The walls in this room are made of cinder block and painted blue. It's a peaceful color. I'm sick of the color of sand.
There's a shower head protruding from the wall, high enough overhead to fit a giant beneath it.
I take off my shirt and fumble with the buttons on my slacks. My hands won’t pinch together properly, wrapped up as they are in gritty strips of old gauze.
"Do you think I should take off these bandages?" I shout.
"Do you have a weak stomach?" Nathan says.
“Why should that matter?” I say.
I should say yes. If I had a smaller ego, I’d say yes. But I don’t want Nathan to call me weak. I’ve made it this far without giving myself away.
"I don't want you to pass out in there,” Nathan says.
That makes me nervous. I peel up the edges of the gauze with my fingernails. I unwrap my right hand first, and then my left. I keep my eyes on the ceiling, afraid of what I’ll see if I look down.
I'm not sure I want to know what my hands look like, if they're really that bad. But I have to peek at them once I’ve finished. I can't help myself.
My heart vaults into my throat and catches there like a fish in a net. Nausea turns a somersault in my stomach. My head shouts, Look at something else! Look at anything else! But I can’t look away.
"Suck it up, Cass," Nathan says.
I whip around to see if he’s been spying on me, but the door is still shut. There are no windows, no peep holes, no way he could’ve seen me. Maybe I haven’t disguised my frail constitution at all.
I look back at my hands, even though I know I shouldn’t. They’re striped with deep lacerations, deeper than I remember them. They're blue and purple and twice as large as they should be. The swelling pushes up pus, yellow lumps of it as thick as ointment.
I swallow. "I'm fine," I say, not as loudly as I thought I would say it. I drop the soiled gauze into the incinerator.
I take off my bra and my underwear last. It's an odd feeling, to be totally naked in a strange place, to know how close Nathan is to me while I'm standing here exposed. I turn a dial on the wall and lukewarm water spits out of the shower head.
"There's a timer," Nathan says, "so be quick."
I know how to take quick showers. At the bunker, we took community showers, girls with girls and boys with boys, and they were always timed. The government only refilled our water tank once a month. All of our provisions were strictly preserved.
I wish there wasn't a timer, though, just this once. The water feels so good on my skin. I think I could stand here all day and not be clean.
Too quickly, the shower shuts off and I'm left shivering and wet. There's another door leading out of this room. It slides open automatically when the water stops.
"Are you out yet?" Nathan says. I imagine he'll come in behind me so I dart into the next room. I don't want him to see me without any clothes on.
The automatic door shuts behind me. It must have a sensor like the platform we drove over in the desert sand.
This room looks much like the other one. Dry towels hang from aluminum hooks on the wall. I wrap myself up in one, savoring the soft, clean feel of cotton. But I know I can't stand here in a towel forever. I've got roughly three minutes before Nathan's shower cuts off.
There are cubbies in this room, each housing a neat stack of fatigues, underwear and boots. I dress myself. The boots are too big and the pants are too long. I tuck the hem of the pants into the boots and lace them up as tight as I can to make them fit better.
There's another door in here, but it's locked. I see a keypad, but I try the handle anyway. It sticks tight.
Nathan's shower stops. The automatic door which separates us opens up. I whip around to face the wall. I haven’t seen a naked boy before. I’m not certain I ever want to see one.
Nathan reaches for a towel. His elbow brushes mine, and my stomach dips. He dries off behind me and begins to dress himself. I hear a small noise, a little exhalation of breath. It might be nothing, but I'm sure he's laughing at me.
I cross my arms over my chest and huff. I should peek at him, I think. I should prop my chin over my shoulder and take in the sight of his bare body with a cool, sweeping, sidelong gaze, just to prove that he hasn’t flustered me. But I can’t quite muster the courage to do it.
I can only imagine what Adrienne would do, if she were here instead of me. My stomach flares up and I shake the image off. I can’t dwell on thoughts like that, or Nathan is sure to know what’s in my head.
