by Jacob Gowans
When the Queen woke up, she was no longer in her cell of nearly three years. She was in a dark room not much bigger than a closet. She sat at the bean slot listening for a long time, but heard no sounds of other inmates. Much later, when a guard brought her meal, he spat in the bowl as he passed it through, not saying a word. Days later a sponge was shoved through the slot, damp and smelling like pine and piss.
“No more showers,” the voice ordered. “You clean yourself with this.”
It took weeks, but her life of isolation slowly sunk in. Nagging at her always was the knowledge that she’d blown her one chance at freedom. If she had immediately turned and killed the nurse after shooting Schuller, the cuff wouldn’t have been placed on her ankle. Now her chances at freedom from this tiny, lonely cell were nil.
Food came. She ate it. Once every month or so, they brought her a book. Sometimes she read it. Sometimes she didn’t. Occasionally she’d rip a page out of the book if she didn’t like the words. Usually she ate the paper. Her food came in wood bowls. Her spoons were made of plastic. She could no longer see her own reflection in them, so she spent hours running her fingers lightly across her skin, learning intimately every line and scar and imperfection. With the plastic handles, she scratched her visage into the wall, exaggerating every flaw.
I am hideous.
It took many months to get the portrait the way she imagined herself. She was no artist, but her work was good. When it was done, she stared at it for a long time, seeing the monster she had become. Then she began a new sketch, this one showed what she would have looked like if she’d never gone to prison. She removed the blemishes and marks on her skin, working and working at it until she felt satisfied she’d done it correctly.
Equally hideous.
It was the woman untransformed. The woman who hadn’t embraced the freedom offered her those years ago, her mind trapped in a shell of normalcy and naïveté. The Queen detested it, but left it on the wall so she could see them side by side and hate them both.
In a meaningless march of monotony, time passed around her and her cell, but it was apart from the Queen. She occupied herself as best as she could, but the isolation was torturous to her mind and spirit. During that time, to help her cope, her image of herself changed like an ever-turning kaleidoscope. She saw herself as a creature separated from the world not only in body, but also in a much more ethereal way. She began to believe that she must be kept apart for reasons she could only guess at. Was it that her transformation—her anomaly—had made her more than a human? Would this time away from the common man help her grow and become even more powerful?
Her imaginations suffered a winding path of climbs and falls that took her from the heights of a goddess-like entity to the depths of a wretched creature of Calvinistic origin, created only to be tormented at the pleasure of a cold, cruel deity. She had spoiled her life. Fate had spoiled her life. Perhaps it didn’t matter who had spoiled it because the consequences were the same. She was Queen of nothing but a small room in the middle of a desert prison’s basement. She was no longer a beauty, but the Beast. She etched more pictures into the walls, filling them top to bottom with the strange visions of herself and the world she wanted to reshape.
Step by step, she walked down the road called madness. The final path of her transformation was when she accepted and embraced the idea that she was not really in a prison in Wyoming, but that jealous gods and goddesses had locked her away in a dream-like state to preserve her beauty and hide it from the rest of the world. She was a majestic firebird destined to be reborn, and so she drew that on the walls in the most revered placed of all, right in between the two images of herself.
The day she finished it, a miracle happened. A thunderous boom echoed through the building. The Queen heard two men shouting and running down the hallway outside her door, and then all was quiet again for many hours. Just when she began to think the noise had never happened, a door banged open not far from her. She sat up in her bed and listened, trying to separate the voices from the numerous boots marching down the hall.
“—has a file longer than my arm.”
“—extremely dangerous.”
“The collar will take care of that.”
“—seen the stuff she’s done, I don’t know if it’ll stop her.”
“Open it.”
The Queen heard keys in the door and automatically prepared herself to spring. She felt like a feral animal and knew she looked like one, too.
“Wait,” a quiet voice said. “This woman’s been in solitary for months with no human contact. She’s tried escaping before. She’s attacked guards. What’s going to be the first thing she does when we open this door?”
Someone answered in a mumble.
“Step away from me, please,” the quiet man said. Then the Queen heard a gentle tapping. Her arms and legs relaxed. “Hello? Katie? Katie Carpenter? I would like to talk to you. May I come in?”
The Queen did not know what to think. She wanted to speak but her voice had not been used properly in ages. Her voice was scratchy like tires on a gravel road. “Who are you?”
“A friend, I hope.”
“What do you want?”
“To speak to you. No harm.”
“And only you?” she asked carefully, ready again to pounce if more came into her room than he’d said.
“If I have your word that you will not force me to use that collar against you, then I give you my word that only I will enter.”
The Queen touched the collar around her neck. She had not thought about it in a long time. It had not been used on her since that day in the infirmary . . . a lifetime ago. Her fingers gripped it, remembering how much pain this had caused her. She swallowed the spit in her mouth and felt the collar against the bulge in her throat.
“Yes, you have my word.” Her voice was a little less harsh this time.
