Tunnels and Planes

by Christina Rozelle

  “Why don’t you go get some rest, dear?” Peggy says. “You’ve been at it all day.”

  “Well, what else am I gonna do?” Joy picks up her book from the chair and tucks it under her arm. Something with animals on the cover. “Sit here and waste away from complete boredom? No, thank you.”

  Peggy laughs and gives her a pat on the shoulder as she makes her way to the door behind us. “Joy helps out so much around here,” Peggy tells me. “She doesn’t have to, but she does anyway.”

  “Are you staying in here with her?” Joy asks me. “Or will you be in E?”

  “Uh, in here?”

  “Okay, then I’ll get two pillows and two mats. Sorry, but we’re all out of cots.”

  “No problem. Thank you.”

  “You bet.” And she disappears through the doorway.

  “Where do the older girls and women stay?” I ask Peggy, growing warm from all the little eyes trained on me.

  “Dorm C is ages nine through twelve, dorm D is thirteen through seventeen, and Dorm E is eighteen and up, though volunteers often sleep in there as well. That’s all that’s been there recently, but new mothers often stay with their newborns in there until they’re old enough to move to the women’s and children’s area a few corridors over.”

  “By the boy’s dorms?”

  “No, the other direction. There’s no clearance to those areas from here, though.”

  “Really? Why is that?”

  “Safety precautions. They keep all areas isolated, with limited thoroughfare from section to section. It helps them keep an eye on things better.”

  “Wow. You guys have everything in order around here,” I say, though it makes me more than a little uncomfortable. We’re rats in a maze.

  “Well, it took time,” she says, rocking back on her heels. “But yes, things are running smoother now. As smooth as they could be, anyway.”

  “Do they go out and look for survivors here, like the others do? The ones in the white vans?” The question seems innocent enough, but knowing what the ones in the white vans do with their survivors, I’m hoping there’s no connection.

  “No,” she says with a chuckle. “They’re a little lower profile than that. They go out at night.”

  Hmm . . . “Oh, gotcha.”

  Joy returns with two folded brown blankets under one arm, dragging two thick, plastic-covered mats with the other. Peggy goes to her aid, taking a mat and a blanket. “Grace, would you mind grabbing the other from her?”

  “No problem.” I take the heavy mat and the scratchy woolen blanket, and position them beneath my arms.

  “I’ll be by early to check on everyone and bring a snack.” Joy points to the far corner of the room. “Bathroom’s that way, F-Y-I.”

  “Awesome, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. See you in the morning.” And she exits through the sliding metal door.

  “All right, ladies, everyone in bed.” Peggy waves a ring-dotted hand, and the little girls scamper from a tattered brown area rug to squeaky cots set up in two rows of eight. Sixteen of them—and these are just in one room. My nervousness gives way to gratitude, and my emotions threaten to unravel. Gideon didn’t even know of Missy at the time he wrote that letter, yet, here she is, safe and sound in a room full of other little girls. There must be some cosmic force of good in this world, because even when things are terribly wrong, something amazing is being concocted behind the scenes.

  Five

  “How did this happen?”

  The nurse’s words are almost robotic, as though she’s said them so many times, she doesn’t even realize she’s saying them anymore. My silence, as I fumble for a lie, doesn’t even raise a flag as she smoothes the “healing cream” onto my shoulder and arm, and the cut on my cheekbone.

  “I wrecked my Toyota,” I finally say. “The dead were chasing me and I rolled it.”

  She yawns.

  It’s a half-truth, but that’s all she needs, anyway. She could give two shits about what happened, which is why I won’t bother asking her about my light spotting from the miscarriage. Hoping everything’s good inside me, because she’s definitely not someone I want poking around in there.

  The nurse holds out a blue capsule. “This will also speed healing and aid in pain relief.”

  Her monotonous tone and dreary vibe make me yawn, too, as I take the pill from her. I hope the rest of the people in this place aren’t as lifeless as this chick. She’s like a librarian on mega-downers. But it’s late, I’m exhausted, and I’ve had a fucked-up day, so that could have something to do with it.

