by B D Grant
He doesn’t hand it over to Dr. Baudin. Instead, he climbs onto the bottom bunk railing beside me and cuts feverishly on the twisted sheet.
The Tempero ushers out the boys who have backed away from the scene. As they leave, more Rogues roll a gurney in.
The sheet finally gives way. We direct Boston’s limp body onto the gurney. His eyes are lifeless as his heads flops side to side from the makeshift noose finally being pulled off. Someone checks his pulse. He isn’t breathing. I hear my own heartbeat in my ears. A lady in scrubs climbs on top of Boston. With a knee on either side of Boston’s stomach, she gives him chest compressions as two others roll the gurney out.
Dr. Baudin is left standing at the end of the bunk bed, staring at me. He gives me a slow, disappointed shake of the head. Leaning down to the floor, he picks up the discarded sheet and balls it up with sharp, angry motions as he tosses it from one hand to the other.
A Rogue says something, and I think he’s talking to me, but I don’t hear a thing. Glensy follows him out the room, and I follow. Once in the corridor, I can’t help but stare over my shoulder at the gurney as it’s pushed the opposite way down the hall. Boston is rolled out of sight.
Glensy and I are brought into a part of the complex neither of us have seen before, through a set of double doors.
We walk into a large, open room with a high ceiling. Across the floor are evenly-spaced mats a few feet apart laid out as if for wrestling, a circle taped off in the middle of each one. Against the far wall is a shiny metal staircase that goes all the way up to a platform overlooking the whole room.
None of us have had much physical exercise here besides the spur of the moment burpee contest Glensy and I had against some of the younger guys in our barracks. Seeing all this space so close to our living quarters doesn’t help my mood, but the pounding in my ears has quieted.
The Dynamar who used his knife to cut Boston down instructs us to go to the other side of the room where a reflective glass is set in the wall and stand in front of it. Someone who doesn’t know better might mistake it for a mirror, but it’s not. The glass is impeded in the wall that only makes sense if it were a two-way mirror for someone to watch those in this room without being seen.
The Dyna leaves us, closing the double doors with a loud clank before Glensy or I reach the mirror. Hearing the doors shut, we both stop and turn, unnerved.
“You think they use this space as a modern day gas chamber?”
Glensy looks around. “Why the mats, then?”
“So it doesn’t hurt so bad when we fall out.”
Glensy nods, pointing up to the corner of the room where a camera is mounted. “It helps them sleep easier at night knowing we didn’t hit the hard floor in our last moments alive.”
The knob-less door next to the two-way mirror opens as we approach. A guy backs into the room wearing slacks and a crisp long sleeve, button down shirt, his bulky shoulders entering well before his head. Glensy halts as the guy steps backward out from the doorway clumsily grasping for the edge of the door with on hand. He has the pointer finger of his other hand half-way in one of his ears. I can’t tell if he’s adjusting an earpiece or is just digging for wax.
I don’t recognize him at first, but it’s clear that Glensy does.
“Got it,” he says to someone on the other side of the door. “Er, yes sir.” Recognition slowly dawns as I examine his profile. He was a student with us at The Academy. I can’t remember ever exchanging one word with the guy, but he was in our grade and ran in the same circle as Glensy. He and Glensy were part of Abby and Mase Heincliff’s clique, pre-raid. He never dressed this sharp at school, and I can’t tell if it’s the fitted shirt that makes his shoulders look so much bigger than I remember or if he’s been hitting the gym more. Staring at him, I can’t help but wonder if he’s always had such an tiny head.
When he gives us his full attention, he is equally surprised to see Glensy. He clears his throat. “You have to face the mirror.”
I stand between Glensy and the guy, facing the mirror.
He instructs each of us to recount our day, beginning with the time we woke. I go first. I speak to him, although I look at the mirror. I explain that Boston was upset when he returned to our room, skipping over his nonsensical babbling. I say that Glensy and I left him to rest, purposely leaving Lena out.
