Arkapeligo- Rising

by Ma West

  Chapter 22

  Prisoner Lift

  The hours passed by, but no one came to give him his phone call. No one came to check on, process, or even transfer a prisoner, and now Captain Drexter was becoming nervous. He thought back to what the senior officer had said during the arrest: “HQ wants us on post, like, now.” The thought that his capture had been due to a simple lack of situational awareness was most distressing.

  No one had called him in, and no one had ambushed him. He had simply forgotten to look around. Now he lay prisoner, AWOL, surrounded by a few lowlives—drug fiends, by the look of them, a pimp, and an angry man with his head in his hands. A large group of angry men with matching tattoos dominated the cell to one side of them, while a separate group of large, tattooed men were housed in the opposite cell.

  The ever-looming nature of his AWOL status now demanded that his first call be to his CO. The base would send out an enlisted MP with a bucketload of paperwork that he and the local sheriff would have to work out together. Then he would be transferred, in handcuffs, back to base, where he would be put in the stockade until a military judge could finally get around to looking at the case and figuring shit out.

  Instinctively, he worried less about the procedural consequences than the possible consequences of his absence from Sasha. Never before had he been away for more than a day, and even that was a planned exercise for Sasha, and his last time with a woman. Emilia was a good girl, empathic, smart, and military aware. If there was a single other person suited to help Sasha, he hoped she was the one.

  As the day passed, the only person to come through the holding area was a cafeteria worker, who had distributed slightly warm hot dogs in plain buns. Captain Drexter felt sorry for the poor man as he was riddled with a verbal onslaught. The delay and lack of attention had certainly riled up several of the inmates. One man even threw the hot dog back through the bars at the poor fellow.

  Captain Drexter had come to the front of the cell and thanked the man as he received his hot dog. To his surprise, the man handed him a second one. Initially believing it to be some kind of gratitude, he was disappointed when the man gestured toward the inmate sitting motionless with his head in his hands.

  Something new was happening. It was the fog, but different. This fog had a warm embrace, not like before. Sasha’s heart fluttered. Billowy pink and red clouds filled the room. A gentle mist of sweat formed on her skin. Before, the fog had always acted as a clarifying agent, but this was different.

  Emilia’s hand now lay limply on Sasha’s thigh, their arms pressing with ever-increasing tension and rising warmth. An amazing burst of heat and energy rushed through Sasha as Emilia’s head fell against her shoulder. The beauty of the clouds overwhelmed her as they pulsed with the caress of Emilia’s hair against her back and shoulder. The heat from Emilia’s breath blinded and excited her as wave after glorious wave swept across her neck. Lost in a velvety pillow, Sasha’s body stilled, paralyzed by excitement. Flooded by hormones, her body exploded with convulsions.

  The jostle startled Emilia enough to bring her out of her near sleep. Emilia rubbed her eyes, said good night, and left Sasha a raging mess of energy and emotions as she collapsed where she sat.

  Captain Drexter was feeling less sympathy toward the food worker, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose with anxiousness. The man he was supposed to share the food with had barely moved all day. The midtwenties man just sat there with his face in his hands. He had a shaved head and wore a slightly torn, plain white shirt and long, baggy shorts.

  He could feel the change in his body as his thoughts became more aggressive. Why in the hell did he give the black man food for the white racist? Were they trying to play some sort of game with me? I should just eat the damn bastard’s food. He is just a fucking prisoner, after all.

  His pulse was galloping now. Scenario after scenario of violence ran through his mind.

  As he prepared to approach the distressed prisoner, he took a deep breath and looked down, only to notice that he had squeezed one of the hot dogs so tightly that it actually split in two. The physical acknowledgment of his mental state had triggered something in his brain, a release of some sort. The anger and rage were militarily installed. This was something self-learned.

  He took another deep breath and, with clarity, realized that his first step had been very powerful and forceful as a man with a pre-intent mission. Sasha had again entered his mind, and now he understood what change had occurred. He was no longer just an officer. He had become a father.

