Strikers

by Ann Christy

  With the darkness so complete and the night so quiet, everything seems stretched to its breaking point. My nerves, the silent night, and quite possibly our luck.

  Before we turn the corner into the field of view of the cameras, we stop and take stock. Neither of us has a watch, but Jovan made sure we knew there was usually a minute or two of chatting or jokes before the soldiers took their food back to the break room. Once we round this corner, we’ll need to be careful like we’ve never been before.

  The camera should be pointed so that it covers the side entrance and the stairs leading to the loading dock, but not as far back as the corner where we are. Jovan told me we should keep low, get to the concrete lip under the loading dock and then stay put.

  A quick look around the corner confirms what he said. Our only real worry is being seen by anyone who happens to be looking this way from another building or the street. And I see nothing. It’s completely still outside. Late-night activity is not a common thing around Bailar. I take Connor’s hand again and we shuffle, almost bent double, until we reach the safety of the loading dock overhang.

  It’s rather nice under here, cozy even, which is absurd and makes me smile. At a questioning grunt from Connor, I say, “Nothing. It’s a bit like a playhouse under here.”

  He smiles back at me and pats my shoulder. “You’re such an idiot,” he says and I hold back a laugh. I know it’s just tension making us do this, but it’s still funny for a few seconds.

  We shuffle along under the overhang till we’re closer to the door side of it, but not so far that the camera will see us. Once there, we’ve got nothing to do but crouch and wait. It seems to take forever and my thighs start to burn from the crouch. Somehow, it doesn’t seem right to sit down so I stick it out. The burn tells me it’s been more than a minute or two, more like five.

  I worry at a hangnail until it tears free with a sharp burst of pain, then clench my fist to prevent me from biting my fingernails. It’s probably just stress, but it seems like the air is getting thicker. Pulling in each breath feels like work. It feels exactly the same as when I pull the covers up over my head in winter and the air immediately gets stale and stuffy.

  I’m just to the point of convincing myself I’ve got to go back to the corner where I can stand up and get a full breath when the door opens and a wedge of light spills out. Jovan leans out and motions us forward impatiently.

  Connor follows me out from under the overhang and flips a rude gesture at the sign above the door that reads “Total Freedom Total Responsibility.” I can breathe again, but my heart is pounding and I could swear that my stomach is doing flips inside me.

  Jovan eyes me, a question in his expression, and I answer, “I’m fine.”

  He ushers us inside and pulls the door closed so carefully it doesn’t make even a whisper of noise. He holds a finger to his lips and leads us through the area where prisoners are processed. I remember it well from my own strike.

  There’s the sound of a loud laugh beyond the closed door on the other side of the space. At the sound, my heart hammers in my chest. They are too close. The distance of a single room lies between us and them. The same distance lies between us being illicit visitors and us becoming prisoners in those cells.

  I shake the thought away, and we all unfreeze as the laughter fades. Jovan’s sigh is louder than any noise we’ve made so far. I tap him on the back, and then hold a finger to my lips when he turns.

  Only a few lights are burning. Even here there are economies to be made and power doesn’t grow on trees. Even if it did, this part of Texas isn’t exactly covered in those either. The patches of light on the walls and floor are unsettling and make me more nervous. I can hear Connor breathing heavily behind me so I know it’s not just me.

  Jovan opens the door to the cells but stops me with a hand before I can walk past him. He bends so close I can feel his breath on my cheek when he whispers, “Five minutes, Karas. No more. They’re on edge tonight.”

  The seriousness of his expression stalls any smart comment I might be otherwise tempted to make. Really, on edge? Like we’re not. Still, five minutes with the father I’ve never known, but always dreamed of, seems a paltry amount of time. Then again, no amount of time would really be enough.

  Connor gives a tight nod at that. I don’t look at Jovan again but enter the dim cell block, eyes searching. I’m not sure what I expected, maybe for him to shut the door and call to his soldier friends or, at best, take a spot at the doorway and watch our backs. I know for sure that I didn’t expect him to say what he does.

