The pain in his ribs was unbearable.
<
Of course, he didn't say it out loud, because that would get him into trouble, even though he had every right to say it. He was crammed inside a cell full of people. The place literally stank, as if something had rotted in there. No one inside was in better condition than him. Some were even worse.
For example, the old man sitting in front of him. His arm had turned purple, and the bones inside had bent unnaturally, making his arm crooked. Even though Mike didn't know what fractures looked like, he could easily tell that the old man's arm was broken — and in worse shape than his own ribs.
Actually, he was lucky. After the guard's blow, he had escaped with only bruises and less pain than the man in front of him.
Ding.
The electric sound of the door echoed, and two guards dressed in white stepped inside, holding weapons. Their faces were hidden behind masks.
One of them stepped forward and began shouting:
— Number 103. Number 107.
Then Mike heard it:
— Number 198.
<
Without saying a word, he stood up and joined the line with the other slaves. When the guard finished calling numbers, they followed him to their work area — a huge space filled with machine parts.
Their job was to carry heavy tools back and forth and clean the greasy residue from the machinery.
Mike glanced back and saw the old man with the broken arm. Fear was written all over his face.
Mike understood immediately why.
Today they would be carrying machine parts from the upper floor to the lower one. And with the condition of his arm, the old man would lose either his arm… or his life.
Both Mike and the old man knew very well which of the two it would be.