Lambs to Slaughter
“And who was right about the bomb?” my mother nagged when I tried to question her authority.
“Gramps,” I sighed.
“Listen to your elders, Noelle. They are the ones who know best. Now, you will wear your hair up like a young lady for the ceremony.”
Every year the letters came. Tubes full of air pressure shoved cylinders stuffed with mail to the processing center to be placed into the proper one for delivery to the recipient. I used to love to hear the mail chunk into the end of the tube, but ever since I turned 14, I dreaded that sound.
“The scientists need you, dear.” Mother explained when I was 12 and just beginning to hear about the experiments above ground.
“And we need the money!” Gramps complained into his gruel. When he joined the covert operation to build a huge underground city in the event of a nuclear bomb, he’d never dreamed the government would gain control.
“You’ll be lambs to slaughter!” he spat.
“It will be fine, there are sanctions.” Mom countered.