If I'm lucky, Nathan and I won't see each other much after this; after he arranges for me, as Moreau put it. I wonder how big the launch station could be. Maybe we won't ever run into one another. Maybe we've gotten to know each other as well as we ever will, which isn't well at all. Maybe this is where our strange companionship comes to an end.
It occurs to me that, without Nathan, I’ll be all alone in the launch station. It's late summer. A month or more seems like a long time to wait for a train, a long time to wallow in loneliness, but maybe it's a long trip from here to the Reservation. I have no way of knowing. Yet.
Nathan dials in the next pass code. His stride takes him a step ahead of me. I try to keep up with him, shuffling along, but it's hard to lift my feet up properly when my shoes are so much bigger than they ought to be.
We pass doors with labels I can't read; maybe it's that Czech language again. Most of them have keypads, but some of them don't. "What is all this?" I say.
"Doesn't concern you," Nathan says.
"I didn't ask if it concerned me, I asked what it was. Where do all these doors lead? How big is this bunker?"
He stops beside a keypad. "4-2-8-8," he says, dialing it in. "Remember that." He opens up the door and I step inside.
The room reminds me of the women’s quarters back at the convent. There are bunk beds evenly spaced along the wall, made of beige piping and dressed in thin mattresses with white sheets. A woman threads the spaces between them. She's got a hamper balanced on her hip. With one arm, she strips bed sheets and shucks pillows free of their cases, tucking the soiled dressings into her basket.
"Hi, Nate," she says. He just nods. Everyone seems to know him here.
She's a strange looking person. She hasn't got a single hair up top. Her cheekbones are square and sharp. They make a deep grove.
Her eyes are too deep set, I think. Each one is perched inside a hollow depression, nestled there like black rocks at the bottom of a pond. They catch the light of candles and sparkle.
I try not to stare at her, but her strange features snag my attention again and again, snaring my eyes like a fish hook. I can’t look away.
"Cargo?" she says, and I roll my eyes.
"It’s Cassidy," I say.
"Mya." She thrusts out her hand. The hamper sags on her hip and she hikes it back up.
Nathan glares at her. “There’s no need for that,” he says, but she doesn’t retract the gesture. She stands there with her arm extended until I place my own swollen hand in hers.
"Good lord," she says. She latches onto my hand with a gusto. The hamper falls away from her. White, cotton bedding tumbles out of it, spilling onto the concrete floor. "What's happened to you?"
"She's fine," Nathan says.
"You can't make someone fine just by saying it's so," Mya says. She meets his hard stare with a glare of her own, and I wonder how well she must know him.
"I'm really okay," I say. I fold my arms together, tucking my hands into my arm pits so that she can't gape at them anymore.
"You're not," she says. "And your clothes are much too large."
"I'll take care of that," Nathan says, but Mya's already spun me around and pushed up my bun to see the tag on my collar. Her icy fingers touch the back of my neck and I shiver. "Mya," Nathan says.
"Don't snap at me," she says. She tucks the tag back in and smacks Nathan on the arm. "There's no hierarchy between us, Nate,” she says.
"She's my charge," he says.
With Mya gone, I can take a better look at the room. There's a tall case of cubbies on the wall, stocked with books and games and instruments, the sorts of things the Order sends us each month in our enrichment trunk. I see bags and belongings at the foot of almost every bed.
"How many people sleep in here?" I say. I count by twos to try and add up all of the occupied spaces. "Will I have a bunk mate?" I've slept beside Adrienne for so long. I can't imagine sleeping next to anyone else.
"You'll have your own bed," Nathan says. "Pick one."
"Pick one?"
"Your choice."
They all look the same. There's several, though, in the farthest corner, that appear to be unclaimed and neighborless, devoid of personal effects. I wonder if I should choose one of those. It's been Nars and Adrienne and I for so long, I'm not sure I know how to make a new friend.
"Where do you sleep?" I ask him.
"Cargo and transport have separate dormitories," he says. My skin crawls at that word. I wish he'd stop calling me cargo. "Get settled," he says, like he's got somewhere important to be. “And don’t leave this room. I'll be back for you in a little bit."
"You'll be back for me?"
