Moses calls, after a moment, “Yeah!” Hope adds strength to his voice.
“Can you pull yourself up?”
“I’ll pull you right in. Can you tie the rope to a tree or something?”
I look around. Nubby stumps are all that are left, since the few trees have been used for either construction or firewood. I cautiously approach the twelve-foot-high barbed-wire fence, fearing it’s hot, but then I almost laugh at my foolishness. Of course it’s not hot. There’s no electricity. I tie the rope to a metal post and pull it taut, using my body weight for leverage.
Approaching the hole again, I call down to Moses, “It’s ready!”
The serpentine rope straightens and tightens as he grips the other end. I grip it as well, just in case. His climb to the top is slow, and I constantly glance over at the building. But there are still no guards milling about, making me think Moses either must not be a very important prisoner, or the ARC is so accustomed to tossing dissenters down into this hole to die that they don’t think about them again.
When Moses finally does reach the top, I gasp at the gruesome sight of his face. His left eye is swollen shut, blood cakes his nostrils, and the front of his T-shirt appears starched with more blood. He winces as he pulls himself out of the hole. Getting my bearings, I walk over and grasp him by the armpits, pulling him out. “We need to book it,” I say, gesturing to the gate.
He glances up at me. “I don’t think I can.”
“You have to.” I pause. “Leora’s waiting for you to come back.”
He sucks in such a deep, unsteady breath, I can tell he’s fighting to keep it together. Wrapping his left arm around his ribs, he begins to run at an off-kilter pace. I run beside him.
Moses
It’s difficult to transition from resigning yourself to death to hitting the ground at a dead run. But that’s what I do, because that’s what I have to do. I don’t let myself think about the guards, or that my life rests entirely in Sal’s hands. Instead, I dream about my life with Leora, once she and I can be together on the mountain. I picture coming home at the end of a long day spent hunting in the woods, and seeing my lovely wife in front of the fire, our young children gathered around her slippered feet as she reads a story to them that they already know by heart.
This daydream abruptly ends as Mike walks out of the old FFA/4-H building and approaches the gate. It is not the main one I entered when I came into the fairgrounds, but a gate that I never noticed before Sal pointed it out. Mike doesn’t look behind or around as he places a key in the padlock. Sal and I slow our pace, trying to make our movements as nonchalant as his. Mike turns and walks away. He nods at Sal but doesn’t acknowledge me.
Glancing over, I say, “Sure you don’t want to come along?”
She shakes her head but her eyes are tearing. “I can’t leave Angel.”
I pull up on the padlock’s rusty silver hook, and the gate creaks wide. The phenomenon seems ridiculously effortless now that it’s unlocked. I am preparing to walk through it when Sal calls to me. I turn and see she’s looking down at her tan, dirty feet, but then she glances up. Shame is as visible as the hunger-whittled points of her face. “I told him,” she says.
I hesitate. “Told who what?”
“I told Mike where the community’s located, and that Leora killed my cousin.”
I just stare at her, my cracked lips parted in shock. “Why would you do that?”
“It was payment,” she says. “For your freedom.”
“I would’ve preferred to stay locked up than to risk the lives of my wife and community.”
“I know that,” she says. “It was selfish of me. I was scared you were going to die.”
I’m at a loss. A complete and utter loss. My head pounds, the blood a steady concussion, which exacerbates the concussion blooming darkly inside my skull. “Good-bye,” I say, nodding at Sal, and walk through the gate.
“Wait!” she calls. I turn to see a chain and ring glinting through the air. I catch it in one hand. “It’s yours,” she says. “It’s always been.”
Sal
I switch off the sink and carry the glass carboy over to the cart. Slipping off my grandmother’s bracelet, I open the clasp and use a teaspoon to measure out the poison, having calculated everything beforehand, like life and death was as simple as math: 100 milligrams of strychnine is a lethal dose. 100 milligrams is 1/50 of a teaspoon. There are fifty guards in the conference room; therefore, we need one teaspoon of poison to take fifty lives.
