Tunnels and Planes

by Christina Rozelle

  “Mmm . . .” I moan, and he continues with deliberate thrusts that make me gasp and clutch the bed. “What are you doing? Oh, fuck.”

  “I’m gonna make you come, baby. Is that okay?” He gives it a good, deep thrust, and I cry out. “Would you like that, you sexy thing?”

  “Yeah,” I pant, “but don’t cum inside of me this time.”

  “I’m sterile—no need to worry.”

  “But—”

  His increase in speed cuts my objection short, and the roller coaster takes off on its track. The world spins by and goes silent behind the wave, a blanket from the pain, where all the right things glow. He doesn’t stop until I’m trembling, then he rolls me over to my back, climbs on top of me, and explodes inside my core.

  “Ah, fuck,” he moans. “Mmm . . .”

  When it subsides, he pulls out, pecks me on the lips, and the glow fades to a dull cloud. But it’s familiar, and not too hard to camouflage. “Wow,” I say.

  “Yeah.” He chuckles. “I was thinking that.” He exhales a heavy breath, then rolls off of me, hopping up from our mess on the bed. “Oops.”

  “Hopefully they don’t charge extra for that?” I glance around for something to clean up with, but it looks like housekeeping is off today.

  Logan laughs. “Oh well, fuck it. Was it worth it?”

  “Yeah,” I say, though it’s a lie. “But are you sure you’re sterile?”

  “Positive. I was tested a couple years back because this trick tried to pin me for child support on a kid that wasn’t mine. I promise you have nothing to worry about.”

  He kisses my cheek as we return to our clothing, sticky with sex.

  “Okay.” I sigh.

  At least that’s one less thing to worry about.

  Thirteen

  By the time I get to the dorms, I’m sober. One thing about that moonshine is that the affects seemed to vanish once I exited the Lounge. Weird? And now, without the haze, the mixture of shit my encounter with Logan has dredged up becomes clearer. Yes, I enjoyed that. But yes, I feel guilty as fuck, and I wish I hadn’t done it.

  Note to self: Get your shit together, Grace.

  Peggy greets me at the desk, placing her glasses at her pinstriped, button-up blouse. Her hair is shaped into tiny ringlets all around her hairline, and it strikes me as odd that someone would take the time to do all that when the world is dead above us.

  “Your hair looks nice,” I tell her, because I know that’s what I’m supposed to say.

  “Oh, hey, Grace, thank you so much. Jacki’s great. She’s on the second floor, right above the entrance to sector three if you ever need your hair done.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I pinch a strand of my own brassy blonde. “How much does she charge?”

  “Ten ration points. The equivalent of a half days’ work around here.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Will you be ready to get started at six a.m.?” She taps something into her scanner, then motions me closer.

  “I think so.” I move into the device, it scans me, beeps, then she sets it down again.

  “Sheryl-Dean will be in A and B tomorrow, so she’ll snag you in the morning to show you the ropes a little. Hopefully she got some sleep in E last night,” she mumbles. “Now, why don’t you go shower off and get some sleep? Your day starts pretty early.”

  “Okay. Is there any food?” I clutch my thin, rumbling belly. “I was going to stop by the cafeteria and claim my second free meal before I came here, but it’s late, and I wanted to get back to Missy.”

  “I’ll bring you something from the snack room and set it by your mat for when you get out of the shower. Oh, and there should still be a couple dry towels on the shelf in the bathroom.”

  “Okay, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Goodnight, Grace.”

  “Night.” I leave her at the desk and make my way through the now-familiar hallways to dorm B.

  When I enter, Missy’s lying on her mat with her bear, but she isn’t asleep. She bolts upright when she sees me and tries to hide her glee by stuffing her face in her bear.

  “Hey, you,” I say in a low voice, crouching beside her. “Did you have a good day?”

  She shrugs, frowns into her lap, then perks up, craning her neck to look around me. Her face grows sad again.

  “Are you looking for Logan?”

  She nods.

