The Salvation State

by Marcus Damanda

  Paula followed her, careful to stay on the wood and off the insulation. I am in so much trouble. And what’s Rebecca supposed to do anyway if we get out of here?

  She didn’t know. All she did know was that Rebecca would not survive Angel Island. Physically, she might be all right—but there’d be very little left of her old self by the time they were done. It was like spiritual murder.

  It happened all the time, though. Right now it was certainly happening to other kids in other places. It wasn’t like Rebecca was so special.

  I’ve thrown my life away, she thought, following Rebecca to a second drop ladder. And for what?

  She knew if she’d had even a few more minutes to think it through, she never would have done this. Rebecca was supposed to have been in her room with the lights out. If she had been, Paula would have debated the matter internally until, probably at the door, her common sense won out. Rebecca would have gone to the police cruiser, and Paula would have safely cried herself to sleep an hour or two later and gotten on with her life the next day.

  Instead, she’d done—

  The right thing, a voice whispered inside her mind. Whether you escape or not, you did the right thing. A true and Christian thing to do.

  Rebecca pulled back the panel and poked her head through to scope out their exit before releasing the ladder.

  Paula’s head was spinning. Rebecca had definitely been here before. When?

  Rebecca looked back up and released the ladder. “Come on,” she whispered, waving Paula over.

  Paula shook her head in bewilderment. Still, she followed.

  Putting her feet on the rungs, Rebecca said, “I hope there’s a good reason for this—and I hope you got a plan for when we’re out of here.”

  Descending after her, Paula wracked her brain, trying to think of one.

  They dropped onto the floor of the third-level utility room, a narrow tube of space with a hot water heater, surge box, and two narrow doors. One led back into the dormitory residence halls. On the other side of that door was a push-paddle that would trigger the fire alarm, unless one had the key. The second door opened onto the fire escape.

  “How did you know to come here?” Paula asked, keeping her voice low.

  Rebecca was looking all around frantically, ducking to look here, peering around a pile of plastic boxes there. “I didn’t,” she replied. “I know what an attic door looks like, though. Don’t you?”

  Paula didn’t answer. Her daily chores and duties took her all through the building. She knew it better than any of the two-week residents did—better than any of the long-timers too, she would have been willing to bet. She probably knew it better than Mrs. James. “I just don’t understand…”

  Suddenly Rebecca reeled on her. “Neither do I,” she hissed. “And if we’re going to waste time talking about things we don’t have the time to talk about, how about you tell me why we’re doing this? What’s going on?”

  “Rebecca, no, not now.” Paula figured they had a few minutes. Maybe ten. No one was going to come in through the residence hall and set off the fire alarm, evacuating the whole place. Not until there weren’t any other options.

  “Yes, now,” Rebecca insisted, and stopped whispering. “Getting a talking-to by the cops and having my stay stretched another two weeks seems a lot smarter than getting arrested—”

  “Rebecca, be quiet…”

  “Answers, Miss Paula. Now. Or I scream.”

  God, help me to do this right. “Okay,” Paula said. She took Rebecca by the upper arms and gently squeezed, then settled her palms on her shoulders. “But then we have to go. And listen to me—you’re going to have to be strong. We have to get you out of here. So no freaking out.” Even though you deserve to.

  Rebecca nodded.

  “They’re going to arrest me no matter what,” Paula said, knowing it was true. Standing in this room, she thought she now knew how she could get Rebecca off campus. “But what they mean to do with you is even worse, I think.”

  ****

  Nothing was worse than arrest. Had Miss Paula completely lost her mind?

  “They want you for Second Salvations. That cop is from Angel Island.”

  Rebecca was confused. It made no sense. Her parents had settled on here, on DTR. They’d already paid for it even, which was a serious deal with her mom and dad. “No. There’s been a mix-up. Dad did the Angel Island paperwork, but they changed their minds. It’s a mistake.”

  And besides, why would Miss Paula care about her going to Angel Island? Miss Paula and DTR might be in competition with Second Salvations, but she was still the holiest roller in this joint—at least, Rebecca had certainly thought so, before tonight. Nicer than Miss Marcy, sure, but the idea of Miss Paula helping her escape was just… It just didn’t work.

  If she was right, if it was truly a mistake, they should never have run. Mom and Dad would fix it.

  “It’s no mistake,” Paula insisted. “Your parents had nothing to do with the decision.”

  Rebecca shook her head. Again, impossible. Dad and Mom were church leaders—or, well, they almost were. They were respected. No way could they have lost custody of her. It would have made the news, like when she had cut class.

  You should give up. Mom and Dad will fix it, even for Miss Paula.

  “Do you have your phone?” Rebecca asked, an unexpected dread—or panic—creeping into her voice. “We could call them.”

  “You can’t,” Paula said, now eye to eye with her. “Rebecca, they’re dead.”

  Rebecca blinked. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She looked to her left and right, as though she expected someone to leap out of the shadows and declare a practical joke. As though she expected to be rescued from Miss Paula and the words she had just spoken.

