ELE Series | Book 5 | Escape

by Jones, K. J.

  “It’ll go frizzy,” Nia whispered.

  “Not with all that crap on it,” said Phebe.

  Wearing a shower cap, gloves, and a full clean suit which forensic investigators wore at crime scenes, a female soldier ran the comb through Nia’s hair. She passed. The girl breathed with relief.

  “Thank you.” She hugged the young women.

  “Hey, we’re family,” said Emily.

  They went back to the showers to wash out delousing shampoo.

  Boxes awaited them when they all scurried into the locker room wearing cheap, thin towels. Phebe looked up and down and noted the boxes were identical.

  “Size?” a female soldier asked. Her arms filled with something that looked like giant grandma's panties. “They run small. You’d want an extra-large.” She handed a pair to Phebe. “That baby gonna keep growing.” Onto Nia, “Size?”

  “Go bigger,” Phebe whispered, after sizing it up against her hips.

  The underwear went so high on their abdomens, they threatened to double as bras.

  The rest of their clothes were scrubs.

  “Bright blue’s the new black,” Emily said, referring to Orange Is the New Black, a show about female prison. Appropriate, as they felt like they were entering prison.

  They received ill-fitting long sleeve shirts to go under the scrub shirts for warmth. Every woman with boobs had to stretch theirs out at the chest. The label read Made in China. That explained why every white woman in the room suddenly felt like they had voluptuously large, protruding rear ends that would impress a rapper in a video. They knew they didn’t walk in with those butts.

  “China needs a physical anthropologist,” Phebe said. “Tell them how every woman is not built the same globally.” She pulled up at the back of her pants which felt like they were falling down from her new big butt.

  The box of toiletries was as expected. Flimsy black men’s hair combs.

  “Finger combing it is,” Emily said.

  Even Karen’s hair threatened to break the comb teeth.

  The seventeen-year-old searched the box as if it had a hidden compartment.

  “We don’t get any tampons?”

  “What’s in the box is what you get,” a female soldier said.

  “I don’t use pads.”

  The female soldier did not care. She kept walking the line, watching what everyone was doing, in case they were smuggling contraband that would randomly fall out of an orifice.

  Phebe passed her menstrual pads to the girls. “Split up mine. Don’t think I’ll be using any for some time.” She patted the baby bump.

  “Joy,” said Karen. “More pads.”

  The toothbrush was hard, long bristled with a large head. Not the best to brush with, but promised the joy of mouth bruises, possibly gum bleeds. No dental floss, since it could be used as a noose or garrote, despite it usually broke when flossing teeth. A small travel bottle of shampoo, conditioner, and moisturizer. The body wash was disinfectant. A clear zip bag for it all. They were ready to go through airport security now, for it seemed this was how the Army got these toiletries. Somebody in Supplies ordered a whole bunch of TSA-approved toiletry kits.

  Razors were not included. Not as if any woman was thinking to show off any of those body hair growing places in this place. Phebe wondered if the men would receive razors? What was happening to them simultaneously to this ‘welcome to detention, you scum’ process?

  They received socks and knockoff rubber mule Crocs for their feet.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” muttered Phebe. “This is ridiculous.”

  “We look like escapees from a mental health facility,” said Emily.

  “I hope that’s not indicative of our future.”

  “Why are they doing this to us?” asked Karen.

  “Follow, ladies,” a female soldier ordered.

  Phebe pulled Emily close and whispered, “If that wall goes, we can’t run and fight in this shit.” She didn’t want to panic the girls by hearing her concern.

  “I know.”

  Each female went into a curtained area for the medical check. Basic stuff with blood drawn for pregnancy proof, even on those who were virgins. The blood test could detect pregnancy earlier than the pee-on-a-stick method. And they did not need cooperation from the women and girls this way. Just stick them with a needle, no “Take this cup to the bathroom.”

  Afterward, the heavily pregnant blond supremacist women were escorted away. Only those that either weren’t pregnant or weren’t too far along in their pregnancy remained. Of the remaining, the supremacist tribe females kept the enemy lines and stayed to themselves, away from Phebe and the others. Most of them looked between Emily’s age and Nia’s.