  Against my better judgment—like the good ol’ days—I take the nameless, questionable pill from her and swallow it, accepting her offer of water from a tiny paper cup. It tastes strange, but when pondering where the hell it comes from down here, I give that one a rest.

  “Thank you,” I tell her.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “So . . . Deuce said it would take a day or two for this cream to work?”

  “Yes. About two days until new skin growth occurs,” she murmurs with a sigh.

  Jesus, could she be any gloomier?

  “Wow, that’s pretty fast. Where do they get medicine like that around here?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that. I’m sorry.”

  “Hm. Okay . . . ?”

  After a quick check of my and Missy’s vitals, she tells us goodnight, collects her gear, and by the time she shuffles through the dark room to the door, I’m already a little woozy from the pill she gave me. I stretch out my sore shoulder a little to check for pain, and a spark of it there makes me wince. I suppose I should give it more time; it’s only been a minute, if that.

  Missy touches a finger to the skin around my exposed, scabby road rash, showing me the slimy outer rim of the heavily distributed healing cream.

  “She put a lot on, huh?”

  Missy nods, then yawns.

  “You tired?”

  Another nod-yawn combo.

  “I am, too.” I catch her yawn, and my eyes water. “But I think I’m hungrier than I am tired.”

  A rapid head-nod-and-tummy-rub from her this time, and a laugh from me. “You know, I’m getting good at charades,” I tease her and move closer. “But I’ll be super happy when you decide to talk to me one day.”

  She tucks her knees to her chin and stares at her feet, chewing on her bottom lip. She wants to—I can sense it. But I don’t want to push her. “When you’re ready.” I give her messy, blue-black hair a rub, and she dives in to hug me, gripping me tightly around my middle. It’s her way of telling me she wants to . . . and that she’s sorry she’s not going to. But I hope that’s a yet.

  The door slides open, and Peggy enters the beam of light from the dim, hanging light bulb. She’s holding a tray, and though I have no clue what’s on it, my stomach makes death threats for it. They could probably serve me barbecued human and I’d be okay with it.

  On second thought . . . No—not quite there yet.

  Missy perks up from her mat, too, setting her bear aside.

  “Here you are, ladies,” Peggy whispers. “They’ve really perfected this recipe, I’m telling you what. Mm-mm.”

  When she sets the tray between us and I catch a whiff of potatoes and rice, I get which heaven she’s coming from. I haven’t had a hot meal like this since Eileen cooked me soup the day before the end. But the sadness of the recollection is drenched by the dousing of warm, liquid potatoes, butter, salt, and every other goddamned delicious impossibility. Is that bacon? Holy fuck.

  “How is there bacon?” I whisper to Peggy, who still crouches near us in her black trousers and dark blue tennis shoes.

  She grins, watching Missy devour the morsels, question-free. “It’s imitation bacon, but it does the trick.” She winks.

  “Oh, my gods,
yes.” I scarf the rest of it, then move on to the rice, as Missy scrapes the last spoonful of her own rice into her mouth. “Dang, girl. Hope you don’t puke it up.”

  She whips her head from side to side, to say there’s no way in hell she’d waste that food. And I concur, the weight in my own stomach that’s used to being empty. But I’ll be damned if I wouldn’t consider eating it the second time around.

  “Breakfast is at seven.” Peggy rises from the floor beside us, then yawns. “I’ll be up at the desk until six if you need me. Also, there’s a red call-button on the wall beside the door, in case of emergency only. When Sheryl-Dean takes over the desk at six, I’ll fill her in on you and Missy, and she’ll come by a little later in the morning to go over rules, schedule, and volunteer duties.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Will you be staying here all night with her?” Peggy asks me.

  I almost say no, considering Deuce’s invitation to explore the “adult area” with Logan tonight, but a look at Missy’s sad, pleading face, then the grip of her small, cold hand in mine, and there’s no way I can leave her.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m staying.”

