by Easton, BB
I sit up, leaving the evidence of my shiv-making operation under my pillow, and scrub a hand down my face. “I was hoping I’d get some sleep with Doug bein’ gone, but”—I shrug—“not so much.”
Elliott shakes his head. “That was the cryin’-est damn man we eva had in here.” He lifts a hand to the ceiling. “God rest his soul.”
While Elliott reaches for his key, the rusty-ass gears in my brain slowly begin to turn again. “Since nobody took his spot, I guess this is a slow week for arrests, huh?”
“Why? You lookin’ for a cellmate?” Elliott wiggles his eyebrows at me while he unlocks my door.
I know he’s cracking jokes to keep things light, but heavy is the name of the game right now.
“Nah. I was just thinking, it’s probably nice for you guys to have a day with no executions. No burlap jumpsuits. Nobody crying or pissing themselves. No last meals or last words. That’s gotta be hard, day after day.”
Elliott narrows his eyes at me as he sets my tray on my sink. “You tryin’a guilt-trip me, handsome? ’Cause I ain’t fallin’ for it.”
“No. I just know you guys didn’t exactly sign up for this,” I say, repeating his drunken words from last night. “But hey, at least you won’t have to do it much longer. Now that they’re televising the sentencings, I’m sure you’ll get some acting work soon.”
Elliott steps back out of my cell and closes the door with a loud clang. He can’t look at me until he wipes the flattered smirk off his face.
What a shit actor.
“When you said, ‘All rise,’ in the courtroom yesterday … I got chills, man. Didn’t even sound like you.”
Elliott purses his lips to keep from smiling as he rests a hand on the billy club hanging from his utility belt. “I’m just tryin’a shine. That’s all.”
“Well, good fuckin’ job.” I stand up and grab the tray off the sink by the door.
“Pssh.” Elliott drops his eyes and waves me off, but he doesn’t leave.
We’re only about three feet apart now, separated by a few dozen metal bars.
“For real,” I say, going in for the kill. “You know, I have some friends in the TV industry. Maybe they’ll notice you tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll be watching my … you know.”
Elliott’s face falls.
“I would offer to put in a good word for you, but I’m sure you’re not allowed to let me talk to anyone. Or maybe you can. I mean … it’s not like there are any laws anymore.”
“Nice try, handsome, but no laws means that the chief can skin me alive and wear me like a Gucci fedora if he wants to, so ixnay on the calling your friends-ay.”
I shrug. It’s not like I have anyone to call anyway. I just want him to think I have something he wants.
“Why you tryin’a help me anyway? You know I can’t let you go.”
“I don’t know, man. I’ve got, like, eighteen hours to live. It couldn’t hurt to do somethin’ nice for somebody before …”
“Before you meet your maker.”
I clench my jaw and nod.
“Well, for what it’s worth”—Elliott glances up at the camera at the end of the hall and turns his back to it, finishing his thought under his breath while he locks my cell—“anybody who walks the Green Mile already got themselves a one-way ticket into the pearly gates, as far as I’m concerned.”
Elliott pockets his key and steps away from the bars. Using his normal volume and level of sarcasm, he says, “Eat up, buttercup. I’ll be back for that tray in half an hour.”
“Thanks, man,” I say in a tone as low and sincere as the one he used ten seconds ago.
Then, as soon as he’s gone, I shovel the gruel he brought me into my mouth in about three angry bites. I can’t tell if it’s oatmeal or grits or regurgitated fucking Cream of Wheat, and I don’t really give a shit. I have eighteen hours to con, fight, or fucking dig my way out of here.
I’m gonna need all the energy I can get.
Rain
I don’t know how many times in the last few weeks that I’ve woken up and had no idea where I was. I’ve woken up in my tree house, in a tree house inside of an abandoned bookstore, on the floor in my bathroom, on the floor of an abandoned mall, in Carter’s bed, and even tied up in my own garage. It usually only takes me a second or two to remember where I am and how I got there, but as I stare into the absolute darkness on this particular morning, I got nothing.