  “I’m sorry I can’t give you longer,” he whispers far too loudly.

  Maybe it’s the tone of his voice, or the kindness of his words, but a lump forms in my throat. If I turn back, I’ll start to cry and I don’t want to do that. Instead, I turn my head just enough for him to know I’ve heard him and nod. There’s no time for more.

  Chapter Six

  Every second I waste is one less second I get to spend with my father. Jovan didn’t say which cells they were in, but there aren’t that many. There are a few dim light fixtures along the walkway between the cells. They provide just enough light to see inside each of them. It makes sense since the soldiers must have to make rounds. I’ve never spent a full night in here so I don’t know what their procedure is.

  Most of the prisoners are asleep, two to a cell. With most of them under blankets and facing away from me, I can’t figure out who is who. Connor has moved ahead of me and I hear him hiss his brother’s name into one of the cells. The noise wakes the man I’m looking at and he rolls over in his bunk so I can see his face. Not my father. He’s a hard-looking man with two scars running across his face. They pucker one side of his face into a parody of a grin.

  I back away and move on to the next cell, hoping that man keeps quiet and doesn’t wake the rest of them. If they make noise, I won’t even get my precious few minutes.

  There’s a man’s hand reaching out of the last cell on my side, but he’s not making noise. Somehow, I know that’s him and I hurry to the end, keeping my footsteps as light as I can.

  And there he is.

  His face is clean now and there’s no mistaking that he’s the man in every photo I’ve managed to save from my mother’s rages. He’s the man holding the baby version of me in the light of a window, smiling down while a fat baby fist reaches for his face. He’s the one carrying that same baby on his chest and laughing while he harvests in our garden. All the images I have of him collapse into this older, but still smiling, man I see between the bars of his cell.

  “Karas,” he says. His voice is soft, like he’s testing a new word instead of saying my name. His eyes are shiny with tears and the hand that he reaches out of the bars tries to touch my hair.

  That movement breaks me out of my spell and I step back, out of his reach. My father he may be, but I don’t know him and I don’t like to be touched by strangers—or even most people I know.

  “You’re my father. Why are you here?” I ask, coldly. I can’t help that my voice is hard. I didn’t do it on purpose. It just came out that way.

  He pulls his hand back and grips the bars. He looks like I just slapped him. He nods across to the cell where Connor stands talking to Maddix and says, “He made it to the border and they sent him on to me. I heard about your mom.” He stops and his hand opens like he’s offering me something. He swallows so hard I can hear it and says, “I’m so sorry.”

  The lump in my throat from before is back, but this time it’s not a little one. It’s so big it’s choking me and I can’t breathe past it. It feels like it will never let me go and I bend over, trying to stifle a sob squeezing past the lump. When I heave in a breath it feels like I’m breathing in fire.

  Both of his arms reach out as far as they can go and even though I see them coming, I don’t step backward. My feet seem to have a mind of their own and before I know it, I’m pressed up against the bars, choking while my father smooths my hair and tells me eve
rything will be okay.

  Even though everything in me just wants to cry, to hit something and just break down, I can feel the seconds ticking away. I can also hear the other men waking and beginning to stir. There is no time for this.

  The breath I heave in sounds asthmatic and whistles its way inside me, but it doesn’t come back out a sob, even though it still burns inside my chest. When I face my father again, tears have run down his cheeks and into the lines beside his mouth. They’re real tears.

  “We’ve only got a few minutes,” I say, though it sounds garbled.

  Those words seem to hit home and he tries to peer down the hallway and see who’s there. He nods and lets my arm go. When he draws his hand away from my hair, he does so reluctantly, running the long ponytail through his fingers. Then he pulls a chain from around his neck and holds it out to me through the bars.

  I take it and ask, “What’s this for?”