I watch the powder float through the water, appearing as innocuous as corn starch or salt. I run over to the sink, where I painfully dry heave. There is nothing left in my stomach. I haven’t been able to keep anything down since I watched Moses walk through the gate this morning and decided to commit mass murder to atone for the fact I betrayed his wife.
“You okay?” Angel passes me a rag.
Taking it, I wipe my mouth. “Yes,” I say. It’s safer if she knows nothing.
Angel and I stand outside the building, watching as—one by one—the guards file in through the double doors and find seats in the folding chairs crowded around the tables. Most of the guards passing by acknowledge us as they would acknowledge two flies buzzing against a window: a nuisance, but not worth the energy to hit. And then my uncle appears, finger-combing his gray hair in the reflection of the narrow window inside the door. I look away from him toward the cart. The poisoned water glimmers inside the glass jug. The guard Yvonne—her boa constrictor bun pinned into place—is sitting at the head of the table. Her features appear even sharper, illuminated by the new skylights checkerboarding the roof.
Angel whispers, “Should I help you?”
“No,” I snap. My uncle stops preening. He’s watching my mirrored image in the glass.
“I don’t mind,” Angel insists. “You can’t serve them by yourself.” Before I can reply, she walks into the building, squats beside the cart, and picks up two towers of glasses. I march in behind her—feeling real or imaginary eyes, like arrows, piercing my back—and watch Angel place a glass under the spigot and turn it to the right. The water streams soothingly into the cup.
Breathe, I tell myself. She’s just filling them.
But then I see her bring the cup up to her mouth. A dimple flashes as she purses her lips, preparing to drink. I dart over—a scream straining to escape my throat—and jerk the cup out of her hand. Water sloshes, darkening the sleeve of my sweatshirt. I try not to think about the fact that strychnine can be absorbed through the skin.
Angel looks at me in shock. “What’s the matter?” she asks.
I say, “Be quiet.”
Color blanches from the smooth planes of her cheeks, and then she glances from me to someone behind me. I never noticed that her left eye is unhinged, floating slightly.
“What are you doing?” My uncle’s voice. I turn and see him, standing now at the head of the table beside Yvonne. His proximity proves his loyalty has never been in doubt.
“Nothing,” I reply.
But Yvonne pushes back the folding chair, the metal scraping against the cement floor. “Then why all the commotion?” She walks toward us, gun glinting, carriage imposing and erect.
I clench the cup with both hands. “I thought it wasn’t clean.”
Yvonne’s smile is the worst kind of sincere. “Really.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
She glances at the cup. “Looks clean to me.”
I don’t look down at it. Instead, I force myself to clutch her eyes with my own, make her believe I am telling the truth. But she doesn’t. I can see that, like I can see the pulse leaping at the base of her throat. “Why don’t you drink it?” she continues. “Just to make sure it’s all right.”
Except for rubbernecking guards turning in their chairs, the entire room is silent. Dread drops like a weight in my gut. I glance at the tray, where I reserved one cup of pure water for my uncle: the man who appears to have raised the head guard�
��s suspicions in order to preserve himself. I reach toward this cup, but Yvonne says sharply, “No. Drink the one in your hand.”
Still, I stand motionless, desperately trying to think of a way out.
Yvonne says, “Either you drink it, or this girl’s going to.” She nods at Angel.
That’s all the incentive I need to make my decision. I glance from the guard, to my traitorous uncle, to Angel. The young girl’s eyes glow green. Her freckles are pronounced on her unnaturally pale skin. She knows something’s wrong, but she doesn’t know what. Well, she will soon. You are loved, I think, but am silent as I drink from the cup in my hands.
Fifteen minutes. That’s all I have until my symptoms become visible. Yvonne and my uncle watch me with slitted eyes, waiting for who knows what. Apparently satisfied that I really was just concerned about the cleanliness of a cup, Yvonne strides across the room to the table where the food’s spread out, steam rising from the platters of grilled chicken thighs and potatoes. “Well—” she claps lightly—“let’s eat.”