Once I finish, it’s Glensy’s turn. His morning is almost identical to mine. To my amusement, he goes into great detail about his midday bowel movement, trying to describe to us the precise color and consistency. After a good few images, his buddy stops him. When Glensy gets to the part where Lena appeared at the entrance to our barracks he falters. He had listened to my recap of the day, so he knows he needs to keep her out of this.
I cover his pause by stepping closer to the mirror to give it a scrutinizing glare. “Why are we being asked to do this?” I point at the mirror and then to Glensy’s old mate. “You are the reason Boston hurt himself,” I bark at the mirror, although I only see myself.
I turn my attention to the Rogue that I can see, giving the one-way mirror my back. “He was fine until YOU did whatever it is you do to break people, good people.” At this, he moves one foot back to angle himself at me sideways, as if readying for a fight. I take a cautious step toward him, and he raises his hands, showing me his palms as if to calm me. But I know that if I were to swing at him he’s ready to block me. I don’t swing at him, but I sorely want to. “You’re scum.”
I’m hit emotionally by a Tempero not concerned with discretion who must be watching us from the other side of the mirror due. I watch as the tension in the muscular guy’s body melts away so swiftly that his shoulders drop a couple of inches. I clinch my jaw, forcing myself to relax, but all I want to do is fight. “You’re lucky,” I tell him through my teeth. But the muscular guy is too glazed over to register my threat. Glensy eyes are half-shut and he’s teetering a little on his feet.
I’m doing my best to glare at the Dyna until his eyes narrow on my again letting me know that his grogginess is fading. He looks around me to ask Glensy, “Did you see Boston hang himself?”
He asks the question as if he didn’t know who Boston was, as if Boston hadn’t joked around with him when we were all simple students wanting to graduate and start our lives. Boston had joked around with everyone at our school. This guy was in our grade and in the popular crowd; there’s no way he hadn’t rubbed elbows with him on several occasions.
I have to work to loosen my jaw. I can’t let this guy make me snap when there is no telling who is watching on the other side of the mirror, or the camera on the other end of the room.
Glensy answers. “No. One of the younger guys, a stage two, yelled for Kelly and me to get in the boys barracks after it had happened. For all I know, one of you maggots did it to him,” he says, pointing as aggressively at the Dyna’s chest as I had.
At the word ‘maggots’ I smile, happy that Glensy isn’t effected enough by the Tempero to throw a decent insult.
I hadn’t thought about anyone other than Boston making that noose. Glensy and I had been close enough to the barracks that we would have seen one of them coming and going from our barracks while we were talking to Lena. Maybe they didn’t physically do anything, but they could have expected what a trigger it would be for Boston to find he was used to weed the skeptics at The Academy, and how guilty he would feel for their deaths. It’s about warped enough to fit these peoples’ method of operation; bring someone down low enough that they do the job for you.
Without responding to Glensy, the Dyna nods to the glass. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he tells us. “I’ll escort you out.”
Before we’re halfway across the large room, the double doors swing open. A group of nine or so guys, all our age, walk in all wearing identical gray shirts and sweat pants. I recognize all but three faces. Like the guy walking us out, they are all Dynamar and all from our previous school. They must have let a lot more students survive during the ra
id than I had thought.
“You don’t want to stick around for some hand-to-hand combat?” One of them asks me giving me smug grin. I was in the same classes as most of these guys. We played football together, shared notes from physics class, but now they’re Rogues, each and every one of them. Maybe they were all along.
Seeing each of them eye me like vultures reminds me how fortunate I am that Glensy didn’t fall in line with all of them the day of the raid. Glensy’s best friend had been Mase, Lia Heincliff’s son. Given the situation, I don’t know that I’d have blamed him if he had given me and Boston a big cianara and joined up. But he hadn’t. Every student had an assigned evacuation site, and on the day of the raid it became clear who the Rogues considered expendable and who they didn’t. Glensy hadn’t made it to his evacuation site the day of the raid; if he had, he would have gotten a gun and been told to shoot on command. Because Mase was on their side, they had planned on Glensy being on their side, doing what he was told, but he never made it. When he witnessed students being shot at without care by school faculty he hid until he ran into Boston and me.