  Two little medallions clink together on the chain. One is plain gold. The other looks like a charm, maybe a memento he wants to pass on before he’s put down. There are a few leaves, a nut of some kind and a design that looks like flowing water. It’s beautifully rendered in gold and so detailed I’m almost afraid to handle it.

  “If we only have a minute, then I need to tell you things,” he says and plucks one of the medallions from my hand. When he holds it up, I see my name etched into the back.

  “This is yours. The other is mine,” he says and then turns it so I can see what he does. “Watch carefully how I open it.”

  He squeezes the edges with two fingers where there are tiny indentations in the metal and then taps a raised dot on the back. When he does, a small wafer of metal loosens enough for him to pull it up. He holds it up and inside of the medallion is a circle of blue that looks a bit like glass, but the medallion itself seems too thin to contain both metal and glass.

  He holds it up and says, “Pay attention. This is you. It’s coded with your DNA, but most people don’t have a way to check that. It’s got enough money loaded onto it to get you set up. With this, you can start a whole new life.”

  I’m confused and it shows. How do you put money on a slip of shiny blue whatever? How did he even get my DNA? I know what DNA is. We learned about it in school and I know they can identify criminals with it because of some super fancy machine they have down south. I shake my head and ask, “DNA? Mine?”

  He slips the little wafer back in, snaps it closed and says, “I used to carry one of your baby booties when I went on a run. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that this is important and can’t be replaced. Don’t lose it.”

  He lets the medallion go and it slithers down the chain in my hand to clink against the other one. Before I can even ask the million questions I have, he says, “The other one is mine. I left my main one at home, but that one has a good bit on it, too. Use it.”

  I shake my head again, completely confused. Home? Use the medallions? Money is made of silver. How can I use jewelry for money other than by selling it? There’s some noise behind me and I turn to see Connor moving with purpose back down the hallway toward Jovan. Maddix is pressed up against the bars and whispering for him to come back. I turn back to my father because all I have is this moment and I want it with him.

  “I don’t understand. I can’t use this? What would I use it for?”

  He grips my hand through the bars and I see that his fingernails are shaped just like mine. It’s just another shock to take in. I have fingernails like my father’s.

  “Listen, Karas,” he says and I look into his eyes. “Go north over the border and then east. There’s a border wall. When you get to it, show your medallion and give your name. Tell them you’re already a citizen and let them verify it. The territory I live in, Silver Lake, is registered so they’ll give you directions or a map. It’s a long way but it’s a big area, so they’ll be able to tell you at any border gate. The address and everything else is on the chip, just in case.”

  He stops and licks his lips, eyes moving toward the end of the hall where we can both hear something going on between Connor and Jovan. He looks back at me and continues, his words coming faster. “When you get to Silver Lake, just ask for my farm. It’s called River Oaks. The design on the pendant means River Oaks in case you forget. You’ll get all the rest you need to know there. Do you have that? Tell me.”

  The whispers are rising toward speech and I’m worried something is going wrong but I do as he asks and say, “North over the border, east to the border fence, Silver Lake and then your farm, River Oaks.”

  He nods while I talk and then reaches out to stroke my hair and cup my face. He smiles like he’s happy, which is odd since he’ll probably be dead in twenty-four hours. Maybe less. But the smile is warm and contagious and I can’t help but return it.

  “It’s a long way. Don’t give up,” he says. Tears well up in his eyes again and he grips the back of my head and runs his thumb across my cheek. His voice is hoarse when he says, “I never would have left you had I known what would happen. I had no choice at the time. You were a baby.”

  This explanation is not enough for the younger version of me that hid on the roof in the rain while my mother rampaged around the house beneath me looking to break a bottle on my head. It’s not enough for the part of me that sleeps lightly or not at all even now when she gets mean or has to clean up the house because it would never get done otherwise.