"I'm your transporter, Cass."
"Well, yeah, I know that," I say. "But...you've transported me, haven't you? We're here."
He gives me a strange look, like I don't know half the things he would expect me to know.
"Stay here," he says. And then he just leaves. I wonder where he's off to, why he doesn't take me with him. A part of me thinks that I would rather lug my oversized boots along behind him than be alone.
I pick a bed in the back corner of the room, away from everybody else's, with one side hugging the wall. I don't have any way to make it my own except to lay down on top of it. I scoot my body, boots and all, under the sheets and stare at the bunk above me. People enter the room, laughing and carrying on. I shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep.
I don't want to laugh. I don't want to meet the cargo that occupies this room. A tear slips through my bristly eyelashes, and then another one, pouring out silently until my cheek and pillow are sopping wet. I almost never cried in the bunker, not even when I was small. It was easy for me to keep my sadness locked away, a secret as dry as dust. But I can't seem to help myself now.
I'm glad nobody notices me. Sobs build up in my throat till I can hardly breath around them. I swallow them down, even though it makes my throat sore, desperate that none of these strangers should see me cry.
Chapter Seventeen
“Tennessee,” Nathan says. I’m staring at the wall. When I roll over, he’s standing beside my pillowcase.
I shake my head. “I don’t even know where that is,” I say.
“I’ll get you a map,” he says.
“Don’t bother,” I say.
There’s a light in his eyes, a ring of sweat around his neck. He reaches for me, but I fold my arms across my chest.
Some of the brightness fades from his gaze. “Up and at ‘em,” he says. He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “We haven’t got all day.”
I shuffle out of my bedsheets, nearly losing a boot when I kick them away. I follow him out into the hall. He moves with a swiftness, and I do my best to match his pace.
We stop in front of a door that says Zdravotinik. “What’s that mean?” I say.
“Medic,” he says.
“Is that a southern language?” I say. “Czech?”
Nathan peers down at me. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then he nods. “What all do you know about the South?” he says.
I shrug. “As much as anybody else knows,” I say.
He stares at me. I can feel his eyes on my brow. I jut out my chin. I’m sulking, and I don’t care if he can tell.
“Will you get into trouble when the medic sees what awful shape I’m in?” I say.
He sighs. His good humor is gone, replaced by something grim. “You’ll get a full checkup,” he says. “And a blood screen.”
More blood, I think. Great.
“You won’t like this part,” Nathan says.
“How shocking,” I say, and I roll my eyes. “What are they screening me for, anyway?” I ask him.
“Sometimes…” He trails off. He shrugs his shoulders, but I think he’s too stiff. “Sometimes, transporters bring back the wrong people,” he says. “You’re not the only Cassidy Hartinger out there, you know. They’ve got to make sure you’re the Cassidy they want.”
“Oh,” I say. A surge of hope strikes my chest like a spear. “What if I’m not the Cassidy they want?” I say. “Will they send me back to the bunker?”
I feel like crossing my fingers behind my back. I used to do that when I was little, when I was really hoping for something.
“You are,” Nathan says. “I don’t make mistakes.”
"You could've," I say.
"I didn't."
"But what if-"
"What if nothing," he says. "I don't make mistakes."
I've got my fingers laced together. Nathan tugs them apart. His thumbs brush over my fingertips, the only place where my skin doesn't peel up and curl. Something puts a shadow over his eyes, something he won't say. "Don't worry," he says.
"You look worried," I say.
"I'm not." He drops my hands, too quickly. They knock against my thighs. He raps on the door and Moreau appears.
"Ah, there you are," Moreau says.
"You're the medic?" I say. I thought the medic would look more like Brant, round and dusty and pink in the cheek.
"I wear many hats," Moreau says. "We all do around here." He gives Nathan a nod. I wonder what other hats my transporter wears.
"Well, come on in," Moreau says. "There's always a million things to do and no time to dawdle. Not for me, anyway. Nate, your presence really isn't required. You should know that."
