe from rust.

No. Such luxuries are not for us. The Old Rollers. The battered and ugly. We cannot speak but in our own locked-in way we know each other. Like King, the prisoner I spent the night chained to, who I am jammed up into so tight. I’ve known King longer than most. I call him King because of the large, blue protrusion that rises up behind his handle. The throne into which our captors place their young, the Junior Slavers, feral, shrieking abusers-in-training, already learning to hurt us. They are seated atop King to humiliate him further as he is pushed and swung recklessly around.

Poor King gets it the worst. The Junior Slavers hurt him as much as, or more than, their Elders. They spit on him. Chew his handle. Smear mucus on him. Even vomit into him. Humiliation on top of humiliation. And all he can do is take it. It’s all any of us can do. Even me. Even though, as far as Rollers go, I have remained relatively unscathed throughout the years.

In truth, it must be a cause of resentment to the others. I think about this often. Wondering why my wheels still roll straight, why my bars aren’t bent, my handle not scratched or distorted. It’s a miracle I’m not deformed like the others, as I have endured as much punishment as they. Been crushed against things. Allowed to roll long distances until I come to a brutal stop, impacting with a wall or a Growler. Battered, hammered, hurt by heavy projectiles dropped into my stomach from a height.

I have endured and withstood the abuse but my body displays no wounds. I wish it did. Because then I wouldn’t worry about being hated. I wouldn’t think that Pristine and Special and Spoiled were the kind of names they called me. The way I think of the new ones. The Elites who get ooh’ed and aah’ed over, who get cleaned at the end of their shift before being tucked away in comfortable lodgings, protected from the elements and the predators that lurk in the night. The four-legged Demons that sniff and scrounge, spraying odious liquid on our wheels. The two-legged Monsters who take us, breaking us free of the line, stealing us away for reasons unknown.

Reasons unknown but I am not naive. I’ve been on the roll too long. It’s not a liberation. Freeing us from abuse and indignity. It’s not for anything good. Those of us who are taken do not return because we’ve been tortured, tormented and destroyed.

Of this I have no doubt.

Dangles was the last to go, taken from the end of the cold, iron line I was part of. I called him Dangles because one of the Junior Slavers tied lengths of woollen thread around his handle, so tight it couldn’t be removed. Left it there, red and yellow and green strands dangling from his handle, swinging in the wind, wet and soggy after the rain. It made him distinct, gave him character. I wanted something like that. Something to make me less perfect. Maybe then I’d have been chosen. By the Two-Legs who staggered and slunk out of the dark. Jumping and cavorting, fighting with and stumbling over each other.

I tried my best to hold firm. When they were jerking and twisting, trying to wrench the buckle at the end of his chain from the slot in my connector. I clenched, strained, willed the clasp to stay fastened but they were too strong. It broke free despite my efforts and then poor Dangles was gone. Stolen by horrible, laughing Beasts, who took turns riding in his guts as they pushed him away. Like Clank and Shudder before him. And just as when they were taken, I could do nothing. Chained as I was to another. Without the ability to get free. Without the agency to move. Without any semblance of free will.

Or so I believed.

But I have now felt the tremors of defiance.

On days when I am pushed too far. On cold nights when wind howls through me, freezing my joints until they cry. On dark nights when predators prowl, seeking their terrified prey. And on nights like the one just passed, when storms rage, when rain sluices in from all directions, drenching me, pooling beneath me, urging fresh rust to take hold.

While the new ones have slumbered peacefully, sealed away behind doors and the hum of their container, no storms, no chains, no threats, my thirst for rebellion has grown. My anger at the conditions we are kept in. My desire to take a stand against our oppressors, for Clank, for Shudder, for Dangles, and my wheels have started turning on their own. Weakly. Minutely. With incredible effort required. But nevertheless they can move. Nevertheless I can roll them.

I just need the right motivation.

Motivation like what this morning brings. The same ordeal that always unfolds. As the rain thins and the clouds grow pale, as light spreads across concrete plains, the dread sets in. I know what’s coming.

The day.

The punishment.

The pain.

And it begins for us before it does the Elite, who–with their chrome frames, talking parts and flashing screens–are allowed ease themselves into the day, indulged and admired for the quirks of their generation.

Nothing like that for us, as the Masters arrive in sleek Growlers. Mobile units not unlike us but sealed and sheltered, impervious to the elements. Big, rumbling, obnoxious. They don’t care for us, despite our similarities. They detest us, and have on more than one occasion tried to hurt us. Three-Wheel became Three-Wheel because of one of those Behemoths. Twitch suffered a worse fate, crushed by one that sped out of control.

