by LeAnn Mason
Bertha was alive. Unconscious and bleeding like a stuck pig, but she would survive.
Most of the other women had obligingly moved elsewhere once it was clear there would be no further violence, but I was frozen in shock as I stared at the perfectly unmarred face of the attending guard. I’d seen his face before, only it had been cut, swollen, and bloody—to the point I’d barely made the connection. It wasn’t until I’d caught sight of his name badge that it had clicked.
Michaels.
My nightmare had zoomed in on the face and chest, onto the badge, before I’d been pulled out of it by my overzealous cellmate.
I felt it again now: that same clawing feeling. The tightness in my chest. The unconscious taking in of air as the sound crawled up my throat. I was powerless to stop the scream. Just like all the other times. I didn’t want to. There was no reason to. And I couldn’t stop it.
I was vaguely aware of its effect. The women within sight had all stopped their activity to throw confused and angry looks at the crazy new girl who was clearly mental.
Hands fumbled for me; deep voices tried to yell at me to stop. The officer in question was just another in the long list who thought I was a mental case.
I screamed for far longer than I had air in my lungs, taking in more air only to immediately expel it again with voluminously undue force.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I felt something press to my skin a split second before fire lit my veins, causing my body to seize. Thankfully, that included my vocal cords, and my scream died with a gurgle, my own eyes rolling to the back of my head as I too hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. Unable to move but very much awake.
Cole lingered over me a moment, a shrewd look in those bright eyes. “Get the doc to check her out. This one may need special attention.”
I was grabbed, a hand under each armpit, as two guards, one holding a taser, dragged me toward the building and away from the yard. Playtime was officially over.
As we moved through the halls, my body slowly came back under my control, and I attempted to get my legs under me.
“I’m better now. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me,” I said thickly, slowly, my tongue fumbling to make the correct movements. I forced a laugh to maybe lighten the situation and keep me out of the psych ward.
“We’re taking you to the infirmary. You can walk if you don’t give us any trouble,” one of the men responded tightly.
I nodded, afraid to open my mouth more than necessary. Who knew what would slip out?
What a mess. I’d succeeded in averting one disaster only to instigate another—probably worse—fate for myself.
Walking stiffly between the two guards, I followed them, stopping at a white door embedded in the dingy wall about halfway down the hallway. There were a few other doors at the far end of the corridor. Some looked like they led to the same space, though one I recognized as the doctor’s office where they took my gauges and health stats on admittance.
Pulling the badge clipped to his belt toward the sensor beside the door, the officer in front pulled open the door and ushered me in when the little light flashed green after his swipe.
The infirmary was a large room connected internally to the doctor’s office. It rivaled the cafeteria in size though its similarities stopped there. Where the cafeteria was open and dotted with tables, this area was sectioned. Twenty beds—I’d guess—were spaced out, ten along each wall. Each had a curtain that could be pulled around a track on the ceiling just feet outside the bed for “privacy”. I noticed a few already partitioned off as we moved further into the room.
“Hey, doc,” Blondie called out to an older male doctor with white hair and glasses, sitting at a computer in the adjoining office. He must have traded shifts with the woman who’d seen me previously. “Need you to check this one out. Mental and physical.”
Crap. This was perfect. All I needed was to be labeled as mentally unstable or something while in prison. That didn’t sound like fun. Not that I was having any now.
“Okay. Set her up, and I’ll be right over,” the doctor said absently.
“All right. Up you go, Grey,” the blond guard said, walking forward and patting a nearby bed clad with a thin white fabric. Michaels remained silent.
I obliged quietly, deciding that acquiescence would get me out of here faster. Not that “out of here” would be any better.
“Lay down.”
Again, I did. Staring at the ceiling, I tried to calm my frenzied nerves with deep, calming breaths... until I felt something slip over my wrists and tighten.
“What the—?” Pulling myself up, I stared down at the padded Velcro cuff wrapped around my wrist. In a disbelieving experiment, I tried to bring my hands to my chest. I failed miserably, barely moving it a few inches. Distracted, I didn’t catch that they meant to do the same to my legs until each man had a foot. I reflexively pulled my knees to my chest, trying to keep them free—trying to keep me free, at least in some small, symbolic way if nothing else.
“Why are you doing this?” My voice was high, panic seeping in to color my tone. Again, I attempted to keep my legs out of their reach, but the guards were strong and could each use two hands to focus on one flailing leg.
“Stop resisting, Grey. It’s precautionary for mental evals. You did some crazy shit out in the yard, and now we need to check you out. See if you’re a risk to yourself or others. Fighting the process is not going to help you.” It took the blond guard a while to huff out the words, having to regroup after each attempt I made to free my legs.
It seemed Michaels was not planning on speaking to me.
“Miss Grey, is it?” The doc finally butted in, placing a gentle hand on the guard at my left leg. My secured leg. I’d failed to keep myself out of the restraints. “The quicker we get you situated, the quicker you can get out of here,” the older man continued. “Thank you, gentlemen. Could you please wait by the door? If I need help, I’ll holler,” he joked.
With mumbled agreement, my jailors retreated.