The guards get up from the folding chairs and form a line behind Yvonne, who’s scooping a generous helping onto her plate. Angel, seeing this, pushes the drink cart to the end of the table. Yvonne pauses in front of the cart, and then reaches for the cup that’s already poured: the one without poison. She stares down at it. I watch her, helpless, my mind racing, but I’m not sure if it’s racing because of the uncertainty of my circumstances, or because of the drug.
Yvonne turns to survey the snaking line of guards and holds up the cup. She says, “Guys, let’s hold off on the water today, all right? I want it dumped outside, just to be safe.” With this, she places the cup back on the cart and looks at me as she takes her seat. The guards soon follow, maneuvering around the table while balancing their plates. No cups are in sight.
My heart thuds and jaw tightens—carbon dioxide and oxygen warring in my bloodstream as my body begins to shut down, switch by switch. I wish I had a clock, but there is no clock. No way to tell the time, but I know it’s not enough. I walk over to Angel, who’s putting the lid back on the chafing dishes now that everyone’s been through. The girl’s eyes grow round as my fingers press into her spine like a volley of ellipses. She leaves the covered food on the table and walks out. I can hear Yvonne’s lounge-singer voice as she begins conducting the meeting.
I try to kick out the wooden stopper, but my foot won’t respond to the rapid-fire signals shooting from my brain. Angel glances over and kicks out the stopper. The door swings shut.
“You okay?” she asks.
“I need you to do me a favor.” I say this quietly, as if controlling my volume can preserve my capacity for speech.
“Anything,” she says.
“I need you to warn the community that the guards are coming for them.”
“The guards—”
“Shhh.” I put a finger to my lips. We walk through the kitchen. I point to the supply closet on the right. Angel, moving in front, opens the door. The room is dark, so we feel our way inside. All the while, my arms and legs jitter as if I’ve ingested my body weight in caffeine.
The door opens again. Turning carefully, I see Uncle Mike. I try to speak, but it requires too much effort—as if I’ve had a stroke. My uncle stands and reaches into his pocket. Sulfur wafts as a match sparks in the darkness, highlighting the bulbous composite of his face.
He winces at my appearance. “You sick or something?”
I attempt to speak, but everything’s garbled. Tears flow down my cheeks.
“You’re scaring me, Sal,” Angel whispers, taking my hand.
My uncle asks, “Is this because of what you drank?”
I nod.
“You were trying to poison the guards?”
I have no other choice. I nod once more.
He curses and snuffs out the match. “What were you thinking?”
“Help Angel.” Those two words are miraculously clear.
Letting go of my hand, the girl wraps warm arms around me. Her stomach shudders against mine as she sobs. I push her back, filled with anger, but my senses are so distorted, this might also be the drug. Her beautiful face winks out until another match is struck.
“I—I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know what was in the cup.”
I reach out and grab my uncle. “Help ’er.”
He wrenches himself away. “You could’ve killed me too.”
“Help ’er,” I say again.
He says nothing.
My breathing grows ragged. I sit on a sack of rice and rake fingers through my hair, only to tangle them inside the food prep net. I pull it off. The muscles of my lower body tremble.
Angel massages my back and my arms. I hear a jingling sound.
My uncle says, “This’ll let you out of the gate. Use the south entrance, not the main one.”
Angel removes one hand from my back. “There’s no way they’ll let me out.” Her voice is thick from crying.
“You stayed with the Mennonites, right?” he says. “The ones on the mountain?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Then pray,” he sneers. “Maybe their faith will save you.”
Even if I’d never heard the sounds of someone dying, my soul would recognize them just the same: it’s a hard-fought battle between flesh and spirit, temporal and eternal, the earth and the unseen realm. The only difference is that, this time, the sounds are being made by me.
“You’re my best friend,” Angel murmurs, tears falling on my face.
My body rigid with pain, I groan my response. Angel’s weeping morphs into a wail.
“Stop it,” Uncle Mike hisses. “Right now.” He is standing at the door, a blade of light cutting through the gap. “I mean it,” he continues when Angel doesn’t. “I won’t cover for you.”
