Xavier untied his boots and set those, along with his socks, aside. His sweaty feet now rested on the coolness of the tile floor. He leaned forward on the edge of the cot. “Sam?” A forced whisper. “You there?”
Alone, just alone. He sighed and lay back down.
“Can you see it?”
“Yeah, it's our school, Dad.”
“That's not what I mean. You two, close your eyes. This is where we start over. Right here. We'll start recruiting people and turn this into a town. We've come across decent people that are looking for something to help them, protect them. A city wall. We'll start a farm right here. We can filter the river water. I can see it.”
“What if no one comes?”
“That won't be the issue. People will come here, and we'll find them along the way. Everyone's going to want an easier life, and we'll build it together. People can join in as long as they’re willing to help. It'll be done the right way. It's not going to be easy at first. It’s going to be a lot of hard work.”
“I don't know, Dad.”
“Matt, what do you think?”
“We'll get it done.”
“See, Xavier, we can do this. First things first, we'll have to get into the school.”
“Dad?”
“Come on now, with all the stuff we've had to do. Every crazy thing done to us. This isn't one of the things we've talked about. No one is coming back for this school. When we talked about the rules, I meant natural right and wrong.”
“Mr. Finch?”
“I just mean the basics. No stealing, no killing, the basics. Think along those lines. We still have to do things the right way. We can't abandon our principles.”
“What happens if someone is there?”
“If someone's there, we'll figure out how to get them on our side. We'll talk to them. Explain our plan and hope they agree.”
“And if they don't like it?”
“We'll move on.”
“Where do we start?”
“We'll cut through the woods to the back. It's going to have to be a secret for now. It can't be obvious what we're doing yet.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“We start gathering. Everything.”
He opened his eyes, not knowing how much time had passed—still surrounded by the void, completely absent of light. There was no way to tell. Even time spent awake could have been sleep for all he knew. He rustled about the cot, trying to get comfortable, but an overpowering smell of stewed corn made him realize how hungry he was. It was close by. Dinner? Lunch? Carefully, he poked around the floor searching for the source. The clanging of a spoon against the tile. It disappeared. He lifted the bowl to his lips and began to drink. It was cold. Probably there an hour or longer, but it still satisfied his ache even though it wasn’t a lot. He finished and slid the bowl underneath his cot.
The white bucket called to Xavier. He grabbed it from the foot of the cot and relieved himself, adding to the stench of urine within the enclosure. He held off on relieving himself completely, saving his bowels for another time, knowing that eventually he would have to give in. Once he was acclimated to the smell, it might not be so bad.
The pillow cradled his head once more. His pulling rattled the handcuff—secured—still without any give. Xavier’s eyes moved about the endless space around him. The whistling noise had stopped. A leaking faucet filled the void—a distinct smacking noise as each drop collided with the porcelain of the sink. He tried to filter the dripping from his mind. Where’s the breathing? He couldn’t see. There was no way to tell.
“Sam?”
Nothing.
“Sam!”
Nothing again.
“Help! I think he’s dead! Help!” The shouting bounced around the tiled chamber. It was unknown if the words made it to the gymnasium above them or not. He continued shouting. If Sam hadn’t died, it may still have been possible to save him. The metal handcuff scraped along the railing of the cot as Xavier moved to the corner, reaching, stretching as far as he could. His hand grasped for anything material, nothing but the emptiness around him. Finally, he felt it—the metal rail of Sam’s cot. He shook hard, but nothing. No response, not even a startle. “Hey! Wake up! Wake up!”
“What the hell’s going on down there?” A voice demanded.
“Hurry! I think he’s dead!”
Footsteps scurried across the floor. A light accompanied the Guard into the shower room. “Whoa!” The Guard startled at the sight of Sam, the lantern swung as he stopped.
Xavier turned his head away from the light. It was too much all at once. When he could see again, he looked back, his eyes following the trail of red. The gauze had been soaked through—the cot too, and now, blood dripped to the floor, running between the porcelain tiles toward the drain in the center of the room. The Guard placed two fingers on Sam’s neck. His shoulders dropped, and he turned from the body.