  Cleared of the virus, at least in the presentation of early symptoms, they hurried up to wait in another hall.

  The next stage came. Their bags lined up along a floor in a room empty of furniture. It was obvious that they had been searched from their unzipped, disheveled states. They only lacked a Homeland Security card telling them they were searched as the airports did.

  Phebe found her rucksack and helped Emily, Karen, and Nia find theirs. The supremacist females gave them wide berths and eyed them the way immature females did.

  When Nia glanced over at them, Phebe quickly reprimanded her in a low volume, “We don’t need bullshit right now.”

  Nia nodded her understanding.

  Emily added, “Watch with the corners of your eyes. Not straight on.”

  Nia nodded.

  Upon investigating their bags, they didn’t know why they bothered packing. Even their hairbrushes and toothbrushes were gone. Their clothes, including leather ZBDUs, gone. Phebe now had her clear plastic pouch of papers, not that it mattered anymore.

  “I’m so sick and tired of people taking my shit,” Emily muttered. “Why can’t we have fucking hairbrushes?”

  “We’re probably deadly with them.” Phebe smirked.

  A female soldier announced, “Your cot assignments are on your cards. You will keep your cot in line and tidy. Your luggage goes under your cots. You will find your bedding on your cot.

  “I think I’m gonna puke,” muttered Emily.

  “Yeah,” said Karen. “I do too.”

  “Me, too,” said Nia.

  They were led outside to an airplane hangar. The aluminum structure looked out-of-the-box brand new, lacking the dirtiness time in the elements created. They went through front doors. And into a fresh new hell.

  3.

  “Excuse me, I need to find my children.”

  None of the soldiers listened to Angela. She looked to Matt for help.

  He gave her an ease-down hand signal. His gaze watched everything.

  “We’ll find them,” Monty reassured her.

  “I don’t like those black patches,” Diana whispered to Matt.

  The Air Force fighter pilot turned chief of warfare for the central North Charleston tribe watched everything as wary as he was.

  “I know,” Matt answered.

  “Have you ever seen them before in the Army?”

  “No.”

  “Not something in the Air Force.”

  Black patches weren’t the only things worrying Matt. Dr. Jenkins had a massive coronary under the stress of the invading troops. The soldiers had allowed Matt to continue CPR while their medic was in transit. He had revived the doctor, but the prognosis wasn’t good if the man did not reach a cardiologist immediately and go into an intensive care unit. Jenkins had been in a coma when they took him away upon landing at the walled-in base.

  Waiting in the processing line, Mackey was quiet, which was unusual for him. Whenever he was awake, he talked. He gave no jokes. Nothing about black people or white people. Once on line, he grew ever more nervous. Sweat beads formed on his dark cocoa skin. He fidgeted a lot and watched everyone like a parrot left alone with the cats.

  Jerome escorted his sister, her newborn in her arms, and his small nieces and nephews to the ad
min station. He tried to keep everything under his control, a little too controlling, a sign of his insecurity in the situation. Any kid stepped too far from him and he snapped at them, yanking them to his leg. But he could not stop what happened when it was his turn. A red card. As his family went one way, he was forced to wait against the wall with Dre. He gestured reassuring lies to his sister. “It’ll be okay,” he mouthed with a dozen nods.

  Kanesha received a red card. “No,” she said. “I’m female.” She eyed the black patch near her, staring at her. A loud gulp and she stowed her protest. She didn’t know who or what they were, but the vibe of them gave her the creeps.

  Vi joined her against the wall.

  “Matt?” Angela looked at him pleading.

  “It’ll definitely be me,” he whispered. “You and Monty, you watch over each other and everyone else, okay? Stay strong. Pray. Your strength is in Jesus. We’ll figure this out, okay?”

  His turn came and it was quick. “Stand by the wall, Sergeant Gleason.” He gave an apologetic look to Angela as he walked to join the other red cards.