I've stepped into the exam room by now, and Nathan's taken a half-step behind me. "She's one of Brant's," he says. "I'm coming with her."
"Nonsense," Moreau says. "You have other things to do.”
Nathan doesn’t budge. Moreau’s voice is tight when he speaks again, and his mouth is too genial, like Karsci’s happy, red lips. “Don’t forget what your place is here, Nate,” he says, and there’s a bitter venom on his tongue. “You chose it, after all.”
“Yes, I did,” Nathan says. “And I’m sure you know why.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” Moreau says with a shrug. “Now off you go.”
I think there must be something between the two of them, some old argument that burns on in the midst of a drought. Nathan steps backward, surrendering something. I have no way of knowing what.
There’s a heat in Nathan’s eyes that I haven’t seen before. I wonder where that ire was in the cavern, when Karsci’s gun was angled three inches from my face.
It’s oddly satisfying to see Moreau seize the upper hand when Nathan’s done nothing but boss me around for days. But when he shuts the door in Nathan’s face, all of my spite falls away.
The room is cold and sterile and white. Moreau is shorter than I am, but I feel a tenth my size when his gaze dips to my chest, down to my feet and back up again.
"So," he says, "you've been a patient of Dr. Brant’s since you were six years old? Is that correct?”
"Yes," I say. It doesn't sound like a question. I wonder if Brant's name is written down in my file. How much does he know about me, this man I've only just met today?
I don't like the look of him. His eyes are flat. They're gray like Nathan's, but there's something ugly about them. There's no pliancy in the straight bar of his brow, and his smile does nothing to reassure me.
I'm not convinced that he's given to smiles, or that he practices them in the mirror very often. His mouth is so grossly disingenuous. I can hardly stand
the sight of it, but he makes me so nervous, I don't think I should look away.
There's a narrow seat, halfway reclined, in the center of the room. It’s got a large lamp positioned over it, beaming impossibly bright, and open leather cuffs on the arms. Moreau motions for me to have a seat. I don't budge.
A desk is tucked into the corner. It’s just a laminate slab, really, with a tidy stack of papers on top of it. Moreau pulls a rolling stool out from underneath the slab and sits down. "I hope I won't have to restrain you," he says. "I hate to do that."
My eyes flicker down to the cuffs on the chair. "Why can't I stand?" I say.
"I'm the doctor here," Moreau says. "I like my patients to sit down."
He shoves me down into the chair with one, hard push. He's stronger than I am. All that walking in the desert has turned my legs to jelly.
My knees buckle. I catch the arm rests with my tender hands and a yelp escapes me. Moreau smacks his lips. "We'll take care of those," he says. He turns my palms over in front of his face. I order myself not to yank them away.
"I never cared for Brant," Moreau says. "He was a psychiatrist, you know, in San Francisco, many years ago."
I shake my head. I don't know what a psychiatrist is, where San Francisco is, why any of it should matter to me.
"He's got a flare for the dramatic," Moreau says. "He perceives a degree of psychological trauma associated with routine examinations. It can make my work...difficult. Not all of our doctors have little treats squirreled away."
"I don't know what you mean," I say.
"Sedatives," he says. He flips open my file. "Compraltasine. Sutorphanol." He slaps the folder shut. "Fancy drugs." He clucks his tongue, like I’ve done something to upset him, like I asked Brant to give me those little white tabs.
"There's a shortage, you know," he says in that same accusatory tone. "Brant's got his own stores. Wasting them, some would say, handing them out like candy. It's irresponsible. Here, we reserve what anesthetics we have left for invasive procedures. Now then,” he says. “Get undressed and we'll begin."
I don't move for a moment, I don't even breath. I think I must have misheard him.
Moreau sighs. It’s an exasperated sound, like I’ve just thrown a tantrum, like he expected as much. "This is just a routine physical, Miss Hartinger," he says. "There's nothing to be apprehensive about. Brant's examined you in just this way ten...eleven times." He peeks at my file. "Eleven years," he says, and whistles. "That would make you what, seventeen? A little old for selection."
Cargo (The Reservation Trilogy Book 1) Page 10