Infraction

by Annie Oldham

  After dinner we file back to our cells. My cellmate resumes her post on her bed, arms curled around her legs. I climb the bunk, lie down, cross my arms over my stomach, and stare at the ceiling. There's a long, jagged crack reaching from one corner almost to the window, like it's trying to escape. I follow it with my eyes to where it points out to the sky beyond. The last glimmers of sunset fade into violet black.

  After several minutes, I hear the springs of the bunk creak as my cellmate lets go of her legs and slips beneath her brown blanket. I look over the edge. She hasn't taken her shoes off. Strange. That was the kind of thing Jack and I did in the wilderness so we could be up and running in a moment's notice. But here? What could she need to run from? And even if she could run, where would she go? She rolls away so she's facing the wall, and her blond hair spills out behind her and off the bed in limp waves.

  It's dark outside, but the single bulb illuminating our room hasn't gone out yet. I roll onto my back and study the crack. I pull the red thread from my pocket and run it between my fingers. It is smooth and silky and softer than anything here. Softer than the concrete walls, the metal exam beds, the soldier's guns. Softer than the agents' eyes.

  I let the thread fall to my lips, and it sends tingles down my arms. I briefly wonder if that's what it would feel like to kiss Jack. I roll over and force the thought from my head. Why would I think of something as ridiculous as kissing him? I spent the past few weeks hoping he wouldn't bring it up, wouldn't try. I've been stand-offish about it. I see his face and his hazel eyes and his lips.

  For the love, Terra, focus on something else.

  The blond hair hangs off the bunk below me. I decide my cellmate could be beautiful. I bet she was once too. When she could comb her hair, make it shine; when she could smile. I wonder when the last time was that she smiled. I hang my head over the side so I can see her better. Her back moves regularly with her breaths. She's already fallen asleep. Maybe the longer you've been here the easier sleep comes. And all that time, has she ever smiled? That will be my goal, the thing I want to accomplish here: to make her smile. I have nothing better to do.

  My eyes flicker closed even though the room is still light, when music jerks me awake. It plays from the intercom in the corner of my room, and the echoes from the door tell me it plays in the hallway too. It's a triumphant, slow march that builds and swells. I recognize the melody Jack hummed in the cabin. It's supposed to inspire loyalty and patriotism. That's what Jack told me the anthem was originally about. But he was right. Whatever this stands for now, it just leaves me empty. I look over the bed again, but my cellmate hasn't even twitched. Maybe she tries to be asleep before the music starts.

  As soon as the anthem is over, the light flicks out. The hall lights are still on, and they cast a ghostly glow into the middle of our cell.

  I close my eyes, but as soon as I do, a horrible chorus starts. It begins as low whimpers and then builds to the screech of some monster birds of prey. The screams are in the cell next to ours, in the air, and down the halls. Are the screams what make people haunted, or do the screams come from the haunted? There are words in the pain, but they're so distorted I can't make them out. I grip the red thread tighter, like it's my only anchor to a world of sanity, to the world outside the chain-link fence, to a world of trees and rain water. The screams, cries, and moans that echo down the corridors, ripple through the concrete walls, finger their way into my ears shatter my calm.

  I rub the scarlet thread between my fingers. I close my eyes and try to concentrate just on the smooth thread and the memories it holds: Jack in the cabin as we both scrounge up supplies. Jack.

  It's not much, but it helps.

  Still my cellmate sleeps. Maybe it wasn't the music she was trying to avoid. Maybe she tries to be asleep before this awful chorus starts.

  Chapter Six

  The intercom crackles to life just as daylight creeps through the window and hazes across the wall above my head.

  “Breakfast. Report to the mess hall in five minutes.”

  My cellmate is already standing and tucking her blanket around the edges of her mattress. Yesterday's clothes lie in a pile at the foot of her bed. I grab my extra set and change as quickly as I can. I should feel self-conscious stripping off all my clothes in front of her, but after the humiliation of detox, I don't know if anything could shame me. And honestly, I feel like I'm just about alone here anyway. My cellmate is almost a non-entity.

