by Laura Preble
“You did well,” Ashburn says. “You’ve saved her for today, at least.”
All I can think about is her eyes, and how terrified she looked, like a frightened animal. I want to kill Ashburn, smash his head with that stupid tablet. But that might get her killed, so I don’t. I just sit there, dumb.
The doctor taps on his screen, then turns to me. “If you’ll just cooperate, you can get out of here, you know. We don’t want to keep people forever. We’re here to rehabilitate you.”
I know I shouldn’t say it, but the word slips out on its own. “Why?”
Ashburn’s shocked. It’s amazing how one word could disrupt that cool, amused exterior. “Why? You’re ill. And if left untreated, your illness will spread to others. If the social body is diseased, the country will fall, you see. The church and the government is charged by God with the sacred duty of keeping the body healthy.” He grins at me. “And like any disease, if we can’t cure it, we have to get rid of it. Think of it as…a cancer. If it responds to treatment, fantastic! If not, it has to be surgically removed.”
I’m a cancer. Jana, Carmen, all those people: a dread, life-threatening disease. He really believes this. I don’t say anything else.
“Alright then, off with you,” Ashburn says as if he’s shooing a dog out of the room. A guard walks in, nudges me with the stick, and I stand, silent, a meek mouse unable to fight back with words or actions. But maybe not forever.
Carmen’s alive. That’s enough for now. I pretend she’s holding my hand as I walk down the hall.
It’s time for a meal, so they march me to the dining hall. So many guards...I don’t see how any kind of resistance would work. I might as well just try and get shot. At least then it would be over.
There’s a spot next to Abraham, as if he saved it for me…I wonder, don’t they notice this? What if he’s the spy? I glance at his long, ebony fingers as they tear apart a piece of bread. Maybe he’s making deals too. Deals that don’t involve me.
“Numbers?” he asks, coughing. A guard comes by and chucks him in the head with the metal end of the stick.
Numbers. I’ve forgotten them. What were they? Shit. I can’t believe I forgot them. Wait. Seven and eleven were in there. Shit. I shake my head as I pretend to gnaw off a piece of the horrible bread.
After what passes for food (oatmeal again), we all shuffle back to our bunks for reading time. There’s another note in my bible. The numbers. 32, 4, 66, 11, 7. I spend the whole time memorizing them again, so I absolutely know them. I eat the paper.
When I sleep, I dream of the numbers, and of Carmen, and Warren, and broken plates. I dream about violently hacking Ashburn in two, strapping him to the visual orientation chairs and shocking the hell out of him.
Chapter 18
On our next work shift, something feels different. We’re scrubbing like we usually do, with three guards half-heartedly watching us as they talk and grab food. One of their radios squawks, I hear urgent mumbling, and then the three run out of the kitchen, leaving us alone.
Abraham watches to be sure they’re gone, then helps Charles bring in a cart of dishes like always, but this time, he pulls out a piece of paper and a pencil. “Write your father’s address,” Abraham says softly. “And his name. The one who was in broadcast TV.”
“Why?” I whisper back. How do they know about that? How do they know about anything? Noah reaches for a towel and kicks me, hard, in the shin. I stifle a yelp.
Abraham throws him a dirty look. “Just do it. Hurry.” He checks nervously behind him. I take the pencil and it takes a second for me to remember where I used to live. It feels strange to write; I haven’t held a pencil in so many days. I hand him the paper, which he hands off to Noah. Noah is off, walking swiftly toward the back of the kitchen.
Minutes go by. The regular guards file in. “Fire, my ass,” one says. “Tellez takes too many pills. He smells things that aren’t there.”
Guard Two notices Abraham and me on the floor. “Officer, protocol. Guests in proximity.”
The first guard stiffens, points his shock stick at us, and says, “What are you doing in here unsupervised?”
Abraham blinks defensively and suddenly looks like a frightened rabbit. “We were working. We kept working.” The guards look at each other, realize they left us here unattended to see to Tellez’s mythical fire, and decide not to bother reporting it.