“Just you now.”
The Guard gathered the bandages, clothing, and towels from the floor and placed them in Sam’s waste bucket. All the light escaped the room, the bucket’s handle clanking with every step away from the showers.
Xavier now knew. There was no going back. This was the future. Every man, woman and child—the entire town—soaked in blood. No one would be safe. Squads of Second Alliance Guards lining the halls of River's Edge striking anyone who deviated from the cadence. Citizens, with their arms and legs broken, struggling to maneuver the winding halls of the school. All the mouths of the dissenters sewn shut. Their tongues nailed to their foreheads. All of them stripped of clothing, humiliated, their bodies gaunt and wanting for nourishment. Everyone chained and bound together in a forced march to the capital—treasonous prisoners of a non-existent war.
The Guard returned shortly with another. The two of them spread a tarp across the floor and set the body onto it. They wrapped him. One of them turned to Xavier. “Did ya know him?”
“Every one of us knows each other, cares for one another.”
“Do ya want to say something before we go?”
“What will be done with him?”
“Burnt, more than likely. If you want to say somethi—”
“You guys killed him. Every one of you.”
Xavier lay back down, covering his face, softly sobbing, not just for Sam, but everyone else—River’s Edge. It’s over. Sam was dead. Xavier was simply waiting his turn. There would be no stopping the Second Alliance. Was there anyone that actually wanted to? Even Xavier's faith in Matt was merely a glimmer. His passive reaction to Sam being struck—telling Xavier to let it go—that there was nothing that could be done.
Xavier now almost regretted writing the note and leaving it for him. Matt wouldn't do the right thing. He was like everyone else. Fall into line and shut up. Nothing to see here. Move along. The vision his father had set forth was now gone. Abandoned by Grant. Destroyed with Sam. Rotting away with Xavier.
Chapter Eleven
It had been six meals, more than likely three days since he first lay on that cot. It was impossible to know for sure. The hunger between each bowl of soup seemed to suggest it was much longer. Those hours stretched, distorting any sense of reality that he hung on to as he remained there without conversation.
Xavier curled into a position he discovered was the most comfortable available to him on a stiff canvas cot with one hand locked in place. His wrist felt numb—his limbs rigid, unused, useless to any other task beyond sleeping.
He now understood why Grant had appeared as he did when he emerged from this tomb. His twisted clothing. The dribbles of food. And that was only one day of living in this absolute darkness. Xavier could only imagine his own appearance—one of dirt and filth.
He could feel his hair matted to his forehead from sweat and the inability to clean himself. Stripped down to his underwear from his own doing. The clothing ripped into tattered strips using the head of a screw on the cot. He wiped himself like he had before in that house on his old street. The waste and m
akeshift bathroom tissue filled the bucket, filling the room with a fetor that Xavier now felt as a film covering his skin.
He slipped in and out of sleep—only meals and the use of the bucket interrupted his dreaming. It was difficult to maintain whether his eyes were opened or closed. It truly didn't matter, being unable to tell the difference would never stand in the way of sleep. His body now craved it. The darkness, the ennui of nothingness made it that way. With nothing to stimulate himself, it was a matter of survival to simply sleep through this ordeal before his mind deteriorated from the isolation.
With the body gone, it was just Xavier in the room. Sam was never truly present—only his breathing from a comatose state—only the extra stench of blood and waste. But it was still company. Company that Xavier sorely missed. A reminder, a glimmer of hope that he hadn't made this choice for nothing. That Sam would pull through. That the eventual leader of the revolution would rise up.
Now, the only hope was soon something, anything would change Haverty's mind. Xavier had proposed a meeting with Haverty several meals ago, but nothing ever came to fruition. Perhaps something was said during Grant's second interrogation that made Haverty reconsider Xavier's worth. Realizing now if the letter was hidden, then no one would find it. Realizing the letter was no threat at all to stability. Haverty thought by eliminating Xavier that the letter went with him.