The lock clicked heavily, and she saw her cell door opened for the first time. The Queen had to remind herself not to pounce because the urge was so strong it nearly drove her muscles to action on their own. The light spilling in from the hall drowned out the weak illumination within her tiny cell. The Queen squinted as a man in a tailored suit walked in. She watched him closely, noting his ability to make the room a different place with his presence. The Queen had the distinct impression that she was in his room now.
The feeling was foreign to her.
He stood neither short nor tall, and he was not fat or skinny. His features weren’t remarkably handsome, but not ugly, either. He wore no glasses, his brownish hair was parted subtly and his face had no distinguishing characteristics such as moles or scars. His intelligent eyes were of a green or brown color. Whether that was his real eye color or not, the Queen could only guess. He was a man in his twenties or thirties who looked as if he could blend into any crowd of businessmen and not be noticed if he wished it. And yet he was in her cell with a powerful presence unlike anything she’d witnessed.
His tailored light brown suit was complemented well by a brilliant blue tie with a simple embroidered design. He looked strong beneath the clothes, but she couldn’t be sure if that was him or the cut of the suit. His tan shoes sparkled but made no sound when he walked. And he kept his eyes on her, watching or waiting or both.
“Hello, Katie,” he said warmly.
The Queen did not respond. Her semi-lost mind was still grasping at what warp in reality had brought this man into her cell. Where are the guards? The man took her silence in stride and sat a chair down across from her bed. Where did the chair come from? He gazed at the pictures splayed over the walls. He spent several moments staring at them.
“Beautiful. You have a wonderful talent.”
The Queen looked at him again as something ignited inside her. “Thank you,” she whispered.
The man smiled at her, never taking his eyes off of her face. “You’re the most famous person in this prison. Did you know that?”
The Queen shook her head.
&nbs
p; “Everyone up there,” he nodded toward the ceiling, “calls you the Queen. They tell stories about you. Some think you’re a myth or a legend. Others say you’re the most dangerous person alive . . . and the smartest. They even talk about your beauty.”
The little spark she’d felt now spread into a thrill of joy. They remember me! They tell stories about me! She stared at the picture of the firebird and imagined herself bursting into flames as she launched into the sky, reborn in power and glory.
“Katie, I’ve come to free you.”
Tears reached her eyes. “Why? Why me?”
“There is a war—a war for our independence. A new government is forming, the Continental American Government. We are desperate to persuade certain territories to join us before the NWG establishes a formidable military presence in these borders. The NWG has weapons we can’t match and its soldiers are too well-trained. Speed and surprise are our greatest advantages, and we must use them. The men and women in these walls are your fellow Anomaly Thirteens. They are your brothers. I am here to free them. They will be our best soldiers if we put them to uses for which they were made.”
“You want me to fight for you?
The man nodded. “But more than that, I need you to lead them.”
Renewed. It could not be a coincidence that today of all days she had finished the firebird, and now here was this man—this beautiful and strange man who she already ached for in ways she had not thought about in a long time. He needs me. A flash of heat started at the back of her head and traveled through her chest and stomach and on below.
I need him.
“The prisoners up there won’t listen or reason with us. They will listen to you. They venerate you. I want you to bring them my proposals. I want you to make them accept. And in return, I will give you whatever you want.”
“Freedom. All I want is freedom . . . and to be beautiful like I—” Her voice broke as she spoke. She repeated the words in a whisper. “I want to be beautiful.” She nearly cried, but the thought of those tears leaking from her eyes made her sick. “I want these scars gone.”
The man pulled her close to him and petted her ratty, oily hair. “I can do that for you. I will do that for you. Time is not expendable right now. Will you let us take you to them?”
The Queen let the man pull away from her as she nodded.
“I’ll tell you everything you need to know on the way there.”
They left the cell together. The Queen noted the apprehension on the guards’ faces as she walked past them. “First,” the man began, “all prisoners with Anomaly Thirteen—and any others who might be willing—must agree to enter the employ of N Corporation.”
“Just ‘N’?”
“Yes. Second, they submit to cardiac-implant tracking devices and rigorous combat training. Third, they forsake their identities and families. In return, anyone who accepts these terms will be freed from this prison with the opportunity to advance their skill in lethal combat.”
So in exchange, they get to kill. “What about me?” she asked.
“What about you?”
“Do I have to submit to your tracking device? If so, I refuse. That isn’t freedom. It’s a very expensive leash. It’s a prison cell that I can’t see.”
The man in the suit gazed at her for a long time without breaking stride. “No, for you I will make the exception. You and no one else. I do this because I see something in you that I can trust. Sway your fellow inmates, and for as long as I trust you, you will never have to submit to any procedure.”
She was taken out of the prison facility under armed guard, not through the main entrances, but through a series of blown holes in the walls and floors. When the Queen stepped outside the prison, a cold wind whipped her hair and skin. It was winter, or nearly so. The prison walls lay in ruins, barricades set up in their place. Vehicles formed a ring around much of the prison. Tents had been set up around the outer perimeter. Several dozen armed Elite wearing black uniforms with red, fiery skulls stood watch making sure no one escaped. A few dead bodies, both Elite and inmates, lay in the yard where she used to fight.
