Out

by Laura Preble

  The doctor sounds like he’s talking to a bunch of second graders. I want to smack him. Probably not a great idea. “There was a problem in the Dining Hall during the second shift yesterday. Who can tell me what happened?” Nobody moves. “Paul, weren’t you second shift?”

  Paul goes pale and blinks repeatedly. “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  The doctor licks his thin lips and fixes his eyes on Noah, the twitchy shark guy. “Noah, can you help Paul? What are we supposed to do when something goes wrong?”

  Noah blinks rapidly. “Help those who are in violation by turning them in.” He stares at the floor.

  “Right. So, Paul, you’d be doing your friend a favor by telling me who was responsible.”

  Dead silence.

  “It was me.” Abraham, eyes open, leans forward. “I did it.” Tiger eyes blaze in defiance.

  Dr. Ashburn obviously hates this guy. “Abraham, claiming to be responsible for something to hide the error of another is wrong in the eyes of God. It’s a lie.”

  Abraham, who of all these men seems the least afraid, leans back on the mat, stretches his arms behind his head, and grins broadly. “But see, I was responsible. I threw soup at a guy a table over from me.”

  Dr. Ashburn’s mouth hangs open. “Why would you do that?”

  “I wanted to see what would happen.”

  You can feel the other men sort of inching away from Abraham, even though they have little room to move. It’s subtle. But I can tell that this guy is a troublemaker, and he’s going to be my friend.

  For most of the rest of the session, I just try to study Abraham while looking like I’m listening. He’s strong, fierce, independent, not broken. An ally. Am I crazy enough to think I could get out? I think about the sniper that Luke mentioned, the one who shoots just above the eye. Maybe it doesn’t scare me as much as it would have weeks ago.

  Ashburn finally dismisses us. Four guards show up to escort us back to Delta. No one says anything on the way, and we’re forced into a single-file line as we shuffle down the corridor. Abraham falls in line behind me.

  When we get to the bunkroom, the guards let us in and every man goes to his bed. I do the same, not knowing what else to do, climbing the metal ladder to the top. Abraham is in a bed two bunks over, also on the top. Noah wordlessly climbs into the bed below me.

  All the other guys seem to just flow with this. Nobody talks. A loudspeaker whistles, then a voice comes out scratchy and annoying: “Please take out your bibles and begin reading. Lunch for first shift is in 45 minutes.” As if they’re one person, all the men reach somewhere and pull out a small black book. I reach to the side of the mattress and find a pocket sewn into the sheet. Inside, I have an identical black book. Guess I’m going to read the bible.

  I prop a small, stained pillow against the metal bars of the bed frame, lean into it, and open the book. The pages fall open to a section marked by a small piece of paper. I look up to see if I’m being watched. Are there cameras in here? Who left this paper in the book? I check the ceiling, trying to scope for the surveillance. I can’t find it. Safest way, I guess, is to turn onto my stomach, put the book between my propped up arms, and that way I’m shielding it, probably.

  I hide as well as I can, hoping for the best. I try to unfold the paper with no movement, slowly, a centimeter at a time. I frown intently, pretending to read the printing on the pages. Instead, I concentrate on this hand-scrawled note on what looks like toilet paper.

  Shower. Go far left. Wait.

  That’s all it says. I look up as subtly as I can, trying to see if anyone is watching me read this worthless piece of paper. The guy who had this bed before probably left it. He was probably delusional after months…years? …in here. Writing nonsense. But still I crumple it up and tuck it into the pocket where the bible went.

  After what seems like an eternity of staring at the tiny ant-like words in the holy book, a loud buzzer sounds. Men shuffle expectantly. First lunch shift, I guess. Everyone around me stays put, so I do too. The guys at the other end of the room march silently away, leaving half here, where I am.

  Two guards tap the metal railing with black nightsticks. “Hygiene,” one yells. Everyone gets up, lines up, and never one word is spoken. Abraham lines up too. We march in the opposite direction of the lunch crew. We’re led down yet another hall to a huge cement-floored room installed with multiple showerheads, probably twenty across. One by one we strip, drop our clothes, and find a spot in the corral. Go far left. Ah. Maybe not an old leftover note after all. I make a beeline for the far left showerhead. Abraham is behind me in line, so I wait, not watching, to see if he comes over too.

