ELE Series | Book 5 | Escape

by Jones, K. J.

  “Kinda feeling that way,” said Peter.

  “Y’all fresh in?”

  “Yup. We are the fresh meat.”

  She chuckled deep in her chest. “That there cane how you here, baby? And not red-carded.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Peter said.

  “And you, young lady, must be pregnant, with that pink card you got. Congratulations.”

  Phebe nodded.

  “Bet it doesn’t feel like it, but that baby saving your life.”

  Phebe’s brows raised.

  “Didn’t get the draft.”

  “Oh,” Phebe said. “Yeah. True.”

  “They took my people. My grandchildren. I pray the Good Lord will protect them. Hmm.”

  Peter said, “May He protect and keep them.” It seemed like the right thing to say.

  “Amen.” She shook her head. “You raise ‘em up, keep ‘em outta trouble, so they can make something of themselves, and this happens.”

  “Where are you from?” Peter asked.

  “Just a small town I’m sure you never heard of here in the Lowlands. Surprised the daylights outta us to see helicopters coming outta the sky and landing. Then we brought here and they took my people from me.”

  “How long ago?”

  “I reckon about two days ago maybe.” Her gaze looked around. “Long enough to learn how this place works.”

  “Share. Sharing’s caring.” He smiled.

  “Oh.” She belly laughed. “You use that smile and them eyes a lot, don’t you?”

  “He does,” Phebe injected.

  “Well, I need the eyes to see and –”

  Phebe elbowed him. “Don’t.”

  “I’m Glenda McDaniels.”

  “Sullivan. This is my wife Phebe and the kid is Tyler. That’s Emily, the one who looks like she’s about to punch somebody. And Karen, the lost lamb looking blond. And Jayce and Nia are the cuddling siblings on the cot.”

  “The black kids?”

  “Yes.”

  “Their parents?”

  “How do you know I am not their father?”

  Miss Glenda laughed. “You a charmer, ain’t ya?” At Phebe, “He a mess.”

  “I am a mess. Wait. That’s a good thing, right?”

  Miss Glenda laughed harder.

  “I’m still learning Southern black. I know Northern black. That’s hit me in the head with a brick.”

  She laughed harder until people looked over at this oddity of enjoyment.

  “Well,” Miss Glenda said. “We got some folks from the North. Over there.” She gestured. “New York. New Jersey. One of them states. Always causing a ruckus. Ain’t a half a day go by they don’t declare their rights being infringed upon. Don’t know what they thinking. Ain’t nobody here got rights.”

  “Yeah, we are familiar with the lack of rights.”

  “Who’s that?” Phebe pointed.

  “Who?” Miss Glenda turned herself around to see.

  “The redhead woman .. um, seeming to be eating her hair, it looks like.”

  “Oh. She there is the Hair Eater. Nobody trying to get close to her.” Miss Glenda leaned forward as if to confide a secret. “There are people here who gone crazy. I reckon they got ‘em out of closets and out from under beds to get them here. People lost their minds and living like rats. Over there, see him? Old black man who looks he weighs ninety pounds.”

  They nodded.

  “He gonna steal your bags. We call him Igloo Man. Every morning, we wake up and he taken our bags and made himself a little igloo out of ‘em. Then we all gotta go over and get our things back. He kicks up a fuss that could wake the dead. Then the guards come over and make him settle himself. Often with a medic to inject him in the ass with a needle. Not that most of us feel bad, mind you. We’d like a sedative too. You ain’t gonna get two winks of sleep here. Noises all night long. Hear folks wailing or crying or having the nightmares. Then there’s the babies. All them little ones all night long. Fortunate we don’t have the little infants here too.”

  “Do they go somewhere else?” Phebe asked.

  “Some facility somewhere around here. Guess cos they need more medical attention or some such.”

  Peter asked, “How long are people kept here?”

  “Depends on the peoples we talking about. The crazies seem to never go nowhere. That what I hear. They always remain.”

  “Why don’t they get sent to a mental health facility?”

  Worry for Eric crept into Peter.

  Miss Glenda shrugged.

