Free The Industry by Rose Foster Page A

he thrashed around. The cuffs weren’t made of steel but a tough nylon cable.
    â€˜Got to be kidding me! What?’ he bellowed, catching Kirra studying him.
    â€˜Nothing,’ she said with a shrug.
    â€˜Good!’ he spat and resumed his task.
    Kirra fought off the desire to laugh at him.
    â€˜It’s just plastic. Bite through it,’ she suggested snidely.
    He glared at her. ‘It takes more than that. These are police-issue cuffs! They’re not designed to give in to teeth!’
    Kirra shrugged once more, wondering how he could possibly know whether they were police-issue or not. He probably just wanted to sound impressive. It seemed like the sort of thing he might do. She closed her eyes, willing the hours to pass, wondering hopefully if Milo’s imprisonment in her cell might be only temporary whilst they set up another.
    The next time she looked over, he was chewing into the cable. She smirked and resisted the urge to say something childish.
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    A week passed, during which Milo seemed to become more annoying than before, something Kirra hadn’t thought possible. He remained adamant that it was only a matter of days before some rescue team burst through the door, arrested Latham and his men and escorted Kirra and Milo to safety. In fact, he rarely stopped going on about it. For Kirra, the hope of rescue had died alongside Lena.
    â€˜Have you ever tried escaping?’
    She looked over at him. He had long since worked off his cuffs, but always stayed in his corner. Kirra had not offered him one of her blankets, reasoning that he’d ask if he really wanted one. His hair now hung limply around his ears, as though curling was too much effort for it.
    She turned away. The last thing she wanted to discuss with Milo was Lena.
    â€˜Well? Have you?’ he prodded.
    Kirra ignored him. She got up and stretched her legs. She was so hungry. Too hungry, really. The recruits were now taking it upon themselves to bring in food, but it was mostly raw or unassembled and they often forgot. It had been a day, perhaps more, since they’d last remembered.
    â€˜Why don’t you speak to me?’ he asked after a moment, his voice low and his eyebrows knitted together. He too clambered to his feet. ‘When I was alone I would have given anything for someone to talk to. Figures that I’d get some brat who doesn’t want to speak.’
    â€˜Stop,’ Kirra said quietly. Her head was spinning and her stomach was twisting. ‘Please stop talking.’
    â€˜You are so frustrating!’ he snarled.
    Somewhere in the aircraft hangar someone started hammering something and the sound of metal scraping against metal ground into Kirra’s head.
    â€˜They’re probably fitting a new door or something,’ Milo speculated, scratching a caked piece of earth from the knee of his pants.
    Kirra dropped her chin to her chest. The room seemed to be shifting gently, tilting as though they were on board a ship. She blinked once, twice, and felt a bead of sweat trail down her spine. The swaying sensation was growing stronger, the metal clanging continued with increased enthusiasm, and all the while the pain in her stomach grew. She reached out to the wall to steady herself.
    â€˜You could at least acknowledge me,’ mumbled Milo. ‘You could at least do that. Wouldn’t be too hard.’
    Kirra wanted to say something to him, but found that the words got lost on the way to her mouth. Suddenly, the room tilted further and faster than it had before and, without warning, plunged into darkness.
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    Her eyelids felt like stones against her eyes. Her head was heavy and her muscles sore, but then she felt something soft and wet against her forehead. The sensation was odd … and wonderful.
    She opened her eyes a fraction and came face to face with Milo, who had torn off his coat pocket, doused it in the freezing water from the tap and was now dabbing her forehead with