  Miss Paula’s next words came fluttery and fast, even as she squeezed Rebecca’s shoulders more tightly. “Rebecca, I’m so sorry, there’s no time—they don’t even want you attending their services. Something is wrong about all this, so terribly wrong—”

  “Liar!” Rebecca shrieked, at full volume, wrenching herself free. “How could you say that?” She turned for the fire escape. She had to surrender, make this right before it got out of control. Miss Paula had gone crazy. It was obvious.

  The words seemed to echo in her mind: They’re dead.

  But Miss Paula was bigger than Rebecca, if not quicker. From behind, she pulled Rebecca into a restraining hug and managed to get a hand over her mouth. “I’m going to set off the alarm, Rebecca, not you,” she hissed, “and I’m going to cut the power—”

  Rebecca elbowed her stomach, fought, tried to wriggle free. If she could get her feet parted, just so, she’d be able to send Miss Paula over her shoulder, right into the fire-escape door. That would show her.

  But Miss Paula was evidently too smart for that. She wrestled Rebecca to her knees, hand still clamped over her mouth. “Pay attention. Think. Why would they send a cop for you in the middle of the night? They need you to be one of their Forgottens, Rebecca. They need to make you one of them before the world ever sees you again.”

  Rebecca still struggled. My parents. It can’t be. It just can’t. She wasn’t even crying. If she believed Miss Paula, surely she would be crying. She’d be hysterical.

  Paula was struggling, using all of her superior strength to contain Rebecca, all while muffling her screams. “It … isn’t God’s work. It’s … something … evil. I couldn’t just … bring you to them.”

  Rebecca bit her hand, clamping down until she tasted blood and felt it smear across her lips and chin. When Miss Paula still didn’t let go, Rebecca went limp. And cried. And let the truth sink in.

  My parents are dead. Mom and Dad are dead. How? Why?

  “They kill who you are, Rebecca,” Miss Paula said, her own voice thick with tears. “If you ever come back, you’ll be someone else. You have to run.”

  Rebecca hitched a breath, sobs racking her thin frame. She felt Miss Paula release her. “Wh
ere?” she asked, sucking in breath. “Any bright ideas?” All she wanted to do was lie down and swim in the grief until unconsciousness claimed her.

  “Far away,” Miss Paula said. “The whole world isn’t like this.”

  Rebecca regarded Miss Paula over her shoulder, questioning. Isn’t it? she wondered.

  Chapter Eleven

  Scooting

  “As you know,” Mrs. Black said, “Rebecca’s admittance to our facility was approved weeks ago. You’ll note the results from her Solomon readings. She was a prime candidate, absolutely textbook, even before the tragedy with her parents—and before their unfortunate decision to attempt a quick fix here at your expensive ‘retreat.’”

  Mrs. James saw, all right. Even without the open folder in front of her, she saw.

  “Retreat,” Mrs. Black went on. “An ironic term, given the current circumstance.”

  DTR didn’t use the Solomon tests, and Mrs. James had never asked to see Rebecca’s, gleaned from her home church before her arrival. She preferred to get to know her girls as they came, to not prejudge them—beyond whatever offenses had brought them to her. She liked to think she gave each one equal expectations and a fair chance at success.

  Now, she saw Rebecca had an innate rebellious nature, as well as leadership qualities and a persuasion factor. She had scored in the top 5 percent of the national average in all three categories. Mrs. James knew just enough about the test to understand that to have three such scores rate that high was more than rare. It was a near impossibility, statistically speaking.

  Mrs. James remained professionally cool. She’d been caught off guard by the behavior of her head prefect and by Rebecca, but she’d since had time to recover. “And what if your precious test caught Rebecca on an emotionally charged day? This one was administered as part of the application process. She would have been angry or terrified. Highly irregular for a Solomon setting. Unreliable.”

  Mrs. Black huffed in disdain. “They medicated her,” she replied simply. “She was in a state of equilibrium prior to interview. Have you done any better, Mrs. James? Given your estimation of both Rebecca Riggs and Paula Darby, I think it’s fair for me to say that you’re an exceptionally poor judge of character.”

  Mrs. James thought back. It had been three years since one of her residents had been taken in this way, and she had nearly dared to hope that her program had finally been allowed to coexist with Second Salvations as a privately funded alternative.

  I should have known better. When they want something—someone—badly enough, there’s just no stopping them.

  But she fought down her suspicions about the death of Rebecca’s parents. Much as she disagreed with Second Salvations, it did no one any good to entertain the idea that these misguided souls would actually commit murder to acquire a single child. Instead, she focused on the rising indignation she felt on behalf of DTR and every camp like it, the complete lack of respect shown by Mrs. Black toward her life’s work. And to herself.

  What about respect for your elders, Ruth? Not so long ago, you were young enough to be one of my residents.

  “If you’re looking for my approval, you’re going about it the wrong way. Not that you would ever have it. Not for Rebecca. Not this time.”

  “I neither need nor desire your approval,” Mrs. Black said. “Her family is dead, so explaining the details to you is only a matter of courtesy. And to be perfectly honest, I have nothing better to do while DC collects this little heretic of ours.” She reached across the desk, closed the folder, and took it back. “And bags the little bitch you made head prefect.”