  Peter watched the Hair Eater, rocking herself on her cot, pulling at her hair, increasing the visible bald spots, and popping the strands into her mouth for a good chew. Eric would look entirely sane and not at all PTSD’d compared to her. What would that mean for him? The kid was being eyed as the black hat hacker the last he heard.

  A bell rang, startling the newcomers.

  Miss Glenda began to gather her Bible and shawl and putting her things in a giant pocketbook. She stopped and looked at them.

  “Oh, look at me, thinking all about myself here. Y’all don’t know. That bell the ten-minute warning for mealtime. Folks who wanna clean themselves up going now to the facilities.”

  “Which are where?” Phebe asked.

  “Next building. There a tunnel we take.”

  Phebe shot Peter a worried look. He took her hand in his.

  He said, “She pukes a lot.”

  Miss Glenda laughed. “Oh, Lord, so did I. For my second child ‘specially. This your first, honey?”

  Phebe nodded.

  “Usually the first the hardest. I’ve had me five children. But my second was hardest. He a hard-headed boy, God bless him.”

  “Goldstein, Emily. Marcelino, Pah-hee-bee. Come forward.”

  They scowled at the soldier in the front calling the names.

  “He can’t deal with your first name?” Peter said.

  “Whatever.” Phebe stood, slipping her feet into her shoes.

  Emily joined her in the walk along the aisle, both appearing as if they were going to the firing squad wearing ill-fitting scrubs.

  “Why are they calling them?” Tyler asked.

  Both women received a slip of paper. Phebe shrugged at hers, but Emily stared as if it stated she had cancer. The soldier took their pink cards and wrote things on them. He nodded to them before leaving.

  On the walk back, Phebe put her arm around Emily, who kept staring at the piece of paper.

  “What’s up?” Peter asked.

  Phebe plopped herself down next to him. “They confirmed for Emily.” She handed him her own piece of paper.

  A medical slip. It stated Pregnancy with the Yes box containing an X.

  Emily stood there. All the color in her face had drained.

  “Ty,” Peter said. “Make room. Em, sit down with us.”

  “What’s wrong, honey?” Miss Glenda asked Emily.

  Emily’s mouth moved but no words came out.

  “Child, sit down. You look like you’ll faint away.”

  Miss Glenda gently tugged her down next to her and wrapped a comforting arm around her. “It’ll be okay. Through God’s grace, we’ll all be okay.”

  Emily shook her head. Her hazel brown eyes scanned around the giant space as if looking for Brandon to magically materialize and make this go away.

  Phebe said, “Two of us? They will definitely have to provide us with barf bags.”

  “What’s the food like?” Peter asked.

  “Horrible,” Miss Glenda responded. “I used to feed my dog better food than what they give us.”

  “Yeah. That sounds like the Army.”

  Phebe said, “Are you saying, ‘vomit in, vomit out’?”

  Her gaze remained on Emily, but there was nothing to say until the shock wore off.

  Nia approached. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Oh,” said Peter. “I think we need a buddy system for the bathrooms.”

  “I’m not taking Jayce.
”

  “No. I meant one of these girls.”

  Emily abruptly stood, surprising Miss Glenda. “I need to too.”

  “Let’s all go.” Phebe stood. “We’ll have to find it.”

  “Maybe we can all go,” said Tyler.

  “Group trip to the potties.” Peter looked over at Jayce. “What’s with his new BFF?”

  “They’re talking about basketball,” Nia responded.

  “Why does Karen look involved?”

  “She apparently plays.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, at least we’re making friends.” Peter flashed his charming pearly whites. The smile did not touch his eyes.

  Chapter Two

  1.

  “You will not cut my hair.” Mazy was ready to go into self-defense.

  “It is base policy, ma’am,” said the barber.

  “Not happening on me, Sergeant.”

  In the base barbershop, Mazy vaguely recognized the women who had just vacated the chairs as members of the central North Charleston tribe. Six-foot-tall sniper Vi already had short hair. But the smaller, lighter-skinned younger woman had braids down to her waist. Mazy couldn’t recall her name if she had ever known it. Now, the young woman had corked screw curls which came out fluffy on top of her pretty head. The young woman somberly continued to unbraid the rest; her greenish eyes looked on the brink of tears. A barber swept up the long braids on the floor and unceremoniously dumped them into a garbage can. Natural braids so long, it had taken years to grow those, and in mere minutes, gone. Mazy felt for her.