I was assigned to evacuate towards the marsh south of campus. I still don’t know if they would’ve expected me to join up or if it was just a kill site, but I’ve decided that I’m fine with not knowing.
I eye the guys hanging at the back of the group. Two of the guys who were in Dr. Baudin’s class with me won’t make eye contact with me, which I take as a good sign. It renews my faith a little, and it makes me hate myself a little less for being friendly with them in school. Maybe the raid forced them to go the Rogue route. It could have been a join-or-die type of decision.
Lia had tried to get me to join her side the day of the raid in the stage one building when I caught her instructing her son, Mase to shoot the remaining little kids who Anne was trying to protect. Lucky for me, I had my own gun. There are plenty of Dynamar from my old school who wouldn’t have needed a death threat to join a bunch of murdering bastards.
One of the double doors behind the Rogues swings open. As if I had summoned the devil himself, Mase Heincliff walks in with an adult, the instructor of the group carrying a clipboard and wearing a whistle around his neck.
Mase holds his head up triumphantly when he sees Glensy and me. He looks like a rabid dog baring his teeth as he grins at me. “How’s Anne?” he asks. Lia had shot Anne as Lia and Mase were fleeing. Anne died protecting those stage ones.
Through tight lips I hiss, “Anne is a hero.”
Glensy also tenses at the mention of Anne’s name. He was there with me when she died. He also fought them, trying to protect Anne and the other kids.
Glensy rolls his shoulders back. “You should be asking Kelly how your mom’s doing.” I notice that none of the other guys are even pretending to ignore us anymore. They stand idle by their mats, their heads turned toward us even as some avert their eyes. Mase’s grin falters. Glensy chuckles coldly at him. “Or how that pretty sister of yours is doing. The last I saw her she was crying over your mom like a pathetic, little bit—” Mase charges.
The Dynas near him are quick. They grab him, keeping him from lunging at us. Mase lets out a feral groan. The instructor calls out behind them, “That’s enough.”
Hands unclasp from Mase’s shoulders. He shrugs them off. This has been a long time coming. If he isn’t going to follow through, then I will.
There must still be a Tempero watching behind the mirror, because I’m hit once again with an overwhelming sense of docility. The atmosphere in the room calms. I hear the knob-less door by the one-way mirror opening. Out of the corner of my eye, a woman enters the room. With every step she takes, the more intense the emotions become. I want to tell her, “I get it, you’re good,” but she doesn’t matter. I have a score to settle.
I move toward the group of Dynas calmly, and I manage to get myself right next to Mase. With the Tempero now in the room he has all but forgotten about me and Glensy. I get shoulder to shoulder with him, facing the petite, older woman with the ability of several Tempero.
“Anne died a hero,” I whisper loud enough for him to hear before I turn and throw the first punch.
None of his friends are holding onto him anymore, so my blow knocks him backwards, nearly banging into a smaller guy. I give Mase a split second to right himself. When he lowers his hand from his face, I land the next set of punches as fast as I can, knowing it’s only a matter of time before I’m dragged away. I want him to experience every ounce of pain that Anne felt, but there isn’t enough that I could do to him with my bare hands.
He tries to deflect my next swing by throwing his weight into me. He wraps his arms around mine to pin my fists between our bodies, but he can’t block the Tempero like I can. I take a handful of his gray shirt and then pull him in, slamming my forehead into the bridge of his nose. Blood sprays across his shirt as he cries out.
My pulse thumps in my ears again, but this time I take pleasure in the steady rhythm. Hands latch onto my shoulders. I wrap my hand around the back of Mase’s neck and slam him forward, my knee flying up to meet his face.
He turns his head to the side at the last second. His temple makes contact with my knee. He falls to the ground as more hands grab at me.