  Nearing the compressed man, he stood taller, loosened to a simply stern look, and spoke loudly, so as not to come across as weak. “Hey, buddy, here is your dog.” The man remained motionless. Instead of reevaluating, he tried again. “Hey, man, here is your dinner.”

  This time, the man reacted swiftly and angrily, slapping one of the hot dogs out of his hand and onto the floor, and he began an angry rant. “Do I look like I want a fucking hot dog, bro! Do you think a fucking hot dog is going to fucking help me, man! Some of us don’t fucking need a goddamn hot dog.” The man took several aggressive steps forward, close to the captain’s face.

  His heart drummed with a mighty beat, and his body jumped into fight mode, but he fought it off. Images of himself coaching Sasha down and out of the fog ran through his mind. He refocused his body’s surge of energy and brought it back down. He had seen this type of anger before in mess halls and dormitories, and often at home. Throughout most of his life, the man in front of him would have registered as nothing but an immediate threat, but now he was different. “I think you are still worthy of this hot dog. I heard somewhere that all can be forgiven.”

  The words sounded foreign, even to him, but the result was unmistakable. The man paused as his brain reprocessed the unexpected encounter. He thought the man was going to strike him, but instead, he looked down at the dog, which had been squished into nearly two pieces now. The prisoner acted unsure of himself and then took out the dog part, put it in his mouth, and returned to his former position.

  The haze, as Sasha was now labeling it, was slow to dissipate. Its warm energy still pulsed through her body, moving like waves across, down, and through her body. The fog reached out, searching for the object of its origin, its desire, and its maker. Emilia had gone, taking with her its purpose but not its energy.

  Sasha’s hands moved and traced with the waves, but with each outstretch, the fog lost some thickness, and each wave weakened in intensity. A feeling of frustration started to grow, consuming the energy and fog as nourishment.

  Soon Sasha found herself lying on her back, knees up, alone in the middle of the floor. An impulse to visit Emilia’s room was quickly brushed aside, but Sasha was now far away from sleep, alone, and restless. With her last focused thought of the night, Sasha thanked God there was still plenty of beer.

  Well that could have gone worse, much worse, Drexter thought to himself. Only now that the incident had ended did he even consider not giving the man his dinner and eating it himself. Perhaps even that was the food man’s intention; he was another brother, after all. If the man had wanted a hot dog, he would have at least gotten up for it, as there wasn’t anyone in his way. The more he thought about it, the more he regretted his generosity. Why should he, a man who had spent a lifetime of service, now when he was facing the biggest crisis of his life, not be the one to have two damn hot dogs?

  Tossing and turning, he felt his anger slowly rising higher and higher as his thoughts circled and circled. Then, finally, as he neared his boiling point, the lights dimmed and two jailers entered. It was anything but exciting and did nothing to progress the situation, nor was it even amusing, but it was a distraction enough to break the cycle of his thoughts, allowing them now to turn back to Sasha. His blood cooled, but now his stomach churned as he wondered how the hell he was going to explain this one to her.

  The world felt like it was spinning. The pounding of her head, the churning of her stomach, and now the bo
uncing of her couch proved all too much, and Sasha rolled onto her stomach, shifted her head, and puked. She opened her eyes, saw a planter fall off a side table, and closed them again. “Oh, this is awful. I hate this,” she moaned. The world spun and spun, and with some more dry heaving, Sasha vowed, “Lord, I’m never going to drink again.”

  Holy hell, did he ever need a hit right now. By now, the captain was certain that the cell was only supposed to be a temporary staging area, but whatever the hell was going on, it now made his overnight very restless, cold, and uncomfortable. He could just imagine—almost to the point of making it true—that green, stinky smoke tumbling through his lungs, working its way higher and higher, till at last it reached the brain, allowing the body to finally exhale and relax.