  The young woman reminded Mazy of her sister. The corkscrew curly hair. The tears welling in her green-hued brown eyes. A twinge of missing her little sister Desiree struck Mazy’s heart.

  “Ma’am,” the barber said to her.

  “Look here. I outrank you. Damn if I will take an order from you. You fetch me some clips and bobby pins. Or drop your ass and give me fifty right here.”

  The barber’s eyes grew large. The other barbers froze in their clipping and buzzing of heads.

  Mazy had used her Marine officer voice on an Army enlisted man who was twice her age. Even her daddy took a pause when she used The Voice. One time when visiting her family in New Orleans, her daddy couldn’t get a cold caller trying to sell him something to stop calling his phone, so he put her on and said, “Use The Voice, please.”

  “Fetch me the hair clip and bobby pins, now.”

  “But… but, ma’am.”

  “Move it, soldier!”

  He scampered off.

  The young woman laughed, despite the tears released down her cheeks. “Wish I could’ve done that.”

  “Sorry about your hair, sista.”

  “Kanesha.”

  “Mazy.”

  “I know.”

  Vi just watched. Sudanese beauty was what her daddy would call Vi’s look.

  “They making us go into the military,” Kanesha said.

  “Where’s Ange and Matt and the doctor?” Mazy asked.

  Vi finally spoke, though her face showed no friendliness. “Doc’s about dead. Heart attack when they came for us.”

  Mazy crossed herself, thinking of poor orphaned young Karen.

  “Matt was lined up with us,” Kanesha said. “But Miss Angela, she went with Monty.”

  “Where? Do you know where they went? Angela and Monty?”

  Kanesha shook her fluffy head. The barber didn’t know how to cut such curly hair. The rule was above the collar for females, not above the ear. She had a bit of a mushroom top head thing going on.

  The barber rushed in with an ugly hair clip and a bunch of bobby pins, but no brush. Mazy took them from his hands.

  “Stop cutting curly hair that short.” Mazy turned on her heels. “Privates, y’all follow me.”

  It took a moment for Kanesha and Vi to realize it was them to whom she referred to as privates. Kanesha scurried to catch up. Vi took long-legged strides, always calm and cool, and watching everything.

  Mazy’s USMC ZBDUs already held the first lieutenant bar. But no patch for what unit she was of, or her name. That stuff would come later. The padding along the outside of her arms and legs was annoying. Stiff and useless. Nobody had given the DoD the memo that zoms weren’t particular on where they bite. They’d chomp on a person’s ass cheek if accessible.

  She led the way to where she thought she heard men’s voices. Lt. Baptiste received salutes from the soldiers guarding the room. “Open.” They obeyed.

  Mullen rushed her for a hug.

  “There you are.” Mazy pushed him back and gave a look to man-up.

  Matt wore the military ZBDUs and sergeant stripes, which were Velcroed on, as the military had been doing for a while – cost-effective this way.

  Kanesha smiled at Matt. He awkwardly smiled back, as if unsure if he should.

  “You okay?” he asked Kanesha.

  Mazy caught the weirdness between them but dismissed it as something she did not care about.

  Dre went to Vi and they hugged as if parted for years.

  But no Ben or Chris or Brandon anywhere in the room. None of the guys Mazy had come in with.

  “Where’s everyone else? Raven, Higgins, Pell?” she asked.

  Matt shrugged. “Haven’t seen them.”

  Mazy wanted to hug him. But they could not. He was enlisted.

  “What about everyone else?” Matt asked.

  “Separated from us.”

  “They made it okay?”

  Matt had the medical emblem on his uniform.

  “They did,” Mazy said. “Last I saw this morning. When we were divided out.”

  “Dr. Jenkins isn’t okay.”

  “Either is Stanton.”

  Matt opened his mouth to inquire.