  I rub my eyes. They feel like there's so much grit in them they'll never be clean again. I was able to fall asleep last night after the noise finally died away. The first hour after the lights switched off, though, were horrific. I heard every cry of pain imaginable: fear, heartbreak, loneliness, sickness, terror. I hid my head under the pillow to shut it all out. Then, one by one, the voices faded away. After the cacophony, the silence hung over me like a shroud. I wonder how in the world my cellmate slept. Maybe it's an acquired skill that comes through countless nights of enduring that noise.

  I watch her put yesterday's clothes in a small metal chute by the door. They fall down, and I repeat the same procedure. I hope I'll get another set.

  The door buzzes and then swings open, and we file down the hall. I join other women, herded along the corridors to the mess hall. The same lines form around the same food carts. The gelatinous beef stroganoff has been replaced by two rubbery pancakes (without syrup) and two dried-out sausages. I'm also given half an apple, another carton of milk, and a large water bottle.

  Madge sidles up beside me. “To drink during the day. You know, because they care so much.”

  I follow her to the same table. Kai is already there. She's eaten all her pancakes and her apple. The sausages lay untouched on her tray. Without even thinking, I give her both my pancakes and take her sausages. Sure, the carbohydrates would probably do me some good, but she needs them more than I do. She squeezes my hand.

  “Thank you.”

  I nod and take a drink of milk to wash one of the sausages down my throat.

  “You'll get in trouble, you know.” Madge cuts one of her pancakes into perfect squares. She doesn't even look at me, but I can feel that same sharp look she had in her eyes yesterday at dinner. Forget her butter knife—she could cut her pancakes with that look alone.

  We must be having one of those “be careful what you talk about” conversations. I raise an eyebrow.

  “We're not allowed to share food.”

  Why? I mouth.

  “Afraid someone will get too strong? Afraid people will start fighting over it? I don't know. Doesn't matter. They just say we're not allowed to do it. They've enforced it before.”

  I frown and take a bite of apple.

  “Hey, I'm not saying don't do it. I'm all for helping Kai out a bit. Just be careful.” Madge flicks her eyes up to the observation booth and back down just as quickly. She has to be right about what she said yesterday—there's no way the watchers can pinpoint one conversation out of dozens, is there?

  We don't say anything more, however, because two soldiers march right up to our table.

  “Worker 7456.”

  I almost choke on the apple skin and nod, my eyes streaming tears. I glance over at Kai as she slips the last pancake under the table. They don't notice; they're too focused on me.

  “You're requested for interrogation.” They reach down and each grabs one of my arms, but I pull free and stand on my own. I still have a little dignity and they're not going to take it. I look at the remaining sausages and the milk on my tray. So much for breakfast.

  My cellmate's eyebrows raise as I turn away, and it almost looks like she's worried. Then Madge does the last thing I expect: she reaches over and pats my cellmate's arm consolingly. Maybe my cellmate isn't quite the empty girl I thought she was.

  Eyes watch me as I follow one soldier through the cafeteria door. The other follows behind, and we make a parade that terrifies me because I have no idea where we're going. I don't know what I'm to be interrogate
d about; I can't tell them anything. I also seriously doubt the interrogation is just about questions.

  The soldier leads me down one gray corridor to another, and soon I'm so turned around that I have no idea how far into the building we are or how I'd ever find my way back. Then he abruptly stops before a windowless door and raps it with gloved knuckles three times.

  The door opens and a cool, female voice speaks. “Enter.”

  The first soldier stands aside, and the one behind me prods me into the room. Then he leaves too, and I'm left in a brightly lit room with nothing more than an empty chair, a table, and two chairs occupied by an agent and Dr. Benedict.

  Dr. Benedict smiles warmly at me. I can't bring myself to return the feeling, not with the agent—the same one who brought me to detox—sitting next to him with her arms folded and a scowl carved deep into her face. I stand and shift my weight to the other foot. Should I sit down? I don't want to get any closer to that woman than I have to, but after a moment, Dr. Benedict glances at the agent, bites his lip, and then gestures to the chair across from him. I sit.