  Jerome had taken to biting his nails. “This fucking …” A police officer in the Before, a powerless detainee now. He shook his head, dark brown eyes burning with intensity.

  The central North Charleston tribe was divided by who could go into the military and who could not. Minors, the over forty, the physically unfit, including pregnant and nursing mothers, and the sole parent or guardian of a child under twelve, all went down a hall. Their numbers were too great for standing and waiting in the processing area. Angela and Monty went arm-in-arm, looking back at their people for what felt like the last time.

  Matt kept his mind focused on observing everything, and not thinking about anything emotional.

  Mackey’s turn at the admin station. Something was off about his processing. A moment later explained the problem. Army MPs entered. Mackey assumed the position, seeming very familiar with it. His hands on his head, they brought each hand down in turn and handcuffed his wrists behind his back, then walked him out. He gave the others a sheepish look before disappearing out the front doors.

  “What was that?” Kanesha asked.

  “I guess he has a warrant out,” answered Jerome, disapproval evident in his tone.

  “For what?”

  “I dunno. He never said anything to me. But I know he has a record.”

  “Is he a gang banger?”

  “Dunno. He is a car thief, though. I know that much.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening.” Kanesha wiped at a tear and sniffled, her pretty face a combination of fear and anger.

  “We’ll be okay,” Matt reassured.

  The petite young woman rested her back against him. He wasn’t comfortable with this, but he said nothing.

  She said up to him, “Why do I think you say that all the time?”

  He shrugged. “I probably do.”

  Her long braids brushed against his exposed forearm.

  “Yeah. Thought so.”

  “But don’t panic.”

  “Do you see me panicking? What I am is angry. Angry that they did this to us. Doing this to us. I’m going into the fucking Army. That’s what this means, huh?” She held up her card, then threw her braids over her shoulder and out of her way.

  “I think so,” he said calmly.

  Matt didn’t want to feel anything for her. Did not want to even think about her beyond this point, since they may never see each other after here.

  Possibly, maybe, they had had sex back in North Charleston. Possibly, maybe, all afternoon, and a few times additionally. And it was really good.

  If everyone found out, he didn’t want to be judged by the people of central North Charleston or especially Angela. He felt he would be judged and that seriously bothered him.

  Kanesha was a nursing student in the Before. She and Matt worked together a lot at central North Charleston camp.

  She was the one to start it. He wouldn’t since he perceived it as ungentlemanly in such a situation. As well as her age. She was more than ten years younger than him … enough with the young woman already, he had told himself. A woman closer to his age for a change would be vastly healthier.

  But Kanesha had started it, and in a manner in which the average red-blooded heterosexual man would find of tremendous difficulty to reject. She had pulled him into a private alley at their tribal base camp, and said, “You wanna fuck?” She kissed him, hard and long.

  The sex was damn good. He may have, possibly, maybe, continued their liaison after that long afternoon. Some pursuing of her when no eyes were on them. Possibly, maybe fucking in the big closet they were stocking to make a medical supply closet.

  But he didn’t want to remember this, since they were going in separate directions. She was going into something he could not protect her from or help her in any way.

  Kanesha continued to press her back against him, but he did nothing since he didn’t want to offend her or hurt her feelings. She was a woman who would speak her mind if she was pissed and do it loudly. Always, he got himself involved with the fiery woman. He didn’t know why.

  Matt struggled to repress his feelings about the separation from his friends, he didn’t need another tie to someone. It was time to soldier up. Cut ties. Compartmentalize. “Thanks for the fucking. It was great. Good luck in the Army.” He knew he would never actually say that, unless extremely inebriated.

  4.

  “You are fucking shitting me,” Peter proclaimed.

  His animal instinct said to run. It took all of his willpower to stay planted where he stood, in his stupid flimsy knockoff Crocs a grown man should never be expected to wear.

  Tyler stepped behind him, feeling overwhelmed too. The steely kid needed a man-shield.

  “Oh, my God,” Jayce uttered and looked for where he could escape.