  He does.

  Water suddenly shoots out of the nozzle, too cold to be comfortable. Hoses poke from the shower walls and squirt antiseptic-smelling liquid soap directly onto our bodies. Men line up in front of each nozzle, waiting their turn to be squirted. Abraham is behind me in line.

  “Listen,” he says. I can barely hear him over the rushing water as I scrub my body. “Keep washing.” I do. “I’ll slip you another note. Wait for it. Don’t do anything.”

  A whistle blows, our signal to switch places. I delay by pretending to have soap in my eyes. Abraham steps forward, pretends to shove me aside, but instead pushes something into my palm. I squeeze tightly, holding on.

  My heart beats so fast I’m sure everyone else can hear it. I press the paper into my palm, digging in with my unclipped nails. After the shower, the guard directs us to a cement room of shelves stocked with orange jumpsuits. I take one silently, pull it on, keep my fist balled up.

  The guard points to a metal bench, where I sit shoved next to other men who have already showered. We wait for the others. I am burning to read the note, but can’t do it. Wait. Wait. After what seems like forever, we’re all finished, and we’re marched out to the hallway again. A buzzer sounds. “Shift two lunch,” the guard yelps.

  The cavernous feeding area is filled with metal picnic tables, and it’s absolutely silent except for the grinding groan of men sitting on benches. It’s a sea of orange jumpsuits. Abraham sits next to me.

  Other prisoners roll huge metal carts down the rows, ladling soup into the empty bowls. It’s almost clear liquid, with a couple of mushrooms and carrots in it. My stomach growls even though the food doesn’t smell that appetizing. As the servers pass us, I pick up a white plastic spoon and stir the soup. I still have the note pressed into my palm, but I’m afraid to read it here, in the open.

  Abraham bends toward his soup, closes his eyes, and folds his hands, as does every other man. Over the loudspeaker, a voice intones “For what we are about to receive, make us truly grateful.” The prayer echoes in uneven waves across the room. Then the sounds of slurping and elbows jostling fills the room. The servers come by again, this time with rolls and pitchers of water.

  “Listen.” Abraham’s voice is a whisper that sounds so much like the rustling of orange cloth that at first I think I’m hearing things. He doesn’t look at me. Spoon to his lips, he says, “Resistance.”

  I pick up my spoon, stir, tear a piece of bread and put it in the broth. I’m afraid to speak.

  “Bible.”

  I guess that means I’ll get more information in a note like I did before. It’s torturous not being able to ask a direct question. Abraham lifts a tin cup to his lips. “Therapy. Talk.”

  So, we might be able to talk in the therapy? In that session with the stupid doctor? I sort of see how it could happen. If you knew what to say. And I still have the note. I have to see what that says.

  He says nothing more, and I just eat the rest of the soup, bread, and water, which tastes foul.

  After a short time, the buzzer sounds again. We all pick up our dishes, drop them into a big basin, and walk again out to the hallways. “Work period,” the guard says. We trudge forward, forward, forward into yet another room filled with wooden crates of all sizes, conveyer belts, noisy m
achines. It’s about 20 degrees hotter in here than outside, and it reeks of chemicals and piss. When the guard isn’t looking, I pretend to cough and stuff the paper into my mouth, tuck it behind my side teeth.

  Rolling along on the belts are little statues of Jesus, plates etched with the face of the bishop, angel picture frames. Men in jumpsuits stand doing menial jobs, spraying paint, dabbing paint, putting things in boxes, stamping, packing. This is work. Making religious crap.

  A guard grabs my shoulder and steers me toward a clump of guys who hold spray nozzles. “You’ll be painting,” he says. “Just point the hose at the statue, cover it, pass it down the line.”

  I stand next to somebody, grab a hose, and the first squirt of gold goes a bit wild, hitting another guy in the arm. The guy snarls at me, and a guard shocks him with a stun gun or something. Little plastic Jesus figures roll by, and I try to hit them with the sprayer. One falls off because I spray too hard, and a guard is next to me, jabbing the shock stick into my side, a white-hot poker, but I keep my mouth clamped closed. I vow to be more careful. I wedge the note more firmly behind my molars.

