Hands on my knees, I gasp for breaths, willing the tears and panic to cease. There’s a soft touch to my shoulder, and when I glance up, it’s the tattoo artist from inside.
“You okay?” he asks.
I shake my head, without capacity to lie.
He inspects me for a moment, cleaning his glasses on a rag, then he nudges me with his elbow. “Come on inside.”
I stumble through his doorway, and collapse in a sunken, black loveseat, crying for a few minutes until snot drips from my nose.
“Here ya go.” And he hands me a tissue.
“Thanks.” I take it from him and blow, and the tsunami subsides to a whirlpool. I’m so tired . . . too tired, too powerless to conquer this day.
“I’m Jay.” He offers me his hand.
“Grace.” I shake it, and he holds it for a moment, before giving it a gentle squeeze.
“So, what’s goin’ on with you, Grace? Rough night? Or just life, perhaps,” he mumbles, taking a seat on a black stool with wheels.
“Both, I guess.”
“Right.” He crosses his arms over his chest, staring off into the distance in contemplation. I follow his gaze to walls lined with beautiful, abstract paintings with deep, rich colors, music posters, and drawings. For a moment, I’m yanked from my storm into the eye of his, where things like paintings and music posters also still exist.
“Did you paint all these?” I ask him.
“Yeah. Well, most of them. One of them was a gift from a friend.”
“They’re amazing.”
“Thank you.”
“How do you make such beautiful art in a place like this?”
“The place doesn’t determine the beauty of the art, does it? Or the artists’ love of painting?”
“I . . . I guess not.”
“What’s something you love, Grace?”
“Music.”
“Yeah? Me, too. Do you love it any less because of where you’re at?”
“No.”
He leans in, rolling his stool closer. “The things we love can paint our surroundings anew, if we let them. If we set them free.” And he motions to the drab walls, of which every inch is now covered in beauty.
“Set them free,” I repeat. “I like the sound of that.”
He smiles and rises from his stool. “You feelin’ better? I’m sorry, but I gotta close up shop for a few so I can get some shut-eye. It’s almost six.”
“Shit. I have to be at the dorms.”
“Is that where you’re volunteering?”
“Yeah.” I get up from the couch.
“Well, have a great shift, Grace. Come back and see me if you ever want any work done. Or, just a friendly face.”
“I will, yeah. Thank you so much.”
I take another offered tissue and try my best to clean up my make-up as I exit through the Sheetrock cutout doorway of OM’s. I start my descent down the steps, then remember Rudy’s, and do an about-face, spying the sign at the end of the Alley. Damn it. I’m going to be late.
I hurry along the hallway, trying to ignore the fact that my new friend is seeing me go the wrong direction—in more ways than one?
Who knows, but one thing’s certain: I won’t make it through today without help.
When I pass Cosmos and get to the black, metal door with simple, red-stenciled lettering that says “Rudy’s,” I give it a timid knock, and a small trap door opens to reveal a man’s mouth, nose, and mustache.
“Password,” he says.
“Effervescent.”
“Twenty RPs.” He holds up a scanner and I move closer to the opening so he can scan me. Nervous, because I’m not too sure if I got those extra RPs for my “performance” in the Wet Room, I breathe an inner sigh of relief when the little green numerals at the bottom of the screen say 100. Wow. I guess it was a good performance? And that makes me feel downright trashy, though it’s counteracted because I now have what I need to make it through my day . . . I hope.
The number goes from one hundred to eighty, then the scanner beeps, and the trap door closes. The door opens to the man sitting on a barstool beside it. “Come on in.”
He closes the door behind me and I enter the dark space, which reminds me of a mixture of a darkroom and an aquarium. Purple-lit glass cases line the walls, and two people stroll by them like they’re picking out wedding rings. Various satchels, boxes, and parcels line each case, with tiny labels that tell what they are, I guess. But with no time for leisure shopping, I head to the man at a desk in the rear of the place, assuming that’s Rudy. When he sees me approaching, he wipes his hands on a rag before offering it in a handshake.
“Syd—the DJ?—sent me; she said you’d hook me up with some uppers to get me through my day? I work in the dorms. I’m supposed to be there now, I think.”
The little Asian man with a circle of hair around a giant bald spot checks his watch. “Five fifty-six a.m. Looks like you be late. But yes, I have something for that, yes. Here.” He goes around to the backside of the counter to my right, takes a clear plastic bin from inside, and sets it in front of me. He removes the lid, revealing an assortment of colorful gadgets.
“What are they?” I ask.
“Choose color—I show you. Only ten ration point.”
“Uh, okay. Purple. Are they all uppers?”
“Yeah, yeah, all different kind upper.” He snatches a purple gadget from the bunch, then returns the lid and puts it back beneath the counter. He clicks a little switch on the side, then motions me closer so he can scan me. The number goes from eighty, to seventy, and the scanner beeps.
“Place on nose.” He holds the device up to my nose. “Press button, inhale.” He shows me the small button on the side.
I take it from him, click the button, and inhale, and though it burns, it’s cool, and instantly soothes my writhing mind. Just like that, I’m awake as fuck.
“Holy shit. How long does it last?” I ask.
