“You know, I gotta be honest with you, Karen. I don’t have a lot of time today, and I’m really not in the mood for this shit. I came here for an…unambiguous reason, and I don’t want to chance getting sidetracked, so I need you to listen to me, okay? There’s some information I require from you about your buddy Faith Gallo. You know, the nice old gospel-singin’ lady you helped go see her husband—the reason you wound up here, reeking like piss, shit, and dirty old blankets.” Beatrice took a quick whiff through her nostrils to verify the efficacy of the camphor ointment beneath them. “I have some questions I need answers to—sort of ‘fill in the blank’ questions.”
“Faith?” Karen asked, her voice still barely above a whisper, her chapped lips and jaw both trembling. “Where is she? Where is Faith?”
“Oh, as far as I know, she’s fine…still doing the church thing with the old man. But as things go, she might be fixin’ to meet her maker—you know, the lord her God—before long, I’m afraid,” Beatrice taunted. “Karen, dear, that all depends now on what you tell me and how satisfied I am with your responses.”
Karen’s face flushed with color, some life seeming to have entered her body upon hearing Faith’s name. She moved her feeble, shaking body slowly into a seated position, crossing her legs over the shackles that held her ankles in place. “Are you…going to kill her?”
Beatrice smiled, nodding her head. “I must admit that is a highly likely outcome. Your Mrs. Gallo has decided to take a stroll down the wrong path, I’m afraid. She’s very close to finding herself caught up in some trouble.”
“What path? W-what kind of trouble?”
“The wrong path. The erroneous path—the one that leads to trouble—the kind of trouble that ends badly for the troublemaker, Karen. The type of trouble that can only end with said troublemaker lacking the ability to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide.”
Karen shook her head nervously. Inside, she strained, trying desperately to will away the effects of the long-term sensory deprivation that had caused her to misplace her sense of time and presence. “No. You can’t. You can’t kill Faith.”
“Oh, Karen. I assure you, now—I very much can.”
“She doesn’t deserve that, and you know it. She’s a…good person. Please don’t kill her…”
Beatrice’s face flushed with bother, as did the tone of her voice. “A good person? Are you trying to make me pitch a fit? Karen, do you know who I am? Are you aware of whom you’re speaking with this very moment? Do you know whose voice this is?”
Karen wavered, then slowly nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. That’s real good, now. I take it, then, you remember my name?”
Karen nodded her head solemnly. “Yes.”
“And what is my name, Karen? Articulate it verbally, please.”
Karen hesitated. “Beatrice.”
“That’s good. You do know me. And as such, is it safe for me to assume you might know a little bit about me?”
Karen paused a moment before responding in a near whisper. “Yes.”
“Of course you do. I realize not many folks know me in what can be deemed…official capacity, but as is the case in most locations of employment, there’s always scuttlebutt.”
Karen grimaced. “W-what did you say?”
“Scuttlebutt, Karen…you know, smack. The grapevine. Gossip. The goddamn rumor mill.”
Karen turned away, lowering her head.
“Were you privy to the rumors—about my profession? What I did before getting shipped off to this godforsaken place?”
Karen scarcely nodded. “Mm-hmm.”
Beatrice smiled. “Outstanding.” While careful to keep her light’s beam centered on Karen, Beatrice slid her shoulder pack to the floor and unzipped the main compartment, removing a file folder from its depths. She placed the folder on the floor, opened it, and then thumbed through some of the papers stapled inside while asking Karen Mitchell a myriad of random questions—some she had answers to, others she did not. Afterward, Beatrice ordered Karen to disclose any other pertinent information she could remember, while the former CCO turned prisoner fought for what was left of her memory.
“Aside from that, I don’t remember much else.”