“Now then, Miss Grey. What happened?” Sitting on the empty cot next to me, foot crossed over the other knee, head bent to the clipboard in his lap, the doctor seemed unobtrusive.
His dark eyes lifted to meet mine when he received no answer. “I only want to understand what happened and make sure you are all right, Miss Grey.”
I wanted to believe him. “I screamed.”
“You screamed. Why did you scream?”
“I have no idea, really,” I answered. It was true. I had zero clues what brought on my crazy fits and even less of a clue as to how to keep it from happening and completely fucking up my life.
“You have no idea why you screamed? Should I ask the men over there what caused your outburst?”
Was that a threat? Fine. He wanted the full story? He could have it. “We were out in the yard. I was talking with some ladies when Bertha decided to initiate me. She threw a rock, which I dodged. It hit my cellmate, Raven, in the back. Raven got all scary and told Bertha she’d need to return the favor. She threw the rock back at Bertha so hard it knocked the woman clean unconscious and put a nasty gash in her forehead.” He should know that last part since she was probably behind one of those pulled curtains.
“And that made you scream?” he asked. “Do you have an aversion to blood?”
It made sense. That’s when a person would scream, though not to the extent that I had. But aversion? I mean, I wasn’t a vampire or some weirdo who enjoyed blood.
“Nope. Finally, the guards came over.” I cut my eyes to the men standing sentry by the door. “And one of them I dreamed about last night.”
“You dreamed about a specific guard?”
“Yes, sir,” I nodded, rolling my lips. “There was a riot in the prison somewhere, and he’d been killed. Trampled or beaten or something.”
I thought for a moment. It wasn’t until I’d focused on the bloodied guard that I’d felt the scream erupt—today and la
st night. The presence of blood at most of the scenes at which I freaked out was happenstance.
“That’s it,” I whispered distractedly, trying to pull a hand to my face. It was a habit. I would usually lean my chin on a hand when I thought. Maybe this was a way to break it. “That guard’s going to die.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
I was looking at the ceiling again, trying to pull forth little details about the dream, but the doctor was impatient—a nasty habit for someone who was supposed to soothe.
“Did you say that a guard was going to die?”
“That’s the only explanation. It’s happened before. I haven’t dreamt about it though.” I brought my eyes back to the bewildered doctor. “That’s new. Maybe it means I can do something about it. But as of right now, I’m almost positive that CO Michaels is going to die. Soon.”
11
“The fuck was that about?” Ember stared at the door Aria and Bertha had disappeared through.
Jessica gave a shrug, staring at her cuticles to telegraph her indifference. “Guess she’s hemophobic or whatever. Poor little thing.”
“Poor little thing?” Brenna echoed. “She let me get hit with a rock.”
Jessica’s hand flopped on a limp wrist as she rolled her eyes across the table to where Brenna had resumed her seat. “You handled it.”
Ember tried to uncurl her hands. “That’s what I was referring to.” She swung her glare around. “The fuck was that about, Brenna? You want to draw more attention to us?”
Brenna’s dark eyes were cold. “I didn’t start it. I simply finished it.” She lifted her palms, looking around blatantly at the absence of prying eyes. “Notice that no one is bothering us now?”
Jessica giggled. “Yeah, they’re afraid of us.”
“As they should be.” Brenna always believed them infallible. Ember rolled her eyes at the youngling.
They weren’t. Things could go wrong. And Ember didn’t want to let Seke down. This team was her purpose, her family. If their unit got pulled from assignments or reassigned, she didn’t know what she’d do. She really needed this to channel her energy. It was the only time her bird released. Restlessness irritated her as did boredom. She’d been around long enough that she’d had her fair share of boredom before joining this group. But just like a family, sometimes they drove her up the wall.
“Yeah, so who do you think is going to be the center of attention when something goes down?” Ember asked, channeling patience into her voice as she led Brenna down the path of thinking she had already walked. Her extensive years of experience, which translated to wisdom, was useless if the younglings resisted learning from her teaching.
“I love being the center of attention,” the siren preened, displaying her sharp teeth.
“Put those away,” Ember warned. Sheesh, they’d never learn. “As the center of attention, others might notice more about us,” she lectured, her attention pointedly aimed at the needled teeth Jessica still displayed before continuing her explanation to Brenna. Her palms pressed forcibly into the tabletop beside her hips to keep them from curling back up. “And they’re more likely to notice what we’re doing.” The last few words escaped in a hostile hiss.
“Seke will take care of it.” Brenna brushed off the worry without a blink, secure in the idea that their captain would clean up any messes. If only they’d learn that it was their job to keep his involvement minimal.
Popping up from the table, Ember snapped, “I’m going for a jog to blow off some steam.” Or else her teammate might be the next death… and she wouldn’t come back. “Don’t do anything else stupid while I’m gone.”
“Whatever.” Brenna ditched the conversation, spinning to face the wall as she had previously, reverting to keeping watch. She’d better be keeping watch, anyway.
Turning, Ember caught sight of Cole vanishing into the building and huffed out a breath of frustration. “What now?” She mumbled to herself. This case was sure raising her hackles. Lapping the tiny yard many times was going to be necessary if she was going to vent all her tension. Daily. And that was if nothing else went wrong.