  The agent unfolds her arms and picks up a digital tablet. She taps the screen twice and then flicks her fingers over its smooth surface. Her eyes dart across the screen, and she raises her eyebrows.

  “Terra?”

  I'm not sure if she's talking to me or Dr. Benedict.

  Dr. Benedict shrugs. “You know how I feel about names.”

  The agent rolls her eyes. “Stop taking your work so personally.”

  Dr. Benedict crosses his arms and looks away.

  The agent purses her lips. “Worker 7456. You've been here almost twenty-four hours. Are your accommodations suitable?”

  I nod. A little chilly maybe, but if I asked her to turn up the heat I doubt she would. She raises her eyes to see what my answer is. I study her hair. It's pulled back so tightly into a bun it raises her eyebrows at the ends, making her look angry all the time.

  “Any conflict with your roommate?”

  I shake my head. She wants to be a therapist too? I suspect she just doesn't want any fighting among the inmates—fewer people to work if there are injuries. All her terms almost make me laugh. Accommodations? Roommate? Next she'll be calling my ten-by-ten cell “guest quarters.”

  “Good. Now let's get down to the meat of the questions, shall we?” She leans forward and laces her fingers together. Her steely blue eyes bore into me, and I sit up and stare back. I won't be frightened, not now. I have to repeat it three times in my head. I won't be frightened. I won't be frightened. I won't be frightened.

  “Tell me, Worker 7456, why have you never had a tracker?”

  I swallow hard. The lies will start here, the lies that I promised I would never tell again in the settlement or to Jack. But lying to this woman with her severe bun and permanent scowl feels like a good deed. I motion to my mouth.

  She purses her lips, and the expression cuts deep lines into her jaw. “I know about your tongue. Don't be condescending to me. I don't want you to forget for one moment that I know more about what's going on here than you do.”

  That's what you think, I tell myself as I fold my arms over my chest.

  “Dr. Benedict?” The agent gestures to me.

  Dr. Benedict stands and steps toward me with something that looks too much like a dog collar for my taste. I tense up and scoot back in my chair.

  “It's okay, Terra.”

  The agent clears her throat when he says my name, but he ignores her.

  “This will help you speak. It just goes around your neck, and it picks up the vibrations from your vocal chords and throat and transmits the data to a speaker just above the table.” He points and, sure enough, a small black box hangs from the ceiling. “You won't sound like you, of course, but you can make words.”

  I'll be able to speak? I relax a fraction as he steps toward me again and wraps the collar around my neck, positioning a small lump just over my adam's apple. It scratches and presses uncomfortably against my throat, but he's being so gentle with me. His fingers brush over the thin skin of my throat, and his touch warms me. His careful hands remind me of Jack's. Unexpectedly my eyes are burning, and I can't help wondering where Jack is. Is he even still here?

  “Worker 7456?” The agent's sharp voice cuts through, and I snap my head up.

  How many times has she said it? Dr. Benedict looks at me like I've been lost for several minutes. I look at my hands.

  “I said, why have you never had a tracker?” She sits with her fingers poised over the tablet, ready to make notations on every word I say.

  I look at Dr. Benedict—the only thing resembling an ally I have here—and he nods slightly, encouraging me. Of course he'd want me to answer. He's with them, isn't he? But he's so different. Kind. I clear my throat, and the sound transmitted through the speaker comes out robotic and harsh. I glance up and take a deep breath.

  “I was born in the wilderness.” It isn't my voice. Dr. Benedict prepared me for this, though I wasn't quite ready for how inhuman I would sound. My voice has all the expression of a machine. Isn't that exactly what they'd like me to be?

  The agent studies me, trying to divine the truth. “So your parents had trackers?”

  I nod. I don't really want to hear that voice again.

  “Say the words.”