  We go on like this for what seems like hours. My legs start to shake, my hand falls asleep, my head pounds and my eyes water, but we get no breaks. Other men just relieve themselves on the floor, and I see puddles of urine collecting under the conveyer belt, running toward steel grates where they drain. The piss smell.

  I start to drift. As I’m spraying, images of Carmen swim in my mind, wavy images of her red sweater, her lips, and I remember the scent of her hair. When will I see her? Resistance. Abraham had said that. So some people were planning to get out. I had to be one of them.

  Dreaming on duty is frowned upon. I find this out when I spray too far left and gold paint spatters the floor. Shock stick in the kidney—like having a hot knife shoved into your back. Collapsing against the conveyer, I nearly go down the line to the boxes, but Abraham, two men down, grabs me and puts me upright. He doesn’t get shocked, I notice.

  The buzzer sounds. Machinery turns off and all the men stop what they’re doing. We line up. We follow.

  In bed, I still smell of paint and chemicals, but I’m so tired it doesn’t matter. Guards patrol the paths between beds, and the buzzer sounds again. “Commence reading,” the voice commands.

  I reach for my bible, turn over onto my stomach again, extract the first note from my mouth, and try to unfold it with as few movements as possible. I place it into the gospel of St. Aelred and pretend to be pious.

  This is a scrap of real letterhead paper. Toilet paper would’ve dissolved in my mouth. The ink is running a little, but I can still read what it says. Volunteer kitchen detail. That’s it? Shit. Volunteer kitchen detail. I tear the letter apart tiny bit after tiny bit, eating the bits as I pretend to sneeze or cough or rub my eyes or turn a page. Volunteer kitchen detail. Great.

  I flip to my back after I’ve eaten all the scraps; every muscle aches and throbs, especially where the guard zapped me in the back. Therapy. Tomorrow. It’s the only place where I guess we get to talk, so maybe I can get some answers then.

  Lights never go out. Constant noise and banging, marching, occasional screams or yells, sometimes gunshots. It’s a nightmare world of half-sleep, no dreams, no possibilities of dreams. This is how they break you.

  I sleep. I know I do because the fucking buzzer wakes me up. Head pounding, I sit up and every part of my body radiates agony. I might just lie down and let them shoot me.

  “Shift two, breakfast,” a guard barks at us. The guys around me scramble to get up. Usually shift one goes first, I guess.

  Somebody further down the rows of beds yells out. “What about us?”

  An electrical zap vibrates the air, and the man’s scream peels sleepiness away.

  Shift two lines up, ready for breakfast. Same drill as yesterday: walk into the big room, sit on the benches, wait for food. This time it’s oatmeal, gray and congealed.

  As the carts roll by, Abraham coughs, then says, “Kitchen.” I have no idea what he wants me to do. I can’t even look into his eyes to see if I can read his mind, because I’ll get zapped. So I just eat this nasty oatmeal in silence. At least it’s food.

  We line up, drop off our bowls, get herded to another hallway. I wonder what we do about shitting. Nobody has mentioned it, and I haven’t had to go. I wonder if that comes with some kind of physical punishment too. I’ll ask in therapy.

  I feel something when I see the door of Orientation 5. Something like…joy. After spending hours not being able to talk, I’ll finally be able to put two words together if I want to.

  Dr. Ashburn is in his gray chair again, blond wisps draped over his forehead as he peers into his handheld. He looks up as we enter. “Be seated,” he says curtly. Everybody finds a spot on the grass mats. Abraham does not sit next to me.

  Ashburn sits in his chair and just stares. It’s uncomfortable. Finally he says, “Shift one went without breakfast today, yes?”

  No one answers. Everyone stares at the floor, even Abraham. I do too.

  “What happened to Shift One?” He turns to Paul, the guy who was so eager to talk yesterday. “Paul?”

  Paul blinks rapidly, no longer such a chatterbox. “I don’t know, doctor.”

  “Really?” He perches on the edge of that chair like an eagle waiting to snap its prey in half. “Noah?”

  Noah trembles visibly, but says nothing.

  “Abraham?”