  “Lieutenant Baptiste,” a man’s voice called from the doorway. “A word.”

  Mazy turned and spotted a major. Time to get her ass chewed out.

  “Bring the young ladies with you.”

  Dre quickly hugged his sister again. Jerome laid a hug on Kanesha, surprising her—they hadn’t been that close and she wanted to hug Matt. Not cop Jerome she had known all her life and annoyed her for half of it.

  2.

  Miss Glenda led them through a white tent tunnel to a cement-block building containing the bathrooms. The group split between the men’s room and the ladies' room, which were opposite sides of the corridor from each other.

  “I’m sorry for dragging you all the way,” Phebe said to Miss Glenda.

  “Oh, no. I’m old, child. I can always use the bathroom.”

  Phebe let Miss Glenda use her arm for support as she walked. A medal, medical-grade cane on Miss Glenda’s other side. A big purse hanging off her arm, the kind old ladies carried their knitting and Bible in.

  The ladies' room buzzed with activity. Toilets flushing. Smells from an overused, poorly ventilated room. Stalls occupied. Faucets ran. Mirrors along the wall over the sinks where women attempted to fix their hair.

  Miss Glenda leaned closer to Phebe. “The ones I told you about.” She gestured her eyes to the young women at the mirrors and sinks.

  Nausea had Phebe preoccupied. Nothing like poo smells.

  “Excuse me,” said Nia. “Is this a line for the stall?”

  The woman she asked turned and looked her up and down, then looked at the three white women with Nia. She obnoxiously laughed in mockery. “Country mouse got herself some white bitches.” The group laughed, looking them over, then turned away in dismissal.

  Phebe said, “Go ahead, Nie. They are not in line.”

  The group, whose accents sounded New Jersey, turned to look at her, no more laughter. They eyed her with scorn and outrage as if she dared speak.

  Phebe’s stomach tightened. Flashbacks of the girls' bathroom in New York at school or the mall. Always had to check the race before entering. Could get jumped for no reason other than being white. It went back for decades, according to her mom. African Americans of the North hated white eth
nic Northerners and treated them as if reverse Jim Crow was the rule.

  The North, including the Chicago upper Midwest, was Farrakhan and Al Sharpton territory with heavy promotion of black supremacy. Phebe usually forgot about it since the South was so different, and when it came to haters it was the reverse, white supremacists. She was only reminded when she went home to Long Island. Here it was, in this horrible place, but she did not feel the intimidation as she felt before. She was a different person now.

  One of the group came forward. Attitude ripe. Hair a fright from a cut-off weave and grown-out roots. Maybe that pissed her off more. Or maybe the baby bump her scrubs hugged gave her greater irritation hormones.

  “This your slave child?”

  Phebe barked, “Cut the shit!”

  All the occupants turned to look at her. Everyone went dead quiet.

  “Oh, no, she didn’t,” one of the Jersey crew said.

  Phebe released Miss Glenda’s arm and stepped forward. “Stow your bullshit.”

  At five foot ten, Phebe towered over the young woman. As Chris would do, she raised her chin to look down at the hostile even more. Yet, she kept the distance so a sudden strike could not make contact.

  The alpha of the crew looked Phebe up and down worse than Syanna Lynn ever did. Despite the size difference, the woman still copped an attitude.

  “Look, whitey, I do not –”

  Phebe cut her off. “Stow your bullshit. Right. Now.” She sounded like a Marine Corps drill instructor.

  “Child,” Miss Glenda said from behind Phebe. “I would not be making trouble with these white ladies.”

  “Fuck that. You do your step and fetch to them –”

  “Lord forgive you, child,” Miss Glenda cut her off. “They took all of our peoples. You ain’t the only one.”

  “This white bitch has her man.”

  Index finger pointed close to Phebe’s face. One inch closer, Phebe thought, and it was on. She resisted the urge to grab the hand and snap the wrist.

  “Nia, use the stall,” Phebe ordered. She pointed to it, but never took her gaze from the woman in front of her.

  A younger, skinnier, darker-skinned woman from behind the alpha said, “Let’s just go, Tierra. It’s lunchtime.”