  But for the part of me that’s starting to realize that life is complicated and generally sucky, it’s almost understandable. I can’t imagine trying to go Striker with a baby in tow. Getting through the dry lands, the wild lands and every person that lies between the border and Bailar is hard for a person who’s fit and well prepared.

  Striking with a baby would be an invitation for the baby to die. Probably for both people to die and if not, then most certainly get caught. Only the most desperate would try it. Someone who thought their baby would be loved and cared for by its mother wouldn’t risk it. I guess I never thought about whether or not my father would have taken me with him when he went Striker. I just sort of assumed he abandoned my mom and me. That he didn’t makes me want to cry again.

  I nod at him because that thickness is building up in my chest again. He has such kind eyes, though they are pulled down with sadness. He doesn’t look like a bad man. He looks like a farmer or a cattle worker or any other sort of hard-working man. Rough hands, sun-worn skin and a lean body from working more than he eats is what I see in front of me. I wonder what he sees.

  “I love you, Karas,” he says. “I never went a single day without thinking of you and wishing I could see you. I came as soon as I knew.”

  “You came back for me,” I answer. It’s all I can say, but it means so much. Only real love would make him do this, risk this.

  Before we say anything more, Jovan and Connor barge down the hallway and Jovan grabs my arm roughly. I sense my father stiffen at the move but I don’t have time to deal with it.

  “Talk sense into him, Karas,” Jovan hisses into my face.

  “I’m not leaving without Maddix,” Connor says.

  Chapter Seven

  Connor looks adamant and he’s not even bothering to whisper. This is not good. More of the men are awake and they are certainly paying close attention to what’s going on in their midst. I gape at the two of them like a fish out of water for a moment, then yank my arm out of Jovan’s grasp.

  “We can’t do that, Connor,” I say, then jerk my thumb at Jovan. “They’ll know it was him.”

  “So,” Connor says, crossing his arms across his chest, a mulish look spreading across his face. “It’s one strike for him. But it’s my brother’s life. And your father’s.”

  He’s not thinking clearly. I never should have tried this. Or if I did, I should have left Connor out of it. Now it’s my turn to grab an arm and I do, gripping so hard I know it will leave a mark. He winces but I have his attention.

  “No, it’s not a strike,” I
say and count off for him, raising a finger for each strike I can think of. “He came in with intent to commit a crime, he broke me in, broke you in. That’s three.”

  I can see Connor is getting it so I keep on counting. “And if he breaks out your brother and my father…” I let the sentence hang and allow the handful of fingers I’m holding up do the rest of the talking.

  Connor looks back at his brother. Maddix shakes his head no. Jovan lets out a sigh of relief but that just stokes my anger.

  I turn on him and say, “You could do us the favor of not looking quite so happy they’ll die and you won’t get into trouble.”

  We’ve been in here too long and I know it. I’m taking my pain out on him and he doesn’t deserve it. He’s risked quite a lot, including his entire future, to get us these precious minutes and I should be thanking him, not berating him. I blow out a breath and say, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

  It seems Connor isn’t done yet. The two dark lines on his neck almost throb with his pulse when he says, “He’s a Foley and all the offenses happened at the same time. He’ll get one strike. At most, two. You know I’m right, Karas.”

  The look I give Connor is so cold even I get frostbite from it and he has the good grace to look away. The problem is he’s not entirely wrong. Justice is written clearly, but it’s a puddle of muddy water in the way it gets practiced.

  The rules for Immediate Final Adjudication are clear. Murder, rape, sexual offenses against children and anything like that gets you the needle the minute a guilty verdict is read. No problem. Everyone understands that.

  For lesser crimes, the ones worthy of a strike, things are not so clear-cut. A single event can wind up costing all five strikes if there were many crimes committed during that event. But that would defeat the purpose of strikes—distinguishing who is a habitual offender versus someone having one really bad day—so they aren’t judged that way. Instead, it’s up to the judge and a simple majority of jurors to decide which, if any, offenses can be combined.