Grant had not returned, but the thought of his condition remained with Xavier. Is Grant dead? Xavier’s anger had subsided. Grant was a good man. He had cared for Xavier as his own child, pushing him to be his best. I should have stayed with him.
Now seeing what Grant had certainly known from the beginning, Xavier understood why he thought it best to choose that path. He was now free while Xavier was not. Grant recognized the situation, understanding that the Second Alliance was a giant, and feeble chops to its knees would not bring the beast down. River's Edge was going to be a slight hiccup in their plan or an easy assimilation. Grant made it obvious that assimilation made the most sense, and now Xavier regretted not seeing it.
A scuffle, quick footsteps and thuds against the wall—a bark of orders and expletives just as Xavier was about to doze off again. He lay still, not moving even slightly, he peeked through his eyelashes, waiting for whoever shuffled his way.
A muffled scream of pain bounced along the tiled walls. A hard-hitting crack in response. More screaming. The sterile light, beyond any natural white existing in nature, crept around the corner. It moved across the wall, sporadic, highlighting the locker room in a panicked manner. Low grunts. Thuds. A stifled murmur. Xavier didn't move. His heart beat faster. He attempted to hide his quickened breaths, tightening his core, restricting it just enough so it appeared normal. The light continued to grow. His eyes shuddered.
A prisoner stumbled forward, pushed from behind—his bucket tumbling across the porcelain floor. His head moved frantically around the room, lost, unable to see through the black hood that hid his face. A man? Maybe a teenager. His build very similar to Xavier's own.
The prisoner turned to leave, his body jolted, recoiling from the broad chest of the Guard that brought him—another one standing just outside the threshold. The hood was pulled from over his face. Brown hair, the dirt bunching it into short locks. He was easily, fifteen or sixteen years old. Xavier peeked again through his lashes. Who in the world is that? Blood ran from his lip. A bruised cheek. His eyes wide with panic. A cloth gag in his mouth prevented him from saying anything intelligible. He made another attempt to leave. Useless.
“Sit!” The Guard ordered and pressed him down onto Sam’s cot still stained with blood.
The prisoner mumbled, panicked, shaking his head in absolute protest to being forced into what was obviously someone's death. Murder perhaps, from what he could figure. A swift kick to the inside of the knee and one of the Guards buckled to the floor, signaling the other to step in. The much bigger companion lifted the prisoner by the front of his shirt and pinned him to the wall.
“Stop!”
Xavier was sitting up by this point. There was no sense in acting as if he would be able to sleep through the commotion. The prisoner’s eyes met Xavier’s as he hung there, perched above the cot, begging for answers—for help. Xavier tugged at the handcuff in response. What does he expect?
One could see the disappointment flood the prisoner’s face. He threw his elbow several times into the Guard’s grip, finally breaking free but falling onto the cot. A harsh grunt. The metal rail against his back. Both Guards grabbed the desperate prisoner—one by the arms, the other by his feet. Taken to the opposite side, the prisoner continued fighting, flailing about, screaming—their shadows crawling like frenetic spiders across the walls. Xavier could do nothing but watch as the Guards attempted to handcuff him to the cot. The scuffle ended with the Guards standing over the prisoner now in full compliance—fully secured.
“Decent fight, kiddo. Damn shame it’s over.”
One of the Guards winked at the prisoner and took out a knife while smiling, sliding it between the gag and the prisoner’s skin. The cheek creased as the blade turned toward the fabric. It tore and was spit to the ground. The prisoner gave the Guards an exaggerated, menacing grin, pulling at his handcuff as if to strike them again. He began laughing and grabbed for the Guard’s shirt, but was promptly swiped away.
“You two get along now.”