  His problems were immense and growing more daunting with every passing AWOL moment, with every moment away from Sasha, and with every moment without his old friend. Obviously he had faced many uncomfortable nights in the field, but it had been some years since his last overnight field event. The realization of his situation only amplified his desire for a smoke.

  He often took inventory of the other cellmates, and the drug fiends were starting to make him nervous. A high fellow would be easy to manage, while a fellow in withdrawals was a much more worrisome problem. The man involved with the hot dogs still lay motionless with his head in his hands, while each of the adjoining cells appeared to be operating under an organized hierarchy, with men rotating positions and sleep times.

  With his final assessment of his current situation, Captain Drexter closed his eyes and spent his last night on Earth tossing and turning over matters that would soon seem absolutely trivial.

  Chapter 23

  The Morning

  As if the night didn’t prove difficult enough to sleep, the morning proved impossible. He wasn’t sure quite how long he had actually managed to sleep, but there was now a commotion occurring in the neighboring cell, and as he scanned the room, he found a flurry of activity in his own cell as well.

  Several of the inmates in the adjoining cell had gathered around an average-sized man wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, rather nondescript looking. The man had his hands around some tools, which were deep inside the lock. An occasional stir of excitement would build as those close enough to observe coalesced to a uniformity of breathing that built and burst with every failed attempt.

  Back in his own cell, a more immediate situation was building. One of the drug fiends was really starting to have problems and was pacing aggressively, twitching, and cursing under his breath. Most of Drexter’s experience had been with guys out in the field going through the DT, and that was difficult enough to manage with a whole platoon at his disposal. Alone, or at least alone on his own side, he thought through various fight scenarios.

  His own fatigue would be a problem. He was no hand-to-hand warrior, and he wasn’t even a combat veteran. For now, he felt it best to stay off the drug fiend’s radar, and the best way to do that was to simply lie still and hope he was written off.

  It was a good plan, until needing to pee changed the scenario.

  He moved cautiously, only when the fiend was facing away. It was a slow process, and he had already waited a while, so the urge to go was growing stronger. He thought he was in the clear as he stood before the urinal, but a raspy, tweaked voice came at him like bullets. “Hey, man, hey, man, hey, hey, whatcha got, whatcha got, whatcha want, whatcha got, whatcha got?”

  Greatly hoping to avoid a physical confrontation, Captain Drexter responded with a firm voice. “I don’t have anything you want or need, now go.”

  It wasn’t the response he was hoping for, but the fiend came no closer. “So you gots something. Whatcha got? You gots something. Whatcha wants? Whats ya got?”

  The captain hesitated, as the adrenaline had overridden the urge to urinate, and ran through a few options before deciding on a calculated show of force, followed by a stern lecture. He reached out, grabbed the collar of the fiend’s shirt, twisted it, and brought him closer. “See the uniform?” He pushed the man back and did his best impression of the fiend. “Man, I’m a clean guy, man. I ain’t got nothin’, man, ain’t got nothin’, ain’t got nothin’. Now scram!”

  With a curse, the fiend walked away, toward the other end of the cell, muttering under his breath the whole way. Relieved to have solved that problem, if only temporarily, Drexter moved back to the urinal. The powerful urgency returned, and he unzipped, only to open his eyes and discover, in the adjoining cell, a massive, bald white man who was staring directly at him. “Do you mind?”

  To his horror, the man said, “I enjoy watching.”

  The urge to pee suddenly disappeared again. Luckily, for the moment at least, the group of prisoners broke out in an eruption of cheers as their cell door popped open. Freedom lured away his unwelcome audience, so Captain Drexter was finally able to relieve himself.

  Given the coordination and expedience with which the men moved, it was undoubtedly a leader-led effort. One of the largest men, a burly wheelbarrow of a man with a long, slightly gray beard, barked occasional commands. Drexter was familiar with chains of command, and leadership in general, so it was clear as day that this burly fellow neither carried himself nor acted like a leader.