“Get back to work,” one barks. Under his breath, he mutters, “Dumbass Tellez. He needs a transfer.”
Abraham nods, puts on a face of abject fear and submission. We continue to stack plates and then he stands. One-eyed Jon walks in carrying a handheld tablet. “These guests are to report to Dr. Ashburn immediately,” he says, gesturing toward me and Abraham.
The guard shrugs. “You take them,” he says to Jon. “I’ve already been running around this morning, chasing non-existent fires. You can take them for a walk.”
Jon turns toward me; his sewn-shut eye socket seems to be looking at me. “I can take them, but Ashburn won’t like it. He always wants a real guard.”
“Screw him,” the guard mutters. “He doesn’t always get what he wants. You’ve got clearance. You walk them.”
Jon shrugs. “Fine. I’ll need a key card.”
The guard yanks a lanyard from around his neck. “Bring it back here or you’ll be headed for the Cave, no matter what clearance you have.”
Jon sighs and crooks a finger at us. “Follow me. Don’t try anything. I can have a shock stick on your ass in half a second.”
We walk out of the kitchen, leaving the guards alone to discuss the stupidity of Dr. Ashburn.
In the hall, Jon leads us down the corridor; Abraham plays the meek and subservient drone so I follow suit. We turn corners and pass other groups, mostly guards who nod at Jon as if he’s a friend or co-worker. “Why do they trust him?” I whisper to Abraham.
Jon stops dead, turns, and backhands me so hard I bite into my lip. “No talking,” he barks as two guards turn the corner and see my mouth dripping blood. They laugh and trade a knowing smile with Jon, who scowls at me like I’m a disobedient dog.
He walks on until we get to a bend in the corridor, to a metal door where he has to use the guard’s key card. A red button glows green, the door opens, and we go into a deserted hallway. Immediately, both men relax against the wall. “Shit.” Jon shakes his head, then turns to me. “You need to shut up.”
One of the bug-eyed cameras is mounted in the corner, and a cold terror slices through me. “They can see us,” I whisper.
“No they can’t.” Jon flips his middle finger at the camera. “That one is conveniently broken.”
“He doesn’t know anything,” Abraham says. “Remember when we were new?”
Jon ignores that remark, then turns to me. “Listen carefully. Some of the guards are with us.”
“With the resistance?”
Jon rolls his eyes like I’m incredibly stupid. “No, it’s a super secret boy scout troop.” He glances at Abraham. “Are you sure about this one?”
“Do you know anything about Carmen? Carmen Wilde…she’s in the women’s prison.”
“No.” Jon glances at his tablet. “Okay, only a minute or two before they notice we’re late. One of our people has been here for months working as a guard on the women’s side. He’s taken pictures, video, uploaded it onto a flash, and we’re sending the drive to your father, Warren.”
“Why?”
Jon looks like he wants to punch me again. Abraham takes over. “Your father was a journalist. It’s perfect; we were going to move forward and release the tape later, but now we can get this even more exposure. We’re hoping he can get his media contacts to expose what the Church and the U.S. government are inflicting on legal citizens. Other countries won’t allow this to happen once they see the evidence.”
“Oh.” That’s the resistance? A bunch of videos of torture that might get on the news? Any little bud of hope I had is immediately pinched off and stam
ped out.
“Do you remember the numbers?” Abraham whispers urgently. “You’ll still need those, when they get here.”
“When who gets where?”
Scanning his tablet, Jon makes an annoyed sound. “We have to go. Someone’s coming from east wing. Don’t talk.”
We slip back into the corridor as if nothing happened and seconds later, two guards pass us. As we turn the corner, I see that the functional surveillance camera is mounted in a way that makes our secret corridor a blind spot.
Jon walks us silently to Ashburn’s office. “I’m to deliver these two to Dr. Ashburn,” he says to the guard.
The guard frowns, opens the door, and says, “Doctor, did you request two guests from the kitchen staff?”
Papers shuffle, and Ashburn is at the door, eyeing us suspiciously. “No. Who brought them?”