  A sea of humanity crowded into an airplane hangar bay. People everywhere, sitting on cots or milling about. Rows of cots stretched down the full length of the building, leaving a few feet between rows to make aisles. The human sounds bounced from everywhere as a continual, decibel-changing din, like cicadas at high Southern summer but with indiscernible words.

  “I see them.” Jayce pointed.

  Karen waved to get their attention as if this was a baseball game and she found seats.

  Peter’s heartbeat raced. He felt hot and nauseous. Not since discharge had he been in a space with such a crowd. It happened at the VA, but he was usually high.

  Nonetheless, the three of them made their way down the aisle towards the female part of their remaining group. Their rubber mules caused their footsteps to move unnaturally, fearing the shoes would fly off as they walked.

  Nia surged at her brother for a hug, one the sixteen-year-old gratefully received and reciprocated.

  Phebe looked Peter up and down, and she burst out laughing.

  “Nice wifey support.”

  “Sorry.” But she kept laughing.

  “Look how shiny clean you are.” He hugged her, then slapped her butt over her continued chuckling.

  “Where’s your hair?” she asked, fighting a smirk.

  “This place has a lice problem, I’m thinking.”

  “You look like you escaped a concentration camp.”

  “Are you saying this is not one of my better looks?” He rubbed his shaved head, hating the way it felt.

  “Not exactly the awesomeness, hon.” Phebe then looked in horror at Tyler’s pale head and stated, “This is insane.”

  The kid looked extra grumpy. All the efforts to retain his hair against Matt’s hair shaving dictatorship in Charleston, and he had now lost all of it down to the scalp.

  The alien rubber mule shoes quickly kicked off, and the kid walked in his socks.

  Nia laughed at her brother. “You got no hair.”

  “You got straight hair.”

  “Feels like shellac. Feel it. The girls put so much shit on it to get that dang louse comb through it
in a hurry.”

  Jayce’s brows raised for her phrasing. “You’re cussing and sounding like country folk?”

  “I can. Huh, Eight Ball?” She broke into giggles.

  “Mama wouldn’t approve.”

  Her smile faded. “I can,” her voice small and insecure.

  “I think these cots may be yours,” said ever-helpful Karen.

  Peter checked his card cot number, then Tyler’s. They were together in a row. At least they had that. “Thankful for small favors.”

  He dumped his ransacked, deflated duffel on his cot, then dropped himself next to Phebe on her cot and let his Crocs fall off his feet. She had laid out her bedroll. The cots awaiting them still had a mattress roll encircling a pillow and bedding.

  She sat there, looking around her, legs pulled up with sock heels on the bed.

  “How you doing, hotshot?”

  “Not too great, Irishman. You?”

  “Trying to act manly. A little hard in this outfit.”

  “Could you do that for both of us?”

  “I’m working on it, babe.”

  Tyler dropped down beside him. “Do we have to stay here?”

  “You got an escape plan yet?” Peter asked him.

  “You’re older. You should.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll keep you in the loop when I have one.”

  A little kid ran into the back of the cot. Phebe, Peter, and Tyler jumped up fast, hearts racing for action, fists raised.

  “Sorry,” the kid’s mother said. She collected the child.

  They sat back down. Tyler turned the other way to watch for any more incoming at their six.

  “I feel like I’m in the Superdome after Katrina.” Peter rubbed his head. “Except I don’t think they did this to them.”

  “I hate to say it,” said Phebe. “But I still have that knee-jerk fear of being entirely outnumbered by black people.”

  “They probably feel the same about us,” said Peter. “Fortunately, this is the South. They won’t try to beat the crap outta us for shit that happened to them before our ancestors got here.”

  “Small blessings.”

  “Gotta be grateful for ‘em.”

  “Yeah.” She snickered. “Cos that’s all we get.”

  An old black woman read a Bible which was covered by a well-worn crocheted cover. She laid on her cot across from Phebe. Closing the book, she placed it on her generous bosom and looked over at them. “Y’all look like cats at a dog kennel.”