“Four hour.”
“Better give me a couple more.”
Twenty-Two
I race through the Cross, now busy with morning life, and alive with aromas of coffee and food. My feet are killing me from these boots, which means the moonshine is out of my system. That’s good, because fuck their experiments, but bad, because ow, my feet hurt.
But the thought of my Cons in dorm B, locker twelve, and whatever shit I inhaled, propels me forward, momentarily “cured” of my insanity and exhaustion. I have the motivation I need to conquer the next few hours of my life. After that, I have another purple, two blues, a green, and a red . . . for later. When I asked Rudy if the different colors meant different effects, he just shrugged and said, “It’s surprise,” and he winked at me.
In the old days, even Ophelia would’ve raised an eyebrow at such questionable drug-dealings. But beggars can’t be choosers these days.
“Grace!” someone calls from near the cinema. To my dismay, I find Murray, leaning against the wall, cigar in hand. He leaves the wall and hurries toward me, meeting me beneath the giant jumbotron. “Grace, stop, please,” he takes my arm. “We need to talk.”
I yank away from his grasp. “Not now, Murray,” I say in a low voice. “I’m sorry.”
My heart breaks when he stops in his tracks, hurt. And when I glance over my shoulder, expecting to find him vanished, he’s still there, puffing on his cigar, a sad twinkle in his eye that matches how I’m feeling, too. I want to see him, which is perhaps the most fucked up part about it. I’m emotionally attached to an apparition.
By the time I get to the dorms, it’s six fifteen, and I’m hoping I don’t get in some shit for being late. It’s been a fucked-up night. Too much information and emotion spins through my mind. To stop the spinning, I narrow my focus. Syd. I love her. As a person, and now, maybe more than that, who knows? But in light of h
er new information, and the connection we shared beneath that waterfall, I add her to my mental list of people I’m responsible for keeping alive.
When I turn the corner and find Deuce and one of his guards with Sheryl-Dean at the desk, my blood runs cold, and I take a deep breath. By the looks on their faces, they might be wondering if I’m one of the dead ones.
“Miss Grace . . .” Deuce leaves his guard at the desk. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, fine. Guess I had a little too much fun last night.” I offer a weak grin.
“Ah, yes.” His chuckle surprises me, and I flush with embarrassment. From his smirk, I suspect he knows how my night has been. Suddenly, wondering how much of me he’s seen, he’s the last person I want to see.
“There is quite a bit to get adjusted to around here. Especially over in the Lounge.” He touches my arm. “Do me a favor though, Grace—try not to be late to your shift, okay?”
“Okay, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Good girl.”
His words strike a chord, and I almost tell him off. Those were the choice words of Officer Martinez—the cop who handcuffed me twice at Selam County Community College. He always had that creepy, “don’t meet me in a dark alley alone” vibe, the same vibe Deuce just wafted my way, but subtler. And with the memory of his words in my ear at Riverbend, as he used my body without my permission, I tremble and break out in a cold sweat.
I was right about his vibe all along. Why wouldn’t I be about Deuce? Gideon’s words in his letter, as seemingly genuine as they were, could they have been lies, too? If the Tunnels are dangerous, and Deuce isn’t trustworthy, then why would he send me here? Why would he tell me to find Deuce?
“I’m about to head over to the Shield,” Deuce says, spinning a silver ring around on his fat middle finger. “Anything else you need before I go?”
“Uh, no . . . I don’t think so?”
“All right, then. I’ll see—”
“Oh, actually, there is one thing.”
“Yes?”
“About the van we brought in here? Did you get the keys to Logan? He was asking me about that earlier.”
“Well, there was a slight problem with the van.”
“A problem?”
“Yes, it had a tracking device on it, so it had to be incinerated. I’m so sorry.”
“Uh, okay, but what about all of the supplies in it?”
“We’ve put your supplies in the main storage area, but, as I’ve already expressed, because of the economics system in place here, we won’t be able to allow you to use any of those supplies while you’re here. I hope you understand.”
Against my urge to engage in conflict—because those are our supplies, asshole, not to mention, the van Logan and I painted, which, strangely had sentimental value—I force a smile. “Understood. Thank you, sir.”
“No problem.” He leans in. “But please, call me Deuce.” And he brushes my cheek with his thumb.
A shiver crawls along my spine with the chill in his tone, an Alpha asserting his position, while “letting” you rub his belly.
“Sure thing, Deuce.” My hands shake at my sides.
He winks, then gives my ass a squeeze. “Good girl.”
§
Things could not be more fucked. Sheryl-Dean seemed to not notice the blatant violation from Deuce while we were standing two feet away. He strolls off toward the Cross, and she fidgets with the scanner. Her hands are shaking. Maybe she did notice. I inspect her face and it’s there, in the twitch at the corners of her eyes, and the tightness in her lip muscles, as though it’s taking all her strength to bite her tongue.
“You okay?” she asks in a low voice, pressing the scanner to my face.
“Are you?”
With a slow head shake, she mumbles something inaudible.
“What?”
“I’m here for the kids, Grace. I’m here for the kids.”