Beatrice sighed. “That’s not a lot to go on, Karen. Quite frankly, I expected more from you…especially after all the time you had with her.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, so am I. You do realize now, despite appearances, Mrs. Gallo is nothing more than a mainstream dissident,” Beatrice began, holding up a sheet of paper for Karen to see, even though she’d not yet parted her eyelids. “Even before winding up here, her behavior has been, well, less than acceptable. Rather, it’s been rebellious. She’s been dangerously outspoken over the years regarding her distaste for government policy, just like her husband. He’s even penned a few editorials for the local newspaper, regarding his lack of loyalty to our government and to our president, with particularly subversive undertones. I know Mrs. Gallo has done her best to stay low on the radar since being here, but before, it was a different story entirely.
“Most modest, working-class, voting conservatives don’t attend political rallies. They don’t make campaign contributions to hard right-wing and libertarian civic candidates. And they typically aren’t life members of the NRA—which she and her husband both are—well, I mean, were. Both Mrs. Gallo and her husband had concealed handgun permits and, at one time, owned a portion of a local gun store not far from here, in some hick town called Toms Brook. Both were members at the local Isaac Walton shooting league, as well.
“They owned multiple investment properties, all purchased under LLC umbrellas. Some don’t even have public utilities attached to them—something folks used to refer as ‘off the grid’. And, while I can’t come to an agreement with her spiritual choices…the fact she’s so fervently Christian doesn’t help her cause. She’s little miss perfect on the outside, seditionist and master conspirator inside.”
“None of those things make her a bad person.”
Beatrice huffed. “Oh, Karen. Dear heart, I must respectfully disagree.”
Karen tucked her head into her arms. “I don’t understand what this is about. Why her? Why the vendetta? She’s only one person. W-why are you after her?”
A sinister grin slid across Beatrice’s face. “I’ll tell you why her. Ever since you signed her release papers and shipped her over to senior quarters, she’s been discovering new and exciting ways to cause a ruckus. She is well on her way to being deemed a threat to the security of the camp and, not to mention, the sanctity of our operations here. And unlike most others, I’m simply not going to allow it to continue on as it has.”
Karen exhaled, her brow furrowing. “What are you talking about? How is she a threat? What sanctity?”
“I believe this conversation is nearing a close,” Beatrice purred. She closed the folder and stuffed it into her pack, pulling out a bottle of water. “I’m sure you’re thirsty. Here’s a drink for you.”
Karen reached out, felt around, and took the bottle from Beatrice. She fought with the cap and eventually opened it, bringing it to her lips. As she went to take a taste, she pulled the bottle away at the last second. “How do I know you didn’t poison it?”
Beatrice snickered. “Well, smell it, Karen. Or maybe open your eyes and take a peek.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“My eyes haven’t been exposed to light in days. My pupils won’t be able to adjust.”
“Your pupils will give you problems, no doubt. But it’s your retinas now, that have acclimatized to the darkness. They’ll take the most time to adjust,” Beatrice corrected.
“You could just turn your torch the other way.”
“And cut the light off for you?” Beatrice giggled. “What, with your hands unbound and all? Nice try, Karen. But I don’t think so.”
“I’m not a threat to you,” Karen said softly. “I know it and you know it
. I’ll probably end up blind after this, anyway.”
“No, you won’t be blind. That whole losing your vision after being in the dark long-term thing is just a myth, an urban legend. But let’s be honest, Karen. Considering your final destination when you ultimately leave this place, would it really matter?”
As Beatrice stood and turned to walk away, Karen reached for her rival’s legs in a feeble effort to impede her.
“Where are you going?” Karen pleaded. “To kill Faith?”
Beatrice stopped near the other captives still fully immersed in battle over Karen’s blanket. She leaned down and snatched it from them effortlessly, looked it over, and tossed it back into Karen’s waiting arms. “There’s nothing I’d like to see more than that pretentious bitch eat a bullet—especially one of my own. I even have a few with her name written on them, believe it or not. But there’s a procedure I’m following here, Karen—an algorithm, if you will. And I’m adding to it each day as I learn more.”
Karen wrapped herself in the blanket, feeling around for the other. “Her husband, then. You’re going to kill him first, then, aren’t you?”