I feel a pinch in one of my arms, and then the other. I lunge for Mase, who scoots himself back on the floor.
What a coward.
My vision starts to blur, and suddenly my arms feel heavy. Keeping my head up is an effort. I try to grab at him again, but the injections leave me feeling a hundred pounds heavier.
I wake up to a hearty headache.
I’m sprawled out across a couch in a decent-sized office that smells of cigar smoke and leather. The decorations adoring the space are expensive. The rich navy blue walls highlight the various encased sports and weaponry memorabilia. A sleek flat screen television is mounted between two baseballs and plaques with tiny pictures of baseball teams on them. The only way it could be any manlier is if there were a giant buck head mounted to one of the walls.
I run my hand over my face, checking for injuries. Satisfied, I check the rest of my head while I’m at it. I find a good-sized knot on one side before turning slowly onto my back. The couch is hard, and immediately I notice the tightness in my muscles. Right above me, over the couch is a huge set of antlers. I rub my temples. “You may have hit you head when you passed out,” a man’s voice says.
I startle slightly at the sound. I sit up carefully to see who’s talking to me.
He’s on the other side of the office, no one that I recognize. He walks over, holding out a bottle of water. He chuckles with the wrinkles around his mouth deepening, “Who are we kidding; they probably dropped you.”
I take the water, giving the older man a thorough once over. He is close to my grandmother’s age. His pants are synched under a slightly protruding belly. If he was ever into any of the sports that he has displayed in his office, he hasn’t played in a long, long time.
He takes a seat on the couch next to my feet, way too close for my liking. He crosses one leg over the other, leaning back comfortably.
He simply watches me for a moment. The silence and the staring makes me even more uncomfortable. Self-consciously, I twist off the top of the water bottle and bring it to my lips.
“Or perhaps that Heincliff kid got a swing in on you,” he says as I take a swig.
“Fat chance.” I watch my hand as I twist the lid back on, wondering if I should’ve just been quiet. He could be Mase’s grandfather for all I know.
“Well, I’ll see to it that it won’t happen again. We don’t treat our guests that way.”
Guest? Does he think I’m an idiot? Does he not know what happened to Boston?
“You were out for a few hours. How are you feeling?”
I rub the knot on the side of my head. It’s not too bad, but it sure feels like they let me hit the ground when I blacked out. I look at my hands and arms next. One arm has a bandage in the crease of my elbow. “D
id you take my blood?”
He nods. “For testing.”
We stare at each other. “You see, you have something…we all do.” He uncrosses his legs, and then stands. “You, my young man, are lucky enough to be one of us who has a lot of it.” He grins. “And I’d like to see how much.”
He takes a pack of cigarettes off of the lamp stand by the couch. He takes a cigarette out and then passes me the pack. Gran would eat him for lunch if she saw. When my grandmother hosted bridge club at our house, she would take out “no smoking” signs that she kept in the hall closet and hang them inside the screen door. As if the ladies hadn’t been coming over for years and didn’t already know.
“I’m trying to quit,” I say sarcastically.
He nods and the pack is returned to its home on the lamp stand. He rolls his cigarette between his thumb and pointer finger, looking straight at it as he stands in front of me. “It’s a bad habit.” With that, he takes a lighter from his pocket.
He picks up an ashtray as he makes his way to the refurbished, wooden desk where he had been sitting when I first awoke. He grabs a remote from the desk and turns back to face me. Propping his hip casually against the front of his desk, he points the remote at the flat screen television hanging on the wall between us turning it on.
I see a recording of Glensy and me, the mats on the floor behind us – we’re looking straight at the camera. It’s the view from the opposite side of the one-way mirror I never saw. They were recording us. There is no sound as our mouths move on the screen. Seeing myself on the television looking at the camera as if I knew it was there is disorienting.
The old man fast-forwards as I tell the camera about my day, and then Glensy follows. The recording cuts out as we turn away from the camera and begin walking toward the double doors.