It had been the worst day of his life. It had been worse than he could possibly have imagined. He had ridden with her until the end.
As the day had worn on, and the radiation had begun to take its toll he had felt more and more sick. Her hands were partly charred from washing down the boiling hot pipes. And he could feel her stomach trying to vomit. But the iron like grip of the remote control overrode the pain, the weariness, the thirst, and even the vomiting reflex. Time and time again he was forced to watch as her small hands were forced to tweeze out dirt from the hot matrix. Forced to watch, and to feel as her skin had blistered and the flesh had withered on the bone.
After her work she had begged him to stay with her, a last connection before dying. And he had not had the heart to refuse. So he had asked the blocks if he could remain.
He had stayed with her, weak and sick and dying. He had tasted the thin gruel in her mouth, as she had tried to eat her last meal. And he had stayed with her as she shuffled to her bench of a bed to lie down for one last miserable night. Her mewling pleas for the pain to stop only he, and her mute bunk mates got hear.
And then she was gone, and the connection was broken. He sat there in the now-dark cubicle and cried himself to sleep. For he knew, now, why she had called him a monster, for that was exactly what he was. Mr Smith, the monster.
The blocks woke him the next morning. He had ridden out the storm of tears there in the cold, damnable cubicle, wherein he had consigned countless others to the most barbaric of deaths. Powerless to stop their own destruction, they had had to watch transfixed as he animated them in a dance of their own demise.
How many had cursed him in their heads, never knowing his name. And he had never cared one shred, never given it one moment’s thought, and never dreamed that his actions had such horrible consequences. How could he have known?
“You knew,” said the blocks. “You just did not care.”
And he knew it was true. He had seen fingers blistered by heat. He had seen that the hands he guided were frail, and often childlike. He even recalled catching the reflection of one of the zombies he controlled in a shard of broken glass on the floor. He had been transfixed that somehow he was in control of what appeared to be a young teenage boy. But he had never bothered to connect the dots. He had never concerned himself with what these poor retches did on their down time.
At most he had just recited the official company refrain: ‘Those with debts must pay’. But what a price they were made to pay!
“You need to clean yourself. We have unlocked the shower room for your use.” The block seemed to play him as he had played the zombies in the past.
“I won’t do it again. I will never do it again.”
“Good,” said the blocks. “You are making progress. Now you know what she meant, when she said that no one cares.” They paused momentarily then went on, “But we did tell you that this would be the last time you will need to run a remote. Trust us. Now go to the shower and clean up. You have a busy day ahead of you.”
Part 4 - Progression