  Missy knocks over the tray when she hops across it to hug my neck, premature tears watering her cheeks.

  “Aww,” Peggy coos. “Someone’s glad to hear that.” She collects the mess of empty bowls and utensils, steadying herself as she rises from the floor.

  “Could you tell Deuce I’ll be staying here with her tonight?” I ask Peggy. “And can he let Logan know?”

  “Of course, dear. Don’t you worry. You ladies get some sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll be back at six p.m.”

  “Thank you for everything.”

  “You’re very welcome, Grace. Goodnight, you two.”

  “Goodnight.”

  She crosses the room with the tray of dishes and gives us one last smile in the dim night light on a chain before exiting.

  I squeeze Missy and kiss her cheek. “I’m staying tonight, but tomorrow I need to check out the rest of this place to make sure we’re safe. And I have to figure out how to let Gideon know we’re here.”

  She nods, collecting her bear and curling up on the edge of her mat, as close to mine as she can be. I grip the edge and move it closer to mine. “Better?”

  She nods, grinning ear-to-ear, then she yawns.

  “Rest.” I lie beside her and tuck her blanket around her. When a spark of pain in my shoulder takes my breath away, I retreat to mine as well, using my right arm this time to tuck in my own blanket. Some fucking medicine. I hope the “healing” cream works better than this. I’m not too hopeful, though, at this point.

  No matter how much I fight the retreat, the release of control over my mind, and what might happen to my body while I sleep, it lures me to the darkness, nonetheless. I startle awake when they take Gideon from me again, and I find Missy under my arm, safe. But different monsters lie behind every drift into unconsciousness when I give into it. My mother’s there. I don’t want her, she says, and drops my infant body into the frothing, red mouths of the dead. They rip me apart, limb by limb, and then it’s Corbin, and Evie. Aislynn gives me that one last kiss goodbye before taking the easy road home, no matter how much I beg her and tell her I love her. She won’t listen, won’t stop, won’t stay with me. She never does.

  Murray’s there, too, smoking a cigar, leaning against the side of my water tower in his blue snow cap and black suspenders. He can’t help me because he’s too real, and it’s me who’s the apparition, the hollow shell of what was once. Me, with nothing left.

  Six

  I awaken with a gasp, in tears and trembling from a cold sweat. Arms empty now, I panic, but relax again when I find Missy has left my side to roll to the other edge of her mat. As the montage of nightmares, fresh and real as when they happened, continue their reverberations through my mind, I get up and sneak to the restroom. I hate sleeping. The need for it is a dilemma.

  My shoulder aches like shit as I shuffle to the bathroom. Massaging it seems to ease the pain as much as it makes it worse. Whatever that crap pill the nurse gave me was, it didn’t do a goddamned thing. So much for good medicine.

  The thin, metal door creaks at the hinges when I open it to the scantily lit stone box they call “bathroom.” The cool, concrete floor is pitted in areas, but smooth from little feet smoothing out its rough spots. There’s a porta-potty-style metal toilet seat, a drain in the floor, and a small, rusted showerhead poking out from a green spot on the wall where algae has flourished from leaky plumbing. The tiny sink by the door has rust stains in the porcelain, and above it, a stainless steel “mirror” that doesn’t really do its job. There’s a smallish, bowed shelf on the wall stacked with clothes, a couple towels, and a package of toilet paper. A lone, green bar of soap in the corner awaits its next dirty victim.

  Far from luxurious, yet this is more than I could’ve ever asked or hoped for. If I could level the paranoia a notch, I might relax in this underground oasis of survival . . . But with nightmares like the ones that plague me on the daily, I may never relax again. Here’s hoping.

  After I pee, I stand before the metal mirror and gaze at my blurred reflection. It’s how I saw myself for so long. In a daze, I go to massage my sore shoulder again, careful to avoid the road rash, and when I touch the sticky residue, I remember the cream from the nurse, and cock my head to check out how shitty that one worked.