  I want desperately to stare at him, to see what he’s going to do, but I don’t. I just keep thinking Kitchen Duty.

  Abraham shifts his weight, tucks one foot under his body as if getting comfortable. “I can tell you, Dr. Ashburn.” It’s the longest sentence I’ve heard him say.

  “Excellent.” Ashburn taps on his handheld with a stylus. “Go on.”

  “Someone in Shift One was caught passing notes.”

  Involuntary gasps, moans, and intakes of breath punctuate his comment. Ashburn tilts his head curiously to one side. “Passing notes?” He’s amused. Bastard. “Tell me more.”

  Abraham purses his lips, and now all the men are looking surreptitiously at him. “Someone in Shift One planted a note in a bible, that’s what I heard. Somebody else snitched.”

  “We don’t use that word.” Ashburn crosses his arms and leans back. “Someone helped correct the actions of the wrongdoer.”

  “That’s what I said.” Abraham’s dark eyes crinkle at the corners. “Exactly what I said, Doctor Ashburn.”

  Ashburn lets it go. “Let’s move on. Work status. Paul?”

  The Hispanic with the scar twitches nervously. “I did 40 plates today. I was crating.”

  “Forty?” Ashburn checks his device. “That’s below quota, isn’t it?”

  Paul swallows hard. “I know. But they burnt my finger, so I couldn’t go as fast.” He holds up a festering index finger that looks like it’s ready to fall off.

  Ashburn grimaces. “Yes, that looks bad. I’ll refer you to the infirmary.” He taps with the stylus. I’m beginning to see that the stylus and pad are the gateway to all things good and bad.

  “Noah.”

  The shark-man stares with his round, soulless eyes. “They put me on shipping.”

  Ashburn nods. “Go on. Is that good?”

  “Of course.” Noah twitches. “Whatever God wills is good.”

  “Great answers, Noah.” Ashburn tap-tap-taps again. The shark doesn’t smile.

  “Sebastian? How was your first day?” He turns to me.

  “Okay.” How are you supposed to respond when someone asks how you enjoyed slave labor?

  “What did you do?” He waits expectantly. I feel Abraham’s eyes on me. I notice he sat in a place where he could watch me without seeming to watch me.

  “I uh…I painted statues. With a hose.”

  Ashburn frowns. “You were on the assembly line, then?”

  “Yes.” I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer.

  “I’ll speak w
ith you after the meeting, Sebastian,” Dr. Ashburn says sternly, as if I’ve done something wrong.

  The rest of the meeting goes in much the same way, except that all I can concentrate on is what I’ve done wrong. Why is he mad at me? What did I do?

  Everyone answers about work, then we get to the next part of the meeting. “It’s time for reorientation visual training,” he announces. I can feel desperation. The other men do not like this, whatever it is.

  Paul raises his hand. “Doctor?”

  Ashburn chuckles, as if a dog or a child was asking a question. “Yes, Paul?”

  “May I go to the infirmary now?”

  Ashburn stays perfectly still. The only sign that he’s livid is that the blood drains from around his mouth. He walks calmly to the door, opens it, motions for a guard to step inside. “Shoot him,” he says.

  The guard does. Right above the eye.

  Chapter 17

  Paul is dragged out feet first, a thin trail of blood marking his path.

  Ashburn waits until the guards have left, and then he resumes his speech as if nothing had happened. “Right. On to the visual reorientation.”

  They just shot that man. He was there, and now he’s not there. All that’s left is a thin red line. I keep staring at it.

  Abraham grabs my arm sharply, yanks me up from the floor. I’m still staring at the red line. He shoves me roughly in front of him, so I have to march behind Charles. No one looks back.

  “Sebastian, a word.” Dr. Ashburn pulls me out of the line as the men file through an open door into an attached room. I stare expectantly at the man, not knowing what I should do or if I should do anything. “You said you were on the assembly line.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, Dr. Ashburn,” he corrects me as if I’m three years old.

  “Yes, Dr. Ashburn.” I want to peek into the next room to see what horrors lie there, but I keep my eyes fixed on the doctor.

  “Well, generally, when we get a new guest, he starts in the kitchen. I’m not sure why the guard put you into the assembly. Creating tokens of devotion is a serious and weighty task.”