  I look down at my hands. My fingernails are peeling from all the hot water in the cannery. “Yes, they had trackers.”

  “Did they have trackers when you were younger or had they cut them out?”

  “As far back as I can remember, they had cut them out.” There. Now there is no way for her to somehow search scanner records and find a way to track my fake parents down and figure out who I really am.

  The agent smirks. “You know, I'm very good at reading lies, Worker 7456.”

  I swallow and do my best not to flinch away from her gaze. I need to be level; I need to stare unblinking back at her. The burning in my eyes worsens. I'm so used to being silent that I say nothing in return.

  She stares at me a second longer and then looks down. “I see you had a flawless medical exam. Unusual.”

  Is it? My hands fall to my lap, and I pull at my pants. There's a nervous pit growing in my stomach, telling me there's more going on here than I'm aware of, hinted at by the way the agent looks at her tablet, stares at me, glances once at Dr. Benedict. He gives her a slight shake of the head. My brain can't quite put all the pieces together, but I know there's something very wrong.

  The agent folds her hands under her chin, like she's trying to be coy. It's not a good look for her. “Anything else you want to tell me, Terra?”

  I've never been so afraid of my own name before. I shake my head too readily, and I know I've given something away. I just wish I knew what it was.

  “Hmm. Well, then. I guess we'll have to resume this discussion another day. You're due for more medical work with Dr. Benedict.”

  “But you said my exam was flawless.” Forced silence hasn't gotten rid of my old habit of speaking before I think.

  The agent's smile sets my teeth on edge. “Oh, it was. There's just more tests to run. Standard procedure.”

  Dr. Benedict shifts uncomfortably in his seat. I grip the edge of the table.

  “Not to worry. These tests are mostly painless. A blood draw, that kind of thing. Right, doctor?” The agent turns to him with raised eyebrows. He looks down and nods.

  “Well, then. You're both dismissed. Worker 7456, follow Dr. Benedict to the medical area.”

  She stands with a stamp of heels, and the door swings open for her. I hear the click, click, click of her shoes as she stalks down the hall. Dr. Benedict scrapes his chair away from the table.

  “Follow me, please.” He tries to say it with a professional tone, but I can tell he's as rattled as I am. Now I'm even more puzzled about him than I was before. He slides a hand through his dark hair and then hurries down the gray hall, like he's trying to escape from the interrogation room. Like he's as afr
aid of the agent as I am.

  I rush to keep up with him, and I tug at the collar around my neck. It's scratching. He looks back and notices.

  “It doesn't work here—there's no speaker to transmit to. But I've asked for one to be installed in the medical area, so you'll be able to speak to me there.”

  I grab his hand and stop us both in the middle of the hall. The windows lining the hall let in watery sunlight. Though they're wavy and warped, I can make out the grassy yard the truck pulled into yesterday. I think we're walking away from the women's wing toward the center of the building.

  This isn't speaking.

  “What do you mean?”

  I sound like a robot.

  His brows furrow. “But you can talk, right?” He really doesn't see it.

  Makes me feel inhuman.

  His eyes flash and then soften. “I'm sorry, Terra. If you'd like we don't have to use the collar. It'll make things slower, having to spell everything out. But if you'd rather not use the collar, you don't have to.”

  I nod and motion for him to take it off. He steps closer and reaches his arms around me. He smells like the woods and summer rain, and the smell reminds me of the months spent roaming with Jack. The smell I miss most is of Jack's warm body two feet from mine as we sleep beneath a canopy of trees. Dr. Benedict reminds me too much of Jack. As soon as he unfastens the collar, I pull away and put a good four feet of space between us.

  “I'll hang on to it in case you change your mind.”

  I'll never want it again, but I smile for him. He seems to appreciate it.

  Dr. Benedict leads me down a dark hallway with more flickering lights, and I dread what I will find in the medical area. He swipes a keycard in a keypad beside a door labeled “Medical Personnel Only,” and when the door swings open, a flood of real, honest-to-goodness daylight spills out into the hall, and my fears wash away.