◆◆◆
The worst thing you can do when you’re at the mercy of an enemy is to make them feel threatened, especially when you don’t have backup.
I didn’t have any backup. I’d dragged Raven into my corner without her knowledge, or consent, out in the yard. A situational happenstance, I couldn’t rely on a second time. My apathetic, turning hateful cellie certainly wasn’t going to appear in the medical ward and save me. And I could forget about the guards. They weren’t my friends before I’d threatened one of them. Though they pretended to have my best interest at heart, they certainly weren’t pleased with my premonition.
Was it a premonition?
Now that I’d said it out loud—and seen the doc’s reaction, I sort of wondered if I really did need a psych eval. What was next? First, the involuntary screaming. Now, dreams about death? And I was pretty sure the two were connected. I mean, who wouldn’t scream at experiencing someone’s moments of death?
But what weirdo screams about the potential of death?
Death was inevitable for us all. I had no proof that my nightmare was any more than that. Unlike with the unfortunate guy in the alley … and all the people before that, the guard was very much living and breathing… and holding a gun on me.
“Don’t you think that’s a touch unnecessary when I’m cuffed to a fucking bed? What do you think I’m going to do, bite your jugular?”
CO Michaels’s eyes widened like he actually considered the prospect of death-by-vampire. Slapping his free hand over his neck didn’t cause the gun to waver at all in his one steady hand. Based on the reaction I’d gotten, I might have guessed this wasn’t the first time an inmate had threatened a guard’s life. They were like parents jaded by slammed doors or runaway notes.
I’d tried that a time or two when I got sick of my family’s nomadic lifestyle, constantly having to leave the moment I’d finally made friends.
“Miss Grey? Please focus on me,” Doc urged.
I moved my attention to the doc, swinging my gaze away from the weapons trained at my chest and head respectively.
The doctor adjusted his glasses, tapping his pen on his notebook. “Why do you think that?” he repeated his question that had followed my morbid proclamation.
I blinked. “Because I saw it.”
“In your dream?”
“Yeah.” My conviction was depleting, my confidence waning the longer I mull the concept over in my mind. Clairvoyant superpowers? What kind of messed up person thinks they have magic powers?
Apparently, the kind who goes to prison and gets cuffed to a bed for having a psychotic fit because I was beginning to think I did have such powers.
“Mmhm,” the doctor said. “I don’t think that is necessary,” he told the guards, waving them off with an absent hand gesture.
My eyes reverted to them. Blondie shook his head. “Protocol to hold position until the Head Officer on duty tells us otherwise.”
Head guard? Looked like someone had backup. It just wasn’t me.
Shit.
Guess they took things like this seriously, which was good to know though the doctor seemed to be convinced I was just a wackjob. That shouldn’t lessen the threat I presented.
At the first sign of a threat, keep it in your sights. The worst thing you can do is treat it like a joke, no matter how impossible it may seem.
“If you please?” The doc stared the guards down, asserting some authority. “You’re upsetting my patient.”
With stony faces, my jailers retreated to the door again, keeping me in their sights, hands resting on the butts of their now holstered weapons.
“Miss Grey? Please continue. You were telling me about your dream?”
“Dreams,” I correct, my attention slowly waning from the men at the door. The bastards were eyeing me like a piece of dog shit on the sidewalk that got in the way of the
ir shoe.
Feeling’s mutual, douchenozzles. It wasn’t like I wanted to have the dream.
Doc leaned forward, eyes gleaming as if I’d just told him he’d won the lottery. “Ah, so this is a recurring issue? How often would you say it’s happened?”
“The dreams? This is the first time. But—”
The door crashed open, distracting everyone except the guards, whose only visible reactions were to stand just a little taller.
Oh, they’re good. My parents would be proud… of someone. Certainly wouldn’t be me. I’d basically failed every lesson they’d ever taught me by getting caught and convicted.
“Doc?”
The man rose, placing his notepad on the bed and moving forward. “Yes?”
“This one’s bleeding.”
“Ah. Put her over on the other end.”
Away from me, was the translation. Lifting my head, I watched three more guards heft Bertha onto a bed across and down from me, panting with the effort of moving the rather large, unconscious woman. How many of these guys were there? They seemed to crawl out of the cracks when something exciting happened, but I hadn’t otherwise noted more than a few in any particular area.
“We gotta get back to patrol the yard,” one panted. Wasn’t that what Cole was doing? Where was he?
The doctor returned as they moved back and left the room with heavy, clomping feet. “This is the one who got hit? Miss Grey?”
Why was he asking me? “Yeah.”
“I see.” He went about getting supplies to clean up Bertha’s wound, seeming to take my word.
I noticed she wasn’t chained to her railings. Maybe being unconscious gave you an out? Right as I had that thought, Bertha began to stir and moan. The two original guards didn’t move toward her, unjustly seeming to think I was the larger threat. I had never been hit in the forehead with a rock that was thrown with the force of a proficient athlete, and from the sound of the pain it caused, I didn’t want to be. If it hurt a behemoth like Bertha that much, I hated to think what kind of permanent damage it could do to a girl like me.