Waiting Room

 

When the letter from the National Labour Programme arrived informing him of his call-up, Paul knew better than to defy it. His wealthy father pulled all the strings he could but no one could avoid their time in The Slave Gang, as it was commonly known. The letter was brief and direct, he was to put his affairs in order and present himself totally naked to the draft officials when they came to collect him. It specified the exact time they would come.

That morning he'd put in a sweaty final workout in the gym, hoping the strength he'd built up over the years would serve him well if he was destined to be used for physical work. His father said sourly that that was probably how their scout had spotted him in the first place, everyone knew they cased the gyms looking for prime beef.  Rather than batching him up with dozens of ordinary men to be sold by the kilo, they'd probably put him in a specialist sale for private buyers so he'd fetch more money. At that level there was a risk of being sold for export and then he might end up in a jurisdiction with no legal safeguards for private slaves. They might never see him again.

His mother had cried as he started to get ready and he had to send her away. He undressed and dropped his clothes, one by one into the laundry basket. His mother would wash them ready for his return, but like many young men, he didn't have the qualifications to have a time limit placed on his period of service. It was 'unspecified duration' and no-one knew what that meant in practice. There were a lot of empty rooms in the country still waiting for a son to return after many years absence.

Paul thought he'd be OK provided he got an owner who treated his men kindly. He knew he'd have to perform tasks he might not like or be suited to, he'd heard all the chatter about what happened to some 'desirable' men, but he'd survive, somehow. He went to the window and looked out. He would be collected by them in the notorious, unmarked, white van. They reputedly always arrived on the dot, but it was already two minutes past his pick-up time and there was no sign of them in the street outside. 'Maybe they don't want me after all' he thought, maybe his father's efforts to save him had worked. But it was chilly in the room and he shivered.

The door opened behind him and his father came in. "They're here" he said, "They came the back way". He stood aside to let two men in plain suits into the room. Speaking only to confirm his identity they handcuffed his wrists behind his back and buckled a collar round his neck. Then they led him from the room, handing his father the official receipt. "Chin up, son" his father counselled him. 

His parents followed and watched as they loaded him into the waiting van. They shackled him to the wall alongside a hairy, 40 year old who he knew from the gym. They exchanged rueful smiles. Opposite them a younger man sat, sobbing. His face was tear streaked and his nose had been bleeding. "He panicked and resisted", his neighbour said. Paul nodded, that was probably why they had turned up late for him. His parents last goodbyes were suddenly cut off as the doors of the van slammed shut leaving the prisoners sitting in darkness. Then the vehicle rapidly bore them away. The collectors intended to make up for lost time.