Not until I try to stretch.
My hands and feet don’t get more than a foot away from my body before they’re stopped by immovable walls. My eyes go wide as I reach out in front of me and hit a ceiling that’s just as close. My heart begins to race, and my lungs stop working altogether as I pat and slap and thrash against the box I’m locked inside of.
I kick the roof of my prison, hearing a metallic bang with every blow.
Then, I hear a similar banging coming from the other side.
“Help!” I scream, kicking harder. “I’m trapped! Help!”
“Pull the handle, dumbass!” a familiar voice calls back through the steel.
Handle?
Handle!
I reach up and feel around until I find a cord with a plastic grip attached. Then, I pull it as hard as I can. The trunk lid pops open, and morning sunlight blinds me as the events of last night come back in a rush—getting a ride from the Bonys to the capitol, getting swarmed by junkies and dealers and prostitutes as soon as they left, deciding to hide in the trunk of a wrecked Dodge Charger so that I could actually get some sleep.
Guess it worked.
As I sit up and stretch my arms over my head, I groan in appreciation. My muscles feel the kind of sore that only comes from a really good night’s sleep.
The gold dome of the capitol building looms over Lamar’s head as a steady stream of homeless, strung-out Atlantans shuffle past us on the sidewalk. Quint fits right in as he walks over from the busted blue Toyota he spent the night in. He’s been wearing the same clothes since April 23, his once-tightly-cropped hair is overgrown and matted, and for the first time in his life, he has a beard.
“Gotdamn, woman.” Lamar chuckles. “It’s, like, ten in the mornin’. I was about to bust in there to make sure you wasn’t dead.”
“Not dead yet.” I yawn. “How’d you guys sleep?”
“Like shit,” Quint and Lamar complain in unison.
Quint rolls his neck, careful not to stretch the side with the bandage too far, as Lamar sits down on the bumper next to me.
“Next time we decide to sleep in abandoned cars,” he huffs, “I’m findin’ me a Caddy or a Lincoln or somethin’ with some legroom.”
“Boy, you’re the same height as Rain,” Quint teases.
I grab my duffel bag out of the trunk and slam it shut.
“Not for long! I got them growin’ pains. I’mma be taller than Carter pretty soon!”
My stomach sours at the mention of his name. I drop the bag on the trunk lid and pull out a couple of cans of soup, each one less appetizing than the one before it, but Lamar snatches the chicken and dumplings like it’s made of solid gold.
“Dibs on the dumplin’s!”
When the Bonys offered to give us a ride down here last night, I managed to shove all the groceries I got from Huckabee Foods into my duffel bag before climbing onto the back of a perfect stranger’s dirt bike. I should have been terrified as we zigzagged through the crowded streets of Atlanta, but it just reminded me of the days I spent hugging Wes on the back of his dirt bike as we tore up the woods in Franklin Springs, looking for a bomb shelter.
Before I knew it, they were dropping us off right in front of the capitol building with nothing more than a, “Fuck ’em up, y’all,” and a pat on the back.
And here we are. We’ve got supplies, shelter, and a means of self-defense.
If only we had a damn can opener. The one I got from home was still in Agnes’s purse when it got stolen.
After scouring the abandoned cars nearby for tools and co
ming up empty, we end up trading a can of Mexican chicken and rice soup to an exceptionally crazy-looking homeless guy in exchange for the use of his sword.
Yeah, I said sword.
Over breakfast, the Jones brothers and I decide to start our search for Wes at the capitol building. Not for any real reason other than the fact that we are sitting right in front of it. As we walk up to the front steps, past marble life-size statues of men on horseback and toward actual, real-life men holding machine guns, I begin to get cold feet.
I stop in the middle of the cobblestone walkway and turn to face the guys.
“Uh … Rain? You okay?”
“What are we doing?” I whisper, trying to catch my breath. “The place is surrounded by cops. We can’t just walk through the front door.”