Noting the strangeness of some of the vehicles and weapons, the Queen asked one of the men around her, “What year is it?”
“2063.”
Eight years, she realized. Eight years in that place and nothing to show for it but scars. She looked at her hands. Her skin looked bleach-white, but showed no signs of aging.
“Take me in there now,” she said. There was no time to waste. No time to waste ever again. Patience was luxury other people might have, but not her. She changed out of her prison clothes and into something that offered more protection.
“What weapons do you want?” one of the suited man’s soldiers asked.
The Queen looked over her options hungrily. She chose two large knives, an automatic pistol, and a club. A few of the Elite went with her up to the doors. When they reached an empty antechamber, one of them turned to her. “This is as far as we go. You can call for back up with your radio.”
“I’d be dead by the time you reach me.”
The soldier’s face showed anything but concern. “Good luck.”
She went in the room and heard the door lock behind her. A buzzing noise at the other end of the antechamber told her she was clear to enter the prison. What she met next was much different than what she’d seen her first time through.
Furniture was overturned, ripped, broken, and strewn throughout the area. Bulletproof glass walls separating the security areas from the general holding areas were destroyed. Food remnants, paper, mattresses, and feces littered the floor. It stunk. Sitting here and there were the inmates. Most of them stared at her, none of them kindly. The Queen regarded them with curiosity. What do I do now? Two of them spoke to each other, glancing at her every few seconds. Two more approached her from behind.
She pulled out the gun and pointed it at the inmate closest to her. All five of them stopped what they were doing. Two behind, three in front. “Take me to whoever is in charge.”
The inmate held at gunpoint roamed his eyes over her and flashed his long, brown teeth at her. His smile only worked on half of his mouth, the other half twitched from nerve damage as it tried and failed to match. “Ain’t none in charge here,” Half-smile informed her. “Can’t you tell? We got no guards.”
“They all dead or gone,” another inmate chimed in.
“I know there aren’t any guards, but isn’t someone in charge?”
Some paper scraped the ground as the two behind tried to blindside her. “We saw’r first. She’s ours.”
The Queen whipped the club in her left hand into the face of nearest. The other soon had her pistol grinding under his chin. “I didn’t come here to kill anyone!” she told them. “Don’t any of you recognize me? Didn’t any of you fight me?”
One of the inmates behind Half-smile stepped forward. The Queen had not seen him properly until now. His eyes were a deep red, bloodied like hers had been, his face mauled into something hideous. He had carved cat stripes in his skin, but done a poor job. “Yeah . . . I got you now,” he said. “I was there when you took down Leviathan.”
“I need help. I need to talk to people. Who is in charge?”
“Like we said,” Half-smile offered, “ain’t none. We free. Two days ago them outside blew holes in the walls. The guards either scattered like ants or joined up. Left us here. We fought o’er the food, and e’rybody staked a claim in what’s left of it. Now them new guards waitin’ outside just seein’ when we starve so we take their deal.”
But as the man in the suit had insisted, time wasn’t on their side, though he would not explain why. And since these four men could do nothing but argue back and forth about names the Queen didn’t recognize, she looked around for a better solution. An idea came to her. She searched the disaster-stricken room until she found what she needed: an operator’s box for the P.A. system.
She flipped the switch, and the light on the box turned red. �
�Hello?” Her voice came across the speakers as nervous and weak. “I need—” She flipped the switch off and tapped the microphone against her forehead. That won’t work. They have to want to come to me. She flipped the switch a third time. “This is the Queen. Everyone who can hear me, come to the main floor near the front entrance. I can get you out of here . . . if you want out.”
Slowly they came, bit by bit, mostly in small groups. She waited until there was a large crowd because she had to convince them all. And she had to control them. The suited man had informed her nearly four hundred inmates lived within these walls. At least a third of them shared her anomaly. When she could no longer keep count of all the heads in the room, she started speaking again. Only a few words into her speech, she was interrupted.
“That ain’t the Queen!” another man with red eyes shouted. “That’s some actress they threw in here to convince us. Queen’s got red eyes like mine.”
“I seen the Queen! She does got red eyes.”
“I am the Queen!” she yelled back, but several more voices joined the fray, opposing her. A few them rushed at the desk she was standing on, throwing her backwards to the ground, then jumping on her, pawing at her, choking her.
It did not matter that it had been years since she had last fought. Her body was still lithe and deadly. She did her work with the knives. Any man who dared violate her screamed and died while the rest of the throng watched, judging. When she had killed nearly a handful, she climbed out from under the bodies and stood again before the crowd. The blood of several dead men covered her skin and clothes like a warrior’s paint. The inmates loved the spectacle. Another man tried to challenge her. She let him climb up on the desk with her so everyone would have a good view of her beating him without weapons.
They must know. They must learn. They must respect.
She defeated her challenger without mercy and restraint, pounding on him until he wished he’d never stepped up to her. Then she lifted him up above her and threw his body into the crowd. She imagined his life-power flowing into her, feeding her spirit a feast unlike anything she’d had in years. She wanted to kill more, but the man in the suit had urged her to hurry. The inmates now watched her with more than awe.