  “He’s . . . working. But he told me to tell you hi, and to give you this.” I give her a big hug, and she smiles as we part, then takes my hand and opens it to inspect my palm. When nothing’s there, she takes my other hand and does the same thing. When that one is also empty, her whole tiny body droops with disappointment. Then, I remember I told her I’d bring her coffee, or something else.

  “I’m sorry. I promise I’ll bring you something soon. Maybe coffee in the morning, okay? I’ll see what I can do.”

  With a slow nod, she yawns, then lies on her side.

  “Sleep.” I pet her head, then kiss her. “I’m gonna take a quick shower, then I’ll be here to sleep, too, okay?”

  With another yawn, and yet another nod, her little eyelids close, and soon, her breathing pattern slows to the auto-repetition of sleep. I unzip my boots as quietly as possible and lay them beside my mat, slip off my filthy socks, then tiptoe away from the rows of sleeping girls toward the bathroom.

  Mold stench hangs in the air like bile—or maybe that is bile. Either way, it smells gross in here. Where do they put all the waste? Do they just rocket it through yet another tunnel toward the center of the Earth? Who knows. I peer inside the dark, steel-rimmed toilet hole, possibly to the center of the Earth, and shiver. I definitely don’t want to find out.

  Once I’ve stripped from my clothes, located a half-bar of Iron Springs soap and a dry wash cloth, I turn the clear plastic knob beneath the shower head. Black mold beneath the plastic is a nice touch. I hold my hand underneath the stream, waiting for the lukewarm wetness to turn actually warm, but when my arm muscles begin to give out, I realize I’m holding out for naught. Warm water is asking a little too much around here, I guess.

  I wash myself from head to toe with the soapy washcloth, and by the time I’ve rinsed all of it out, my hair is in one giant knot. What I wouldn’t give for some conditioner. Shivering and dripping wet, I step out of the shower and snatch the one remaining towel from the bowed shelf. Hard to believe this place has been here that long. I wonder what they were using it for before the end?

  I leave a trail of wet footprints from the bathroom to the lockers, and click number twelve open. My stripper bag’s red glitter trim sparkles in the pale nightlight from across the room. I take it out and rummage through it, looking for something that will cover my skin and also be comfortable—of which objects there are none in this bag. I settle on a turquoise cotton thong, a black baby-tee, and dark blue booty shorts, which I wear as low on my hips as possible so my ass cheeks don’t hang out as much. After I yank a comb through my hair until the tangles come loose, I return my bag to the locker.

  When I get to my mat, eighty percent better because at least I’m clean now, the tray of saltine crackers and tiny bowl of peanut butter tip me over the one hundred percent mark. The peanut butter tastes strange, making me wonder if it might be rancid. But my give-a-fuck-meter is broken on account of need for nourishment, and I devour every last bite in thirty seconds flat. If I die, at least I’ll die with food in my stomach. There’s looking at the bright side.

  With a less-angry tummy and a clean body, I crawl beneath the scratchy blanket on the mat beside Missy’s. Drowsiness hits me full-force, a blindsiding of unexpected peace, so it doesn’t take long before I sink into that happy waiting spot by the doorway to sleep. The calamity that usually awaits there, too, is gone, and though I sense that as strange, I don’t question it further. It feels too good, falling into a carefree s
leep. I can’t remember the last time I did that . . . If I ever have.

  Fourteen

  “Rise and shine.”

  I hear the words, but they don’t pull me from dreamland. I’m still in the same position I was in when I fell asleep, which couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes ago.

  “It’s five thirty,” someone says in a loud whisper. Sheryl-Dean. “Your shift starts in thirty minutes. Thought you might wanna grab some coffee first.”

  “Coffee,” I mumble. “Yeah, thanks.” I sit up and force my eyes open, groggy, but feeling more rested than I have in weeks. Still, I’m not ready to leave the peace and enter a grim reality. But I rise from the mat anyway, wrap my blanket around myself and stand, trying not to stumble over Missy as I make my way to our locker. After digging around in my dark bag for a few seconds, I touch the recognizable nylon-cotton fabric of the high-waisted pants that remind me of Evie, because of the five buttons up the torso. I’d worn her pants like that because my clothes were soaked from dancing with her in the rain. What a beautiful moment that was in the eye of a storm we didn’t even know was coming.