“I did,” Jon says, squinting with his blue eye. “Tellez gave me orders.”
Ashburn nods, eyes glinting as if he just caught a juicy rat. “Tellez.” He glances at me and Abraham. “You can take them to their bunks. I’ll make sure the front office knows about Tellez.”
“Very good, sir,” Jon says as he turns us back around the way we came.
He walks us silently back to the bunk room, which is empty. “Rest up,” Jon tells us, talking loudly for the cameras. “You’ll have twice as much work tomorrow because of your little unexpected holiday.”
Abraham motions for me to follow him to his bunk, which I do, conscious of the black bug eyes watching us. “Sit,” he says, motioning toward the bottom bed. “Let’s talk about you.”
A trick? Is he really one of the bad guys? No…why would they tell me all their plans? Unless it’s a test to see if I’ll rat someone out. Is it a test? How would they even have know about Carmen – how would she have written the note? They must be watching her, like me; oh God, this isn’t real – this is a set up-
Abraham puts an arm around my shoulder. “Don’t be nervous. You’re new here. We’re all in the same place, just trying to get right with God and become normal, productive citizens again.” He pulls me closer, and panic wells up in my gut. “Let me help you get better.” He plants a kiss on my lips, and it’s revolting, and I want to scream and cry and claw my way out of the room, but he pulls me down to the mattress.
“Don’t fight,” he whispers. “This is just so I can tell you what you need to know.” He pretends to kiss my neck. “Pretend like you’re enjoying yourself.”
I try to imagine Carmen’s lips on my skin, but I can’t.
“The numbers,” he whispers into my ear. “When I tell you, you have to use them to get through a door, the one in the kitchen. I’ll show you tomorrow. We have to open up the doors for the people outside who are coming.”
He kisses me once more. “I can see you’re not ready yet,” he says more loudly, shaking his head. “You go back to your bed and read the Bible. Maybe God will help you see the truth.” I stumble, shaken, from his bed and get to mine, climb the ladder, grab the book. Abraham covers his eyes with his arm, and I don’t hear any more from him.
I doze off, but a piercing alarm wakes me. Men are scrambling, guards are poking randomly at people with shock sticks, and I’m on the top bunk trying to stay out of the way.
Abraham and Noah stop at my bunk. “Lock down,” Abraham yells over the noise.
“Why?” I jump down to join them. Guards are running every which way, and “guests” are wandering aimlessly, as if they have no idea what to do without the guidance of the shock sticks.
“Usually it’s because someone breached the perimeter,” Noah whispers in my ear.
“What do we do?” I ask.
“Sit on the bottom bunk,” Abraham motions to the empty bed. We climb in and huddle like little boys in a fort. “We have a couple of minutes, no more.”
Noah fixes his dark eyes on me. “The package was mailed yesterday. Our guard will tell us when and if it works, if the media exposure happens or not.”
“Then what?” An ear-splitting claxon drowns out all other noise.
“We won’t get much notice, but when and if there’s a raid, we’ll get out and assist. That’s why you have to remember the numbers.”
“I do.”
A booming voice calls out, “All guests to designated sleeping areas. This is not a drill. Safety inspection in three minutes.” The claxon continues to scream.
“We will only have one chance,” Abraham says in my ear. “You have to be ready at all times.” I nod as Noah and Abraham scramble back to their beds. Have faith, Carmen said. Have faith.
After the “safety inspection” (which consisted of guards randomly shocking people in their beds), our routine returns to what passes for normal. Something is different, though; guards are doubled, more heavily armed, and we have no opportunity to communicate at all.
At our next therapy session, Dr. Ashburn has covered one wall with an enormous piece of poster paper. At the top, in very precise letters, is written THINGS WE MISS.
“Today we’re going to talk about the future,” he says, pacing in front of the poster. “You all know that there is only one way out of this facility, and that is rehabilitation. Today I want you to focus on what you want to have back in your life, things you miss, things that could inspire you to be better guests and to strive even harder for God’s grace.” He scans our circle. “Jeremiah. You begin.”