The lantern was lifted from the floor and carried off—full darkness once again. All Xavier heard was panting and anxious movements coming from the prisoner’s cot. Grunts, clanging, scoffs of anger. The excitement was over and Xavier resigned himself back to his situation. He had already gone through the motion of trying. He considered telling the prisoner there was no use, but figured it would at least pass some time for both of them.
Who is that guy? Xavier had never seen him. Not even a vague familiarity that ate at an individual as they tried to place them in their memory. Even with the Second Alliance moving in new troops, he felt as though he had seen most everyone in the town, but he couldn’t be certain. It was possible this was a trap. Someone sent in to gain his trust. Someone to pry out the location of the letter. Maybe Haverty hadn’t given up on it. Xavier couldn’t be entirely certain.
The metal creaked as the prisoner leaned back into his cot. “So what you in for?” he asked.
“A misunderstanding. What about you?”
“Same I guess, if we’re both being careful about what we say.”
A measured response followed by silence. He too could be thinking the same thing as Xavier. Who could blame him? There was no telling what he was in for either. The same kind of charge of conspiracy against the Second Alliance. It would be the perfect plan to pose an interrogator as another prisoner. Someone to confide in. Someone who would understand.
“Feeding you?”
“Yeah,” Xavier said. “Barely, but yeah.”
The mere mention of food was enough to make Xavier’s stomach begin churning. A diet of soup simply wasn’t cutting it. He wanted more—needed more. Through that short scuffle, the light had revealed his physical state. Knowing he had lost weight, but unaware to what extent, the glimpse left him without question. His ribs appeared ready to snap from the tautness of his skin. Hip bones, pointed and peeking above the waistline of his loose underwear. He was nothing but a wireframe.
“What they got?”
“Mostly soup.”
“How long until next meal?” he begged. His voice was eager as if he had been starved up to this point, although he appeared to be in relatively good shape other than the few minor injuries.
“I don’t know. Before I was in here, the town switched to two meals a day, so I think that’s what’s going on, but I’m not really sure. You’ll lose track of time in here, but I’ve been trying to keep count of my meals.”
“How many you had?”
“Six, I think.”
“Maybe three or four days here?”
“Seems so, but like I said, I’m n
ot really sure. I can’t be positive.” Xavier thought backwards, confirming for his own sake. “They’ve taken some of my bowls, but three or four days seems right.”
“Seem to be taking good care of you.” A slight hint of mistrust in his voice. “Barely a scratch on you as far as I could tell.”
The comment gave him pause. Why had they been so rough with this prisoner but given him a pass? Not even a scratch. The only physical confrontation was Haverty searching his belongings. And that was certainly nothing in comparison to this guy's bloody lip and bruises.
“I didn’t fight back.” That's the reason. You battled back and probably have been since you were first taken. “There’s no point in it. These people are monsters. I don’t stand a chance alone. No point in making it harder on myself.”
“How’s that?” The prisoner laughed through the question. “Got nothing to lose at this point. What's wrong with you?”
“I'm going to find a way through this,” Xavier's tone wavered, uncertainty plaguing the belief that his statement was true. The isolation wore on his spirit. He tried to hide it. “This isn't the end for me.”
“That blood on the cot. A friend of yours?”
Xavier didn't reply—he understood the point of the statement.
“I figured as much. Guessing this is where they bring people to die. This is the end. Delusional if you think otherwise.”
“Maybe for you,” Xavier said, “but I still have something they want.” A confidence began to build within him. This guy doesn't know what he's talking about. He’s clearly expendable being beaten up like that. The S.A. doesn’t need him. I still have what they want. That letter is what kept him alive. Kept him from the same fate as this stranger. “I have something they don't want to get out. It could shatter the whole game they've been playing. They like to make you think they're here to help, but it's a joke.”
“Oh, yeah?” the prisoner asked. “Here to help?” Xavier had heard that tone before. The words matched with a pair of rolling eyes. “Been nothing but horrible. Not an ounce of good in them. They don’t care what you got.”
Almawt Virus Series (Book 2): Days Since...Xavier [Day 853] Page 16