  I wish you were here.

  Once I’ve dressed and pulled on my boots, I meet Sheryl-Dean at the open door. She gives me a little chuckle as I pass her into the hallway and spends some extra time on my boots.

  “What?” I ask as the door slides closed behind me.

  “Nothing, I’m sorry. You look nice. It’s just that, well . . . you might decide to go get some new clothes and shoes before your next shift starts. May not seem like it, but this is one of the hardest jobs there is around here. You may want something a little more comfortable, is all.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks.”

  “You bet. And I’ll go over everything with you throughout the day, but it’s all pretty self-explanatory. You’ll be in dorms A and B today, for two days, then you’ll switch to C and D after that for two days. You’ll be on your own starting tomorrow, so try to pay close attention.” She messes with her scanner for a moment before cursing under her breath. “We lost another volunteer, so it’ll just be you and me running the show tomorrow. Peggy’ll be back the following day, then I’m supposed to be off the day after that. We rotate days off, so each of us will have one day off per week.”

  “Does Peggy sleep in E, too?”

  “No. She . . . Well, she stays in sector two, where the guards and others with superiority stay.”

  “Ah. But she still volunteers the same number of hours?”

  “Well . . . yes and no. Deuce favors her, so . . .” She shakes her head, then leans in closer. “Between you and me, I haven’t had a day off since I got here.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Since the beginning. The beginning of the end,” she mumbles.

  “Damn. By choice?”

  We turn into the coffee closet, and the aroma tickles my senses. I love the smell of coffee. Now though, there’s a nostalgia along with it that makes every cup bitter, no matter how much sugar I put in it.

  “Part necessity, but mostly by choice,” Sheryl-Dean finally says, with a delayed shrug. “What else am I gonna do? They need somebody.”

  The amount of desperation behind the inflection of that word, somebody, rings true. It’s what I’ve felt since day one. Always needing somebody but too afraid to admit it, afraid to set myself up for rejection and pain, falling into that bottomless pit of uncertainty. But there was always someone there, even when there wasn’t, the same person I’m left with, who’s now responsible for the care of other lost little souls. Me. Grace Vincent. I get to be who I needed when I was younger.

  With renewed strength and new insight on my role here now, I finish my coffee, leaving a few sips for Missy, and listen to Sheryl-Dean chatter away. She goes on about dietary restrictions, supplies we’re running low on and rationing, scheduling of extracurricular activities, naps, and bi-weekly showers, what to do in case of emergency, and so on.

  “The emergency exits are marked.” She points to the one I’d already noticed, near a mounted fire extinguisher at the end of the corridor. “They all lead to the Shield. They’ll only open in case of an emergency, though, so no need to worry about kids wandering through them or anything.”

  After an eye-scan, she leads me through the doorway to dorm A, which is quiet, at least for the time being. Joy sits in a rocking chair with one baby girl on each side, and all three of them are sound asleep. In the scant light, I make out eight cribs that appear to have babies in them.

  “Joy’s got the twins,” Sheryl-Dean says. “She insisted on staying in here with them tonight. They’ve had a rough time since . . . they lost their momma.” She gazes at them, a tightness around her eyes that tells me she’s holding back tears. I want to ask what happened, but I don’t. I already know. What always happens?

  “How sad.” I stretch out my arm, rotate my shoulder, but the soreness that was there just yesterday has vanished. What the fuck?

  “You okay?” Sheryl-Dean asks me.

  “Well, I . . . I guess. I probably shouldn’t complain but it’s . . . weird. I was in pain yesterday, but today there’s none.”

  She leans in closer. “You drink the moonshine?”

  “Uh . . . yeah?”

  She shakes her head. “Don’t.”

  “Okay? Wh—?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve had chronic back pain for thirty years after a riding accident, and with one time of drinking it, I felt no pain a’tall for over forty-eight hours.”