  Fresh, pink skin frames the edges of a receding, scabbed island, same as the other cuts on my arms, and the one on my cheek. Holy shit, it worked. How in the hell? If that one worked so well, why not the pain pill? Astonished, grateful, but slightly pissed I’m still in pain, I exit through the squeaky door.

  Not knowing what time it is while in this box is maddening. Not to mention, we’re trapped here with only an “emergency call button.” Right. I’m feeling safer by the minute. And by “safer,” I mean claustrophobic as fuck.

  I sneak across the dorm room to the doorway to see if there’s a way out, and a moment later, the door slides open and an unfamiliar face appears. “Hey there,” the tall, husky woman says in the loudest whisper I’ve ever heard. “You must be Grace.” She holds out a big hand and yawns. “I’m Sheryl-Dean. And sorry, I’m goin’ on day two with no sleep, s’bear with me.”

  I shake her outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you. How did you—?”

  She points above her head where a black bubble rests. “It’s a motion sensor camera. When anyone moves near this door, it beeps”—she holds up the device I saw Peggy with last night and taps a code into a keypad—“and it shows up here.”

  We appear on the two-inch screen.

  “Oh, cool.”

  “Yeah, you’ll learn all this stuff, though. One thing at a time. First—coffee. Ya want some? They’re nice enough to get us that, at least,” she says under her breath.

  “Y-yeah? You have coffee?”

  “Well, it ain’t the best, but it does the trick.”

  “Awesome. Yeah, I could go for some. Any idea when the nurse will be by? I need to ask her about the pain pill she gave me last night. It didn’t work at all.”

  “Yeah, it ain’t the best, either. I’ll send a message to The Shield. But they ration those, depending on person and injury. To be honest, Grace, I’ve never seen them give more than one—”

  “Seriously?” Now I am getting pissed. “We brought supplies here with us, medicine and stuff, and they won’t even let us use them. What the fuck?”

  She sighs and leads me out into the hallway, and the door slides closed behind us. “Things are a little hard to understand—the way they run the place—so I get it. And I’m sorry. Hopefully they’ll be able to help ya out, but if not, you’ll get through it. I can tell you’re a strong young woman.”

  “Well . . . thank you. Still pissed, though.”

  “I know, hon. I
know.”

  As we walk, she explains the duties expected of me as a volunteer, but I get hung up on her accent. There’s a definite drawl, but not from here.

  “Basically, we just keep an eye on thangs, ’n make sure everyone gets what they need,” she says. “If you have any questions, dontcha hesitate to ask.”

  “Okay, thanks. Where are you from? If you don’t mind me asking . . . I love your accent.”

  “Oh, thank you, sugar. Originally, Lewa-ville, Kentucky. My family moved here to Garrison County when I was sixteen. You?”

  “Born and raised here. Selam, unfortunately.”

  She laughs from her belly, tucking a loose section of her plaid, button-down shirt into her dark blue Levi’s. Her reddish-brown, wavy hair, pinned up loosely, reveals gray streaks at the roots, and her leathery skin and stocky build say she’s worked hard, maybe outdoors, wherever she was in her past life.

  She leads me down the hall to the left, toward the emergency exit door and fire extinguisher at the far end. When we get to it, we take an immediate left into a small closet beside another door with a stenciled letter “E” above it. A coffee pot sits by a couple stacks of glasses, and packets of various creamers and sugars. Two horizontal, metal poles on either side prove my theory correct—it was, indeed, a closet at one point.

  “So, what did you used to do?” I ask. “Before . . . all of this.”

  She inspects her hands for a moment, puffy cheeks falling into a frown. “I had a ranch a few miles from here.” She takes two cups from a shelf and flips them over onto the counter, then she fills them both halfway. “We showed horses. Had riding classes and everything . . .”

  The tragedy is that, now, when someone tells you about their past, no matter what it was, there’s the consolation that follows. She could’ve told me she’d been a dentist, or a sewage worker, and I’d still say:

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She hands me a warm cup. “Thanks, hon.”