Beatrice whipped around in a flash, her non-shooting hand landing bullishly on her hip. “Now, Karen. You were brought to the Annex on the same day he was. Is there a radio or some sort of intercom between these containers I’m not aware of? Perhaps…two cups with a string tied between them? How could you have possibly known…that he was still alive?”
Karen didn’t respond. She turned her head away, feeling her adversary creep closer. “It was just a guess.”
“A guess, huh?” said Beatrice. She bent over with a menacing glare, her weapon trained on Karen. “Pretty damn good guess. I wasn’t made aware of the fact myself until yesterday.”
Karen hesitated. “So I take it…you’ve already been to see him.”
“Another good guess. Damn, Karen. You’re two for two so far.”
Karen swallowed over an enormous dry spot in her throat. “Did you kill him?” she asked, her voice low and monotone.
Beatrice ignored the question. “You know, I’m growing ever so tired of being merciful, watching crimes go unpunished. It’s so pointless. I’ve taken a backseat to this new life for far too long. Everything that has a beginning also has an end, and I’ve been provided the gifts that make me a means to that end.” She paused. “So, if you’ll excuse me, I need to pay a visit to yet another purveyor of insolence. Someone who was brought to my attention only moments ago.”
Karen pulled the water bottle from her face after a miniscule sip. “What?”
“Fill in the blanks, Karen. Who’s been helping you since you’ve been stuck here in this pit? You know the answer, and now, so do I. Your friend—excuse me—your boyfriend. Jason.”
“What? No…no…you can’t. You can’t hurt Jason,” Karen pleaded, her voice despondent. “Please…he’s all I have left.”
Beatrice dismissed her opponent’s pleas with the giggle of a kindergartner playing tag. “It’s a shame, isn’t it? Such a pity he has to face dire consequences—over water, a couple of blankets, some information, and whatever else he’s been sneaking in to you. Alas, such deeds cannot go without penalty.”
“Damn you,” Karen growled. “Damn you to hell.”
“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned,” Beatrice spat, quoting The Mourning Bride. “Today, dear, and for the foreseeable future, I am the woman scorned.”
Karen gritted her teeth while balling her hands into fists with what little strength she had left. “If I ever get out of here…I swear to God—”
Beatrice whipped around, bringing Karen Mitchell into her Beretta’s sight picture. “You’ll what? You swear to God you’ll do what?”
Karen’s threatening reply turned to sobs. “I’ll—I’ll kill you.”
Beatrice laughed. “Well, look at you…all of a sudden, so empowered and shit. You can’t touch me, Karen. You’ve withered away into nothing…flushed your entire career down the toilet for some unessential bottom-feeder’s nonsensical, melodramatic bullshit. And now you’re here, in the Southern Annex, no less. The only thing that lies ahead for you is your own extinction…along with these other dregs of a leftover and obsolete society.” She motioned to the others just behind her, all cowering and hugging the wall. “I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long. August told me you wouldn’t have much of a mind left after being in here for this long, but I guess he was wrong now, wasn’t he? You wanna tell me what your secret is? How you’re able to hang on to life like you are—even as hopeless as it is?”
Karen nodded slightly and adjusted her position after finding her other blanket and wrapping herself up in it. “Prayer,” she muttered.
“Prayer? Oh, come now. You must be kidding. Really? Prayer? You think God is going to come down here and set you free upon your request? Is this something the church lady put you up to?”
“It gives me something to believe in,” Karen replied. “It provides me answers—and peace.”
Beatrice stepped closer. “You already know the answers, Karen. And the type of peace you’re looking for doesn’t exist until death. And that’s the type of peace I can definitely endow you with. Permanent, everlasting peace.”
Karen sat up and moved her head forward, pressing her forehead onto the muzzle of Beatrice’s pistol. “Then do it, bitch. Put me out of my misery, then. Unless you’re too chickenshit.”
“You really want me to, don’t you?” Beatrice asked with counterfeited sincerity. “You want me to put an end to this for you…end the pain and suffering…end the agony, the solitude…and the cold chills and all the bad, bad stuff? Is that what you want me to do for you?”