  “Well . . . why wouldn’t you want to drink more of it, then? After being in pain for so long?”

  She stares at me hard, then sighs, as though she’d love to tell me such things, but maybe when I’m older, and I’ll understand. “Look, Grace.” She lays a hand on my arm. “I’ve said too much already. I’m here for the children. I don’t ask questions and I do what I’m told.” She leans in closer still, until her lips are almost at my earlobe. “But I won’t let them experiment on me if I can help it. I won’t.” She shakes her head, then returns an oily strand of red hair up into her messy bun.

  After a few seconds of awkward silence, because I have no idea how to take her comment—or what it means—Sheryl-Dean adjusts her belt and straightens her posture. “Now come on. Let’s get everyone up and ready for breakfast.”

  §

  After waking up Joy and the babies, Sheryl-Dean goes over the process of getting everyone grouped together by the door. Breakfast starts at seven, but girls are to be waiting by the door by six forty-five.

  In dorm B, a few murmuring bodies wiggle beneath their blankets on their cots, but to my surprise, Missy is still asleep. I tiptoe to her to wake her up gently, but jump about a foot when Sheryl-Dean behind me announces: “Rise time! Git on up, ladies!”

  Missy startles awake on her mat, and there’s a split-second of panic when she finds mine empty beside her, but she relaxes when she sees me headed toward her with a cup. She bounces in place and claps when I offer her the sugary morsel, and when she goes to gulp, I lay a gentle hand on hers. “Slowly. Coffee is meant to be sipped, and enjoyed.”

  She raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Well, that’s how big people do it, anyway. But you can drink it however you want.”

  After quiet contemplation, she takes a small sip, grins, then looks to me for approval.

  “There ya go. How’s that? Pretty tasty, huh?”

  Her rapid nod is followed by another sip, then a gulp, and it’s gone. But hey—at least she tried. She sets the cup down to hug me, and when she plants a kiss on my cheek, it touches a soft spot. The only other child who has ever kissed my cheek was Corbin. That she loves me scares me more than anything. I don’t want to let her down. I don’t want her fate to be what has become the norm, the inevitable.

  So, maybe . . . it’s my loving her that scares me the most.
I don’t want to lose her. I hope we can manage to make things work here, but there’s a thorn in my rationale because of Sheryl-Dean’s words. Experiment on people? That sounds as far from promising as possible.

  But I suppose an experiment that takes away pain couldn’t be all bad. I’m going to take Logan’s advice and try my best to remain optimistic, but in the same vein, I have to be ready to spring from this place with Logan and Missy if the shit hits the fan. Jade, too, if she wants to come.

  When I think of her, of how she gave me the moonshine last night, insisting I “drink up,” it raises another red flag of doom. Did she know what she was giving me? Maybe she doesn’t, and if not, I need to tell her. But if she did . . . she has some explaining to do.

  §

  Girls get two meals a day; boys get three.

  As Sheryl-Dean explains the “whys” of this “ration rule,” my blood runs hot. Instead of playtime and coloring, they have combat training, arms-handling, and laps, three times a day. They’re being groomed for war, and violence.

  “So, of course they need the extra calories,” she says matter-of-factly, as if that justification makes it acceptable.

  I pick at my food, while another volunteer mops the floor, and fifty-something girls chatter and scarf their meager “first meal” in the eating room. “Sorry, but . . . that’s fucked on so many levels.”

  Sheryl-Dean raises her head from her own scrambled mush—powdered eggs and fake bacon again—and she frowns. She’s not the type to accept conflict head-on, so she just takes another bite, giving her head a slow shake. “It is what it is,” she finally says.

  After “first meal,” we dispense hand sanitizer, then take the girls to the playroom. They rush to their claimed areas—some to the blocks in the corner, some to cars and trucks, and others to plastic toy bins. Missy, along with Sara, Cholita, and a couple of other girls take the dolls. I’m tired, but my feet are holding up well in these boots, to my surprise. Since my shoulder is still pain free, I’m suspect to believe it might be due to the moonshine.