Angel moves closer and slides a small sack of beans beneath my head, but I feel beyond comfort; I feel just about beyond everything. Kissing my forehead, she hugs me good-bye. Mike moves back to let Angel pass. “Don’t you leave her,” she, not even a teenager, demands.
The shadow of his profile tips in a nod. I have to believe him. It’s the only way. Minutes have passed since we entered the closet, and yet my emotions are wrung dry as Angel leaves.
Tears drip down my face, but I can’t wipe them. A coarse hand grips my paralyzed one, refusing to let go. “You’ve been like a daughter.” That graveled voice. Those soft words. The smell of sulfur as another match is struck. My uncle, saying what he feels he needs to say to his dying niece. When the pain comes, all thought and awareness yield to the heat of the laser, beaming through every organ of my body. Oh, God, I think. Oh, God.
I’ve been saying this all my life, but it’s never been a prayer.
This time is different; the litany spills off my lips. I just want it to end. And then the warmth changes to the sun-soaked feel of relaxing next to water. The hand in mine changes, the false words replaced with a welcome. The match replaced with a brighter light.
Moses
I EXIT THE MOTEL 6 LOBBY and find Josh standing next to the parched fountain with his arms crossed and aviators in place. Wind blows across the central courtyard, rocking the empty flower baskets and ruffling his comb-straight part. “Honestly didn’t expect to see you again,” he says.
My black eye burns with emotion and fatigue. “I didn’t expect to see you either.”
“You look a little worse for the wear.”
“The guards beat me and put me in solitary confinement.”
Josh says, “Told you not to go mouthing off again.”
I smile. Even that movement hurts. “They wanted to know where the community was.”
“Is the ARC suddenly preoccupied with tourism?”
“No. They said the Mennonites know how to plant crops without modern equipment.”
Josh pulls a face. “Sounds fishy to me.”
“I thought so too. That’s why I wouldn’t tell them.”
“Good for you.”
<
br /> “Good for nothing. They got it out of Sal.”
He sits on the edge of the crumbling fountain. A wishing penny winks on the second tier. “So you think they’re going to go after the community?”
“Yes. But I don’t think they want them for their knowledge. I think they want them because the camp’s actively seeking more workers for this—this Harvest Project they’re trying to hammer out, which is why they let me in so easily.”
A door opens on an upper floor. I look up and see Seth Ebersole watching us from the balcony. With my one good eye, he looks like a man. I lower my voice, fearing what he might’ve overheard already. “A hundred people are congregated on that mountain,” I murmur. “Including my wife.” My voice cracks, and I sense that I’m cracking right along with it. “I’d rather die, Josh, than let them capture her.”
Standing from the fountain, Josh puts a hand on my shoulder. “I know you would,” he says, “and that’s also how I know they won’t win.”
Bullet holes acne-pock the motel’s stucco face. ARC is spray-painted on doors 201, 205, and 211. Something ripe and decaying is concealed behind one of them, which makes me wonder if the ominous acronym is how the soldiers checked off when they’d either killed or captured the refugees who were holed up inside. I call to Seth, who’s still watching me from the balcony, “I know one thing: I’m not giving this place five stars on TripAdvisor.”
He doesn’t crack a smile. I explain, “TripAdvisor was this—”
Seth interrupts, “What happened to your face?”
“Ran into a door.”
His ears turn red. He glances away, jaw throbbing, but not before I see the gleam of tears in his eyes. I finish hobbling up the steps and stand beside him. I touch his shoulder and say, “It looks worse than it is. Really. Nothing a little R & R won’t mend.”
Reeling toward me, he snaps, “You need to be more responsible.”
“Hey, man,” I casually reply, “it’s not like I was out there skateboarding.”
Seth looks down at the railing. He’s gripping the twisted black metal, his fingerprints matching up with the burnished fingerprints of the thousands of other people who have held it before. “My sister’s already lost so much,” he says. “I don’t want her losing you too.”
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