  The prisoners had barricaded the door to the front of the station with a large assortment of food carts, chairs, benches, and a gurney flipped upside down. Several of the men tried to fashion weapons out of loose cart handles and chair legs. One of the men started toward their cell but was waved off and signaled elsewhere.

  Captain Drexter, now relieved and no longer attracting the fiends, who were desperately seeking the attention of anyone on the outside, could now focus on the strange man sitting with his head in his hands. Had he really not moved all night? This man had a noticeable intensity about him, so much so that not one of the fiends had even approached him. The lack of acknowledgment from the others gave the strong impression of a man facing his own internal prison.

  The simple fact that the prisoners had gone unattended for so long raised the hairs on the back of his neck. These men had broken free, bringing no alarms, no guards, and no reaction at all from the authorities—and that smelled like serious trouble.

  The action broke out shortly after a loud whistle rang throughout the room. There was no explosion, no fire, and no sound, but an immense wave of air knocked him on his ass. It was several seconds again before he could even breathe, and the air smelled foul and bitter, but it was joyous on intake.

  He lay in front of the bench where he had previously sat. He crawled up, and his hand grabbed hold of a leg, but instead of reacting to his touch, it stayed motionless. One of the fiends was contorted in the cell, his neck crunched at a strange angle against the bars. The second fiend lay wrenching in pain as his arm bent in the wrong direction.

  It took a while before he was able to get up again. A loud screeching sound stirred the crowd until it grew into a frenzy when somebody yelled, “Incoming!” and bodies desperately took for cover.

  Captain Drexter hid under a bench, but the steadiness of the whistle told him it wasn’t incoming. But he sensed an opportunity. “Hey, man, you gotta let us out. If they’re bombing us, I can help.”

  The wheelbarrow of a man coughed several times. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “OED, ordinance officer, and that sound is a bunker-buster screw head drilling its way through the wall right now.” He had no idea what he was saying, but the allure of freedom was growing. Perhaps the officers hadn’t even filed the paperwork and this whole thing could just go away. He could explain his absences somehow.

  “Officer, you say, how you end up here?” The man stood like a giant outside the gate.

  The first image that came to mind was Emilia. “I didn’t ask her age.” The man let out a roaring laugh suited to his barrel of a stature.

  The smell was awful, and now the noise was unbearable. Sasha opened her eyes but slammed them shut again after what she saw
. The room was a disaster of a mess. The floor beside the couch, near her face and on her clothes, was drenched in puke. The smell brought on dry heaves, but her stomach was now empty. She dry heaved as the effort of sitting upright nauseated her.

  The loud humming pounded back and forth inside her skull. She couldn’t trace its origin, nor could she escape its effects. An agitated and hungover Emilia entered the room with a screech. “What the fuck are you doing? That noise is awful.”

  Sasha was in no mood to take the blame for this torture, especially after all the frustration Emilia had caused last night. “I was sleeping. You set the goddamn alarm off.”

  “Well turn it the fuck off, already!”

  “You turn it the fuck off, already!”

  Emilia covered her ears and moved aggressively but slipped on a puddle of puke and landed on her back. The cold, wet, smelly shock distorted her face to a look of horror.

  Initially Sasha felt an impulse to lash out at Emilia, but seeing her in obvious discomfort softened her baseline feeling. Emilia looked at her hands, processed what exactly the substance was, and—with a gut-wrenching blow to Sasha—asked, “What did you do?”

  It was by far the worst Sasha had ever physically felt, but now Emilia made it the worst she had ever emotionally felt too. And once again, Sasha swore to the Lord that she would never drink again.

  The wheelbarrow of a man finished his laugh without haste, apparently not bothered by the deafening pitch outside. He then called for the small, nondescript man who had worked the lock earlier to come over. The man knelt beside the door and started working on the lock.

  Captain Drexter felt something change in his stomach, which he finally recognized as hope. Lacking any physical way to manifest this new feeling, he used the only power he could think of: he prayed.