And, as if she couldn’t bear to face me any longer, she just turns and waves me behind her to the dorms. But her words confuse me, and I replay them, wondering what she was implying. She can’t say what she wants to—why?
Because they’re watching her. They’re watching all of us.
“We have a new one today.” Sheryl-Dean scans herself to open the door to dorm A.
On the other side are the twins, Smiles and Sunshine—not named, just referred to as—and the other babies I saw the last time I was here. But in the corner, screaming her head off is a little thing with bright red curls.
“Where’s Joy?” I ask. “Isn’t she usually in here at this time?” I go to the screaming little girl and pick her up, finding her soaked to the bone. “And is there something I can change her into?”
Sheryl-Dean hurries to the lockers at the side of the room, opens one full of diapers and wipes, another of clothes, and collects the needed items.
“Joy’s . . . gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Well, she was . . . sick. She had to go to the Shield for treatment and monitoring.”
At the word “sick,” removing the wet diaper and clothes from the screaming red cherub below me, a piece of the puzzle clicks into place, and I gasp.
The dancer with the vine tattoo. She’d said they’d taken her baby, said she was sick. And the resemblance between her and this child is uncanny. Now, Joy’s gone? Sick, too? Things are starting to add up, though I’m not yet sure to what. One thing’s for certain, though, until I know who’s listening to what, and where, I need to keep my mouth shut. In order to get Missy out of here, and make sure she’s not the next one missing, I have to play my cards right.
My heart pounds when it hits me: I haven’t even checked to see if she’s still here. I hurry to change the little girl and put dry clothes on her, then position her on my hip and approach the door.
“Grace, we aren’t supposed to take the babies out of this room,” Sheryl-Dean says, meeting me at the door.
“If I sit her down, she’ll start crying again.”
“I know, but . . . Rules are rules.”
Heat building in me, I hand her the little girl, who starts crying immediately. “I need to check on Missy.”
Despite her reassurance that Missy’s fine, she’s in the next room, not until I’ve scanned myself out of dorm A and into B, and have seen Missy’s puffy, red face, do I relax. But her tears dredge mine up, and even more so when she sees the state I’m in. She jumps from her mat to meet me in the middle of the room, where she gives my middle a death grip.
“Sorry I’m late,” I offer. But it doesn’t seem to appease her fears. “Hey—I got you some new clothes last night! And something else: a treasure. Wanna see them?”
She nods, taking my hands with hers to flatten out my palms.
“No, I put everything in our locker last night, while you were asleep. Hang on.” I cross the room to the lockers and kick off my boots, then take out my new-to-me Converse from number twelve and cram my hand down into the right one. When I locate the button, I get a good look at it in the light. It is a cool button, silver metal, with raised ridges and a concave center. Despite its uniqueness, it’s such an insignificant gift. Missy deserves so much more . . .
At least I have the clothes, too.
I humbly offer them to her, and she beams, clutching her new threads to her chest. She inspects them one at a time, and each one gets a smile and nod of approval. When she’s set them beside her in a neat stack, she places her hands in her lap and bounces, waiting for her “treasure.”
I place the silver button in her palm. “It’s magic. It’ll bring you good luck.”
She grins, inspecting the thing like a treasure, and grips it tightly before hugging me. It’s the little things these days . . . That much I’m grateful for.
“Grace?” a sniffling little girl appears to my right. Cholita. S
he tugs at my sleeve. “When will Sara be back?”
“Sara’s gone?” I glance to Missy, and the flood returns. I’m seeing now it wasn’t all my fault.
“How long has she been gone?” I ask Cholita.
“Since last night. I was awake; I saw them take her out.”
“Who did?”
“The same ones that always come. They don’t know I see them, but I do. I don’t sleep a lot, ’cus . . . I just can’t sleep.”
“W-why do they take them?” I whisper, sensing this is a conversation we shouldn’t be having.
“They say they’re sick, Miss Grace, but they ain’t.”
I shush Missy, holding her close, and an urgency to act sprouts. But what do I do? I have no clue. I don’t want to leave her alone here, but taking her hastily, with no thought of what’s next, or a plan, isn’t the smartest thing to do, either. Until I know more, I have to do what I’ve been doing, and just keep letting them lead me.
“I’m sure Sara will be back soon,” I say, loud. “No worries, girls. Now, let me get changed and splash some water on my face, then I’ll teach you guys some hand games before breakfast.”
Twenty-Three
In the bathroom, I change into my new skinny jeans, my gray V-neck, clean underwear from the Pretty Kitty Boutique, clean socks from CVS, and my Converse. Not really my usual style before the end, but it’s comfortable, which has become more important than style these days.
I remove the assortment of colored inhaling devices from the zipper pocket of my bodysuit, now crumpled in a ball on the sink. The first device didn’t seem to do any harm. Not too euphoric to make me unable to perform my duties, awake and aware enough to function at human levels.
I shouldn’t do any more yet, especially with Rudy’s ominous “warning” about being surprised. Not to mention, if they make these here, they could be another experiment . . .
Still, the part of me who’s Ophelia dances with Evie in her black tutu in the rain, ingesting sunshine in all forms, and “living” each day to its fullest, though we were dying inside, or at least, I was.
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