Jeremiah stands shakily, walks to the doctor, and reluctantly takes the red marker. He faces the blank paper, and finally, in tiny letters, he writes “steak.”
“Great!” Ashburn takes the marker and jots something in his tablet. “Steak. Yes, I’m sure you’d all agree that the food here is not…gourmet caliber. How about…Abraham?”
Abraham unfolds his long body from the floor, and as he stands next to Ashburn, I notice his height. He must be a good three inches taller than the doc. He takes the marker in long, dark fingers and scrawls in large letters “Freedom.”
“Freedom,” Ashburn says as if Abraham has written something in an incomprehensible foreign language. “Interesting choice. Could you tell us a little bit more about that, Abraham?”
The man sighs as he returns to his grass mat. “Freedom to choose,” Abraham answers as if every word is precious.
“To choose what?” Ashburn asks pleasantly.
“To choose where to live, what to eat, when to sleep, what work to do.” Abraham is careful not to mention love…no sense antagonizing the dragon.
Ashburn arches an eyebrow. “Of course, it is natural for men to want their freedom. God made us as independent thinkers and gave us reason and intellect. However, when a mind is compromised by sickness or great evil, choices must be made until the person is well. You wouldn’t let a schizophrenic person who hallucinates live alone and choose a job, would you?” He doesn’t wait for Abraham to reply. “Sebastian.”
I don’t want to play this game. But then I think of a way to screw the good doctor. I get up, take the pen, and write “Car.”
“Oh, you miss your car, do you?” Ashburn says jovially. Judging from the tightness of his lips, I think he might suspect that I'm really talking about Carmen. “What do you miss, Sebastian? About your…car?”
“Driving.” I don’t elaborate. Ashburn’s veins are popping in his neck and it looks like his head might blow. I feel a deep satisfaction but try not to show it. “Let’s move on,” he says tightly. “Charles, perhaps you—”
The claxon’s piercing scream interrupts him. His face goes pale, which makes me happy. It takes him a second to figure out what to do.
“Sit on your mats until I can ascertain what the problem might be,” he instructs us as he darts for the door. Abraham looks at me knowingly. Noah glances toward the door, listening for whatever scrap of info he can pick up from the doctor’s panicked conversation.
Ashburn returns with four guards. “You will be returned to your sleeping area. Nothing to worry about.” He says it more for himself than for us
.
Abraham, in his meek and submissive voice, asks, “Is everything alright, Dr. Ashburn?”
“What?” He blinks and squints at Abraham over his glasses. “Of course. Don’t ask questions.” We file out behind the guards, but Ashburn nearly snaps, “Sebastian. Stay.”
The sirens howl continuously. I can feel an increased tension in the room; something is wrong. I make an effort not to look at Abraham or Noah, but it’s difficult. Does Ashburn know about the break out? Is it happening now? I need to get out, I need to get to Carmen. What if it’s just another drill?
No; Ashburn is too tense. Once we’re alone, the doctor sits in his office chair stiffy, snarling, “Your girlfriend will not make it out alive. I promise you.”
I don’t respond.
“Nothing to say?” He glares at me as he taps a pencil nervously on the side of the chair. “I’ll be sure she dies slowly, too. Sebastian.”
He pulls a gun out from under his white coat and points it at me, shaking. “I know you had something to do with what’s happening. I don’t know how you did it, but I know it was you.” He clicks the safety off the gun. “I’m not going to kill you, though. I’m going to make sure you never enjoy another woman. Or man, for that matter. Just in case you come to your senses.” He aims the pistol at my crotch.
I don’t think. All the anger, all the hatred I’ve felt for this man and his world, comes rushing through my arms, my hands, my legs. I topple him, the gun goes off, but he’s already on the floor, and I’m pinning him with all my weight. I can’t hold him long, though; he’s stronger and bigger.
“You think you can win this?” he hisses as he pushes against me. His sour breath hits my face as I try and focus my anger at him, try to call up strength I don’t have. “You’re a plague. God sent me here to help rid the world of the disease. You’re on the wrong side.”