Karen broke down. Thick tears escaped her eyelids, and her body shuddered as she absorbed the cruelty of what her world had become. Her life had been a waste. She’d faltered. She’d failed at everything she’d intended to accomplish both before and after the collapse. And now it looked as though the people she cared about most were destined to pay the price along with her, doomed to a similar fate.
Karen took a deep breath, sniffled and nodded her head. “Yes. That’s what I want.”
Beatrice smiled. She pulled her gun away from Karen’s brow. “Well, I’m not.” She turned and marched toward the door, reaching for a pack of cigarettes in her jacket pocket. She pulled one out and placed the long, slender, tobacco-filled cylinder between her lips. “If you want the easy way out, find a way to do it yourself. Unless, of course, you’re too chickenshit.”
Chapter 3
DHS Shenandoah Outpost
Woodstock, Virginia
Monday, October 25th
DHS Regional Commander Doug Bronson leaned into his chair and rested both hands on his bloated abdomen, his fingers intertwined. He puckered his lips and rocked back and forth repeatedly, using his head as a pendulum, his expression varying between disgust and disbelief. As he viewed a length of bird’s-eye-view video on his computer, the scenes playing out before him depicted an outcome he had known was altogether possible, he just wasn’t particularly happy with it. He had gotten what he wanted in the end, almost, but to Bronson, it still felt like losing. And Doug Bronson did not like to lose.
Bronson reached for a glass of champagne-hued peach brandy, one that was now nearing empty, and brought it judiciously to his lips. Tilting the glass back, he downed the beverage and then poured another serving from a nearby carafe—which he dutifully noted was, itself, also nearing empty. Sighing deeply and muttering to himself, he expressed his dissatisfaction to the rest of the empty room. He could’ve sworn the damn thing was full an hour ago.
As the video concluded, Bronson choked down a swallow from his glass while struggling to lean forward to reach the computer monitor’s power button. After a veritable cabaret of effort, he managed to press it inward just enough to power it down.
“Goddamn, fuuuck-ing heathens,” he droned, his voice incredibly slurred, his words nearly m
elding together.
While tonguing the leftovers in his empty glass, Bronson’s dilated pupils scanned his desk, hooking themselves on a small stack of neatly stapled papers. In the header, the words ‘Incident Report’ had been typed in twelve-point Times New Roman. The bottom of each page bore a set of initials—BC, signed in a rather flamboyant cursive in black ink. Bronson reached forward and flipped through the pages with a groan and an indignant smirk while barely able to hold his eyes open. On the final page, a one-sentence paragraph read:
In closing, sir, I respectfully request you kindly regard the quandary I have portrayed and disclosed in this report with dire urgency and swiftness of action, as it is my belief it directly affects the overall security of our government installation.
Below the text came a formal closing and a graceful signature to match the initials. The author of the report—one Chief Correctional Officer Beatrice Carter, scripted in the same showy cursive as her initials.
Bronson sighed, licked his teeth, and exhaled again, motorboating through nearly sealed lips. He brought the papers to his nose and sniffed them, detecting only a minute odor he assumed to be hand lotion coupled with cigarette smoke. He tried imagining what this woman sounded like so he could read the words of her report in his mind using her voice, and then for a moment, he fantasized about what she might look like, so he could watch her personally dictate the report to him, perhaps even while situated on her knees.
Bronson snickered to himself and returned the report to his desk. Utilizing both armrests, along with his desk for balance and support, the balding man rose from his chair and staggered across his office to the door, barely having made the journey without tripping over his own feet.
After several attempts to reach for the door handle, he placed one hand on the wall to steady himself and wrestled it open, then hung his head out, snapping his fingers at the young brunette sitting at the desk outside.
Startled, Tori dropped the paperback novel she’d been reading to her lap and whipped her head around, bug-eyed.
We Won't Go Quietly_A Family's Struggle to Survive in a World Devolved_Book Three of the What's Left of My World Series Page 7