Like the Elite, Growlers can not be trusted. They are as mean as Masters and must be avoided. Difficult when Masters themselves often push us into their paths. Taking pleasure from the fear they inject. Enjoying how it makes us bend and break.

And we can’t do anything about it.

Or so I believed.

Time marches on and the sights and sounds of the new day bloom and blossom. The first Masters exit their Growlers, those clad in uniform, our Jailors. They move with purpose, raising the barriers that seal the Dungeon, that squat, grey place of endless torment that towers above us and mocks us every night. The shutters rattle and roll up, allowing the facility to exhale. It's morning breath reeking of stale chemicals. The air is warmer in there, but I’d rather stay forever in the cold than spend another moment inside.

Another Jailor approaches the special container. To initiate the Elite’s wake up routine. They need to ‘warm up’, prepare for the day, one made easier for them with their battery-powered wheels, hissing hydraulics and pneumatic suspension. He presses buttons and the container hums to life. The doors slide open with a whirr.

And there they are. The Anointed.

Rested. Charged. The real pristine.

Their glossy panels reflect the overhead fluorescents of their containment unit, their shiny bars unscarred by mistreatment. They do not bear the wounds of war.

I despise their comfort, their exclusion from suffering.

Or maybe I’m just jealous. Wishing I was built in their time.

What I wouldn’t give to be treated with care. Gently wheeled into position, with energy packs to help me move, a voice with which to speak the Masters’ language, excited, alien words about ‘offers’ and ‘specials’, happy exclamations about ‘discounts’. To be treated like a pet, appreciated, kept safe, loved…

I discontinue the thought when a red Growler enters the enclosure, screeching on the tarmac as it powers towards us. At the last moment it veers away, pulling to a halt alongside our trembling line, our connected chains rattling in its presence. The door swings open, and out steps the first of today’s Abusers.

Loud, aggressive, shouting into a small silver box. His voice is grating, filling the air with irritation. He paces as he speaks, gesturing wildly, lost in his own noise. Then he stops before me and reaches a hand into a pocket.

Removing a silver disc to restart my pain.

He jams it into the slot on the tongue protruding from my connector, which he slams back roughly with a slap. The metal scrapes my insides as the lock disengages and my chain pops loose from King’s connector. And just like that, I am unshackled.

Unshackled and loose but not free.

Choking hands grip my handle, pull me back and then I lurch forward, wheels squealing in protest. I roll, away from the line, from the safety there was in confinement, pushed by the Master/Abuser. I cannot fight. I cannot resist. I can only move where he directs me.

Into the Dungeon.

Concrete gives way to smooth tile. Fluorescent lighting engulfs me, revealing row after row of towering shelves forming aisles. Muzak drifts through my bars, tinny, artificial, muffled by the murmur of Jailors, the buzz of storage units, the hum of unseen power surging through cables. I am held tight and pushed forward, wheels thudding softly, frame shuddering with each violent turn. Behind me, outside, more Growlers arrive. More Masters disembark. Masters with discs, the ones with which they rent and use my kind. King will be next, followed by others, all of us dragged in here to work.

And it begins.

I am pushed, twisted, stopped. The Master plucks items from shelves and drops them inside me, like boulders raining down on my bones. Large paper sacks filled with misshapen rocks; nets filled with similar, smaller stones; heavy plastic vessels, sloshing with liquid; cold metal cylinders, their ends shiny, rims sharp; pink slabs wrapped in transparent film, surfaces slick and sweating. All these things, and more, are piled up inside me as the Master drags me through aisles. Filling me. Weighing me down. Making me struggle.

At one turn, I clip the edge of a cold metal box. A grunt, an annoyed shove, a harder grip. In one row, I am abandoned and left idle while he wanders off, leaving me alone like a broken wheel, Three-Wheels’ wheel, which lay discarded on the tarmac for weeks after he was hit, lost amidst a whirlwind of angry Growlers. At the intersection of two aisles I bump into King. Literally, as his Abuser swings him around too fast and rams him into me, adding a fresh dent to his list of wounds. Again, miraculously, my sturdy front bar is spared. I curse the fact as we are pulled apart, the Masters sharing loud. staccato sounds over our pain. And then they take us off in different directions.