“First of all, we haven’t done anything wrong, and second of all—”
“Look!” Lamar finishes for him, pointing at something behind me.
I lift my head and follow his gaze to a small sign posted beside the front steps.
The Georgia State Capitol is open to the public for self-guided tours from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., Monday through Friday, and is closed on weekends and holidays.
I turn back to face Quint. “I don’t even know what day it is. Do you know what day it is?”
“Let’s go find out.” He smiles. “The worst they can do is tell us no.”
“Actually, the worst they can do is shoot us in the dick,” Lamar corrects.
“Boy, shut up.”
I swallow my panic, along with a mouthful of saliva, and follow them up the imposing staircase to the even more imposing guards waiting for us at the top.
“Mornin’, sir,” Quint says to the cop blocking our entrance at the top of the stairs, cranking his Southern accent all the way up to eleven. “We’ve been watchin’ the executions on TV and came all the way from Franklin Springs to see one in person. I noticed on your sign down there that y’all allow folks to tour the capitol. Is that right?”
The cop shares a glance with his buddy and then nods once.
“Well, ain’t that a treat!” Quint slaps his knee.
“Leave all weapons and personal belongings with the officer inside before going through the metal detector. Enjoy your visit,” he deadpans, eyeing my Bony sweatshirt. Then, he opens one of the heavy front doors and holds it for us.
The moment we walk over the threshold, it’s like stepping through a portal into the late 1800s. The foyer is three stories high with a sweeping marble staircase right in the center. The floors are marble. The columns are marble. The statues and busts of old white men are marble. But the doors lining every wall on all three floors? Those are dark and wooden and least eight feet tall each.
“Ma’am.” A woman’s voice snaps me out of my daze. “You need to check all bags, weapons, and outside food with me, please.”
I stare at the female officer in disbelief. It’s been so long since I’ve been somewhere with rules or uniforms—or employees for that matter. It’s actually kind of … nice.
I tuck my gun into my duffel bag and hand it to the cop. She gives me a ticket in return and motions toward the metal detector.
We walk through and get the okay from the male officer on the other side, and as we wander aimlessly into the foyer, tears begin to blur my vision.
For the first time in months, I feel safe.
Protected.
Secure.
There are rules here.
People follow them.
No weapons allowed.
No outside food or drinks.
There are business hours.
And little yellow claim tickets.
This place has been spared from the anarchy raging outside.
And I hate how much I like it.
How good it makes me feel.
Especially when there is a twenty-five-foot-long banner hanging from the third-story railing with Governor Steele’s face on it staring down at me. The quote, There is only one true law—the law of nature, is printed above his jowly scowl. It reminds me of the banners from the nightmares—the ones with the four horsemen of the apocalypse and the date April 23. Only this banner is even more terrifying.
Because this monster is real.
Then, I notice along the bottom of the banner, in a tidy little row, are the logos for half a dozen local businesses—Buck’s Hardware. Huckabee Foods. Pizza Emporium. Lou’s Liquor Superstore.
It makes me sick.
“What now, Rainy Lady?” Lamar asks.
I scan every floor, but all I see is wooden door after wooden door, the names stamped in bronze next to each one announcing which distinguished member of Congress works inside.
Or worked inside, I guess.
No laws probably means no congressmen. No senators. No secretaries answering phone calls.
No wonder they allow the public inside—this place is nothing more than a museum now.
“Nobody’s here,” I mumble as the dead eyes of every life-size portrait stare straight through me.
Nobody … including Wes.
“’Scuse me,” Quint says, turning toward the officer stationed at the metal detector. “Can you point us in the direction of where the, uh, accused are bein’ held?”
“They are in a secure, off-site location, sir.”
“Off-site? Like, in another buildin’?”
“I am not at liberty to say, sir.”
“Well, shoot. We was hopin’ to see one up close and personal.”
“Then, I suggest you come back for the Green Mile execution event tomorrow afternoon. There are spectator stands on either side of Plaza Park, but if you get a seat on the right side, the accused will walk right past you.”