  Mrs. James never saw the self-satisfied smirk that was sure to follow Mrs. Black’s use of profanity. Before it could appear, the lights went out.

  ****

  Rebecca and Paula switched shirts. The spaghetti-strapped top that had been Rebecca’s—a serious transgression, wearing that outside of the dormitory, in public—squeezed Paula’s larger frame in a way that could only be described as scandalous. By contrast, the collared long-sleeved black blouse that had been Paula’s draped over Rebecca like a polyester poncho.

  Her fingers shook as she buttoned the cuffs. She was still crying. She still tasted Paula’s blood on her lips. And the second cuff, that button would simply not … go … through.

  I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t.

  Paula closed the surge box, took Rebecca’s hand, and eased the button through. “Okay, the power’s out. They’ll figure out why when I hit the alarm—if it even works. I don’t know if it’s on battery power or not. Rebecca, I’m sorry, but you have to get a grip. You have to.”

  Rebecca nodded, nearly convulsing. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe easy.

  For a moment Paula let her be and waited. But just as Rebecca was starting to master herself, Paula said, “Come on. Time to go. Once you’re on the ground running, I’m hitting the alarm and going the other way. Now or never.”

  Rebecca opened her eyes. Between those two choices, she preferred now.

  Those bastards killed my parents. However they did it, that’s what happened. They murdered Mom and Dad.

  She had no evidence. She had faith. It was as though God Himself had whispered it in her ear.

  She stood, went to the fire escape door, and put her hand on the latch.

  They are not having me.

  “Thank you, Miss Paula,” she said, her voice only half broken. “Get away if you can.” Without waiting for the reply, she pushed through, taking the metal stairway of the fire escape three steps at a time.

  ****

  As soon as that door opened, even before the fire alarm sounded, Marcy whirled in place and saw her. She already had her phone out and at the ready, just in case she should get lucky a second time. And by the favor of the Lord, she did.

  In the total dark, she almost mistook Rebecca for Paula, especially wearing the prefect’s shirt, nearly identical to her own. But Marcy’s was white. She wasn’t the head prefect. Not yet.

  Paula completely losing her mind had been the first bit of good luck. When the cop had informed Marcy and the other prefects of what Paula had done—effectively ending her miserable, pathetic little life—Marcy had reflected on how strange it was, how God exalted the good, how mysterious were the ways in which He answered prayers. There was no doubt, with Paula out of the picture, the long-coveted post would finally be hers.

  But the shadow flitting down the fire-escape stairs—which Marcy gleefully immortalized on her videophone—was too small to be Paula’s. In her insanity Paula must have given her shirt to Rebecca in the hopes of faking out pursuit.

  Wow. This just gets better and better.

  She set the video to Live Feed on her personal Omniscience page.

  The girl was in such haste, holding the rails and fairly leaping the steps in long, perilous stretches. Marcy was sure Rebecca hadn’t even seen her yet. There were three different landings, each at its own fire-escape door, and so the staircase zig-zagged down the side of the wall until it hit ground level. That shadow handled it far more quickly than Paula would have.

  Paula must still be on the third floor, then.

  Marcy propped her phone on a windowsill, facing it toward the staircase, and coiled herself to pounce upon the shadow when it passed her. Being given license to pummel the oh-so-perfect Rebecca Riggs into submission would make the night complete.

  But if she ran the other way, Marcy would pick up her phone and ring Queen James. She knew her limitations. No one around here was faster than Rebecca Riggs on foot.

  ****

  Paula passed through the door that led to the now-lightless third-level dormitory hall. Somewhere close by and in the dark, the collector would still be stalking his prey.

  The door clicked shut. On this side, there was the push-paddle for the fire alarm. Paula sighed, hoping her luck would hold out just a little longer. Praying that, if it was God’s will, she might even escape.

  People defected to countries in Euro
pe all the time.

  Mostly rich people, she reminded herself, punching the paddle with the palm of her nonbleeding hand. People who can buy off other people.

  Mexico, first. There’s work in Mexico.

  The alarm kicked in, a synthesized screech of amplified bells. At nearly the same moment, generator power resurrected the lights. Seconds after that, doors began to open. The residents of DTR drifted into the hall.

  Even with a collector on the prowl, no one stayed in their room during a fire drill. Paula had figured, quite correctly, that the girls would treat the alarm as an emergency summons.

  “Over here,” she called, wondering how much time she had before the collector hurried this way. “Let’s go! Some kind of emergency. Probably a gas leak—no exiting by the stairs.” Feeling more than a little self-conscious in her stretched, spaghetti-strapped shirt, she pointed the other way and feigned command.

  Faking it is making it, the head prefect before her had always said.

  She fished her key ring out of her pocket. “Freight elevator. And no questions. Move it.”

  They did. Without question, eleven girls, including Caroline, moved for the freight elevator. And Paula moved too—hiding herself right in the center of the muttering exodus.

  ****

  DC was on the second level when the power went out.

  All right, he thought, sheathing the scanner and clicking on his flashlight. They’re not in the dorms, then. And they want to play games. I like games.

  He was on the first floor when the generator brought the lights back on.

  “Stay here,” he said to the prefect stationed at the stairwell. “Nothing’s changed.”