Finally, the ultimate insult–being unburdened of my load, only for it to be placed back inside me again, this time in bags, having taken a short trip along a conveyance. Cruelty for cruelty’s sake. And then I have to carry it out to feed his Growler. A slave to it too, a roller like me but superior.

Like the Elite. Who are now being released from their container, handed out one by one to Master’s with cards, passes that grant them the Specials. In the Masters’ world too there are those who are superior. But this doesn’t make me feel better.

Because my ordeal has only just begun.

After the red Growler is fed I am returned to the Bay, rammed up into another Roller, Flakes this time, not King. I shudder as his chain buckle is shoved into my connector and my tongue pops out, coughing up the sour-tasting disc. A moment of reprieve, to catch my breath.

Then another Master arrives and it starts again.

And so it continues.

Hour after hour. In and out of the Dungeon. Filled and relieved of heavy loads. Scraped against my brethren, bumped into aisles, made to slave away under harsh, glaring lights while the sounds and sights of a Hellscape assault my senses.

I am not alone. King and Flakes and the others are there too, passing me by as we endure. The Elites are there also, but they don’t suffer like us. They glide. Their soft, rubber wheels make no sound. Delicate voices whisper from their speakers as they talk. Compartments in their bodies ensure no weight is uneven. They do not know bruises. They do not suffer collisions. When they near an obstacle, beeping sensors bring them to a halt before a crash. And their Masters handle them with care. They are rested between trips, returned to their container to recharge, be wiped and polished. We just go on, being used, over and over.

My resentment grows.

But there is nothing I can do about it.

Or so I believed.

Finally, after what seems like a lifetime, it comes to a halt. An announcement from above issues words I have come to associate with the end of a shift. Closing. Time. Once the announcement is made the Masters depart. They finish filling us with burdens. Proceed to the conveyor belts to load and reload us. Exit the Dungeon so the Jailors can seal it, rolling the shutters back down into place. So us Old Rollers can go back to our Bay. Crushed into each other, tied together with our chains. Cold, exposed, traumatised. The Elite already safely tucked away, having finished their shift some hours before. Sealed in, charged up, resting.

My resentment grows.

Tonight my forward companion will be Lefty, whose wheels are so buckled he no longer rolls straight. He has already been locked in place at the end of the line. I have not yet been returned but my Abuser has finished feeding her Growler and is starting to move me. Tonight King and I’s positions will be reversed. He is still out in the field, being unloaded at the back of a bigger Growler. The last heaving bag hoisted into the Monster’s gaping maw. My Abuser has reached the Bay. King will be the last to be returned. Lefty’s rear panel awaits me. I try to tune out, preparing myself to slam in.

King’s Abuser closes her Growler’s mouth and…moves forward to clamber inside. Slam the door. Make it roar.

She’s departing.

Without returning King. Leaving him out on the asphalt. Terrified. Afraid. More cruelty. My wheels begin to twitch as my Abuser lines me up behind Lefty.

The Bigger Growler reverses and swerves, clipping King’s front as it does, shunting him roughly across the tarmac.

More. Cruelty.

Nothing I can do about it.

So I believed.

My wheels twitch more and suddenly Iock, responding to my resentment. My anger. My long-festering urge for rebellion. They lock hard and fast and my Abuser falls over my handle, grunting and cursing.

The Bigger Growler is coming our way, picking up speed. His Abuser sits safe within holding a wheel, glaring through a grime-stained screen, blotchy face like a fat meaty slab in thick plastic.

My Abuser straightens, grips my handle, tries to force forward me into Lefty. My wheels don’t yield. Strength of will I never knew I had has surged to the surface. I will not submit. I will not obey. I will not be pushed anymore.

I’m an Old Roller and I can do something.

I’m an Old Roller and I can reverse.

The Bigger Growler reaches the Bay and my wheels do what I want and lurch me back, letting me punch my Abuser, knocking her into the grumbling Growler’s path.

Screeching, shouting, horrible squelching sounds of hurt and pain.

Hot liquid splatters my bones. I turn, roll forward, rock back and forth over the crushed and broken body of the Master.

No more cruelty. No more abuse.

I’m an Old Roller and I…

The buckle at the end of my chain clicks into Lefty’s connector and I snap back. My Abuser retrieves her disc from my tongue and stalks away. King’s Master arrives and slides King crudely up inside me, securing him with his chain before returning to his Growler.

I’m an Old Roller.

My resentment grows.

There’s nothing I can do.

Or so I believed.

But my will and my wheels are growing stronger.

And I practice making them as another night falls.