“Ooh, we’ll do that. Thank you kindly, sir.” Quint tips his invisible hat while I rush over to the desk with my yellow ticket outstretched.
I can’t get out of here fast enough. Not only because the sight of Governor Steele’s gaping pores makes me want to puke, but also because of what the guard just said.
Tomorrow.
We only have until tomorrow.
“Off-site,” Quint repeats as we walk across the capitol building lawn, stately oaks and ancient magnolia trees shading us from the May sun.
“Oh God. Do you think they’re keeping him at the jail? I assumed they were keeping the accused somewhere else because they released everybody from jail, but maybe he’s there.”
“Where even is the jail?” Quint asks.
“I don’t …” The words disappear on my tongue as I look across the street at a row of baby oak trees, as tidy and perfectly spaced as the list of sponsors on Governor Steele’s banner.
Plaza Park looks so much smaller in real life. It’s just a patch of grass in the middle of the city. Metal risers line the left and right sides, a group of police officers in riot gear laughs and drinks coffee near their patrol cars on the far side of the park, and right here in front, not much taller than the people they’re now feeding on, is a row of freshly planted saplings.
I don’t want to, but I find myself walking across the street, moving between the abandoned cars toward the spot where Wes’s grave will be dug. The grass is perfect—just like him. Another beautiful thing that will be destroyed here tomorrow. I kneel and run my fingers over the short green blades. I want to lie on top of them until the gravediggers come. Stop them with my body. I want to stage a protest, start a fire. But I don’t know how.
I’m not that girl. I’m the one who smiles and does as she’s told. I’m the one who gets good grades and doesn’t start trouble. I’m the one who blends in with the bad guys instead of rising up against them.
At least, that’s who I used to be. I don’t even know what I am anymore. Besides desperate.
“No!” a woman shouts, which isn’t anything out of the ordinary around here, except for the fact that she sounds really, really close.
“I told you, I don’t have anything!”
I sit up on my knees and swing my head in all direc
tions. Quint must be alarmed, too, because he’s standing behind me with my duffel bag slung across his chest, frantically digging inside.
“Stop!” she screams. “Get off of me!” It sounds like it’s coming from the direction of a black BMW with the windows broken out.
I hear a slap, followed by another scream, and before I can think better of it, I’m on my feet, darting over to Quint. I reach into the bag and find the gun tucked inside a folded pair of jeans, right where I stashed it. Quint gestures for me to give it to him, but I can’t.
Because at that moment, I hear the woman growl a single word, “No.”
It’s long and bitter and broken and angry, but under that frustrated rage, I hear her powerlessness.
And I feel it as if it came from between my own gritted teeth.
Flipping the safety off, I sprint toward the muffled sounds of struggle—shoes scraping against asphalt, body parts thudding against the back of the car, grunting, whimpering. The noises are horrible, but they’re nothing compared to the scene I find when I come around the side of the BMW. Bare skin and bare breasts and fresh blood and flailing limbs. A hand wrapped around a throat. A hand wrapped around a gun. Panties around ankles and pants around thighs. Fingernails clawing. Lips turning blue.
I want to shoot. For the first time in my life, I want to shoot someone. But I can’t. He’s too close to her.
I growl the same powerless, “No,” that she did, point my gun at the sky, and fire a frustrated bullet into the air.
The greasy-haired man looks up—yellow eyes wide in surprise and yellow teeth gnashing in anger—but before he can swing his pistol in my direction, Lamar jumps out from the other side of the car, holding a whiskey bottle like a club. He bashes the sleazeball over the head so hard the bottle shatters, raining glass and the lifeless body of a possibly dead rapist down on the victim.
Quint grabs the guy’s gun out of his hand as Lamar rolls his body off the traumatized woman beneath him. She’s so exposed. Her skirt is bunched around her waist. Her blouse and bra are shoved up over her petite breasts. Just witnessing the emotion on her face feels like a violation, like even her soul has been bared without her consent.