It’s so quiet in this room I can hear my heart beating. Thump. Thump. Thump. No, I’m not dead. Not yet. I hope Papa got to go into one of those cells where there are other people. And light.
I wish I knew more about this place. It’s a prison, so surely there are bad people here. But I’m not a bad person. Papa isn’t a bad person. The people staring at us through the fences when we first got here didn’t seem like bad people.
I guess we were caught doing something terrible. We were trying to escape the Containment Zone. Papa never explained all the details, but he had met with people who knew a secret way out through some caves. We met them in the night. There were others like us…people who just wanted a way out.
There were rumors that life outside the Containment Zone was better. Fewer greyskins. Fewer soldiers.
Our home wasn’t always in the Containment Zone. The Containment Zone didn’t even exist when I was smaller. Papa never was good at explaining what it was or why it was there. Just that the greyskins had gotten so bad that the soldiers wanted nothing or no one to go in or out of the giant circle. I don’t know why healthy people like Papa and me couldn’t leave. One look at us and you could've seen we didn't have the virus. People with the infection get black eyes dripping with slime. They drool and foam at the mouth. Besides, I don't believe the world outside the Containment Zone is really greyskin-free. Papa said the virus is widespread. It's just a little worse where we are for some reason.
I don't know what good it does to put us in prison either. The Containment Zone is its own prison, just bigger. It's like Warden Black said, I guess. If you get caught trying to escape you will be punished. Maybe executed. We got caught trying to escape, and Vulture Hill is our slow execution. Seems like I made someone mad, so I’m to be killed more quickly. Or maybe they don’t want children here, so they just kill them without letting them have a chance.
My thoughts wander as I sit in the darkness. I’m seven years old again, and Papa finds an old doll in a pile of rubble. Her hair is singed and her plastic fingers have melted some, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone needs to be loved.
I’m nine years old, the doll long gone. I’m helping Mama and Papa look for food. We’re not allowed to talk to each other because one of us might have heard a greyskin herd nearby. Or we’re just practicing. We do a lot of practicing. Mama and Papa just had another fight about the greyskin in the basement. She thinks it’s too fresh to have been brought home. The fresher they are, the stronger they tend to be.
I’m ten years old. Mama is dead, teeth marks on her shoulder. Papa makes me stay in the house and tells me to shut my eyes and my ears until he comes and gets me. He doesn’t want me to hear the gunshot. He will have to bury her tonight.
I’m twelve years old. I sit in a dark room at Vulture Hill Prison Camp. Alone. Afraid. Wondering if Papa can get us out of here. Wondering if I’m going to die.
The light blinds me when the door opens. My hand raises from the ground to shield my eyes, but the guard grabs my wrist, pulls me to my feet, and shoves me into the hallway. The brightness of the daylight shining through the windows at the top of the corridor makes it hard for me to see. Surely it’s the same day. The heat in this place weighs heavy. It has to be the middle of the afternoon.
I may have fallen asleep in that room. It’s hard to know what were conscious thoughts and what were dreams. All of them were memories.
Two guards have me by the arms and I am powerless to resist them. I could flop on the floor, but I don’t think it would do any good. They might just shoot me instead. I try to be as cooperative as I can, but they still dig their fingers into my skin as though I’m planning a quick escape.
“Where am I going?” It’s pointless to ask.
As my vision clears, all I see are the same dull hallways made of stone. There are no bars, so I’m not in the section where other prisoners are kept.
The guards push through another set of doors and we’re outside, the sun blinding my eyes and burning my skin. I can see some prisoners in the distance though I can’t tell what they are doing. Something inside my brain tells me to scream out, to try and fight back because the guards are leading me to my execution. Among the many things my parents have taught me, one of them is to do anything I can to survive, no matter the odds against me.
My body tenses and I’m about to jerk my arm away and make a run for it, but I stop myself. Where would I go? I could hide in one of the several large buildings in the camp, but I don’t know what’s in them. And I can’t just climb three rows of fences with razor wire at the top. The choice to let the guards lead me without resistance is a bet that they aren’t going to execute me. It’s more a lack of choice than a gamble, really. If they want to kill me, there is no stopping them.
“Oh, wow,” says the guard standing in front of a door. “I haven’t seen a little girl your age in here in a long time.” He squats down to meet me at eye level. He isn’t as old as the other guards. From his words, I thought he was being sarcastic, but when our eyes meet, I can tell he’s being genuine. He’s surprised and delighted to see a child in front of him. This unnerves me.
“Come on, Hutch, let us through.”
The guard, Hutch, smiles at me and licks his thumb to wipe some blood away from my scalp like Mama might have done when I was little.
“You okay?” he asks. “Don’t want you to be in pain.”
It’s hard for me to take him seriously. All of the guards I’ve encountered so far have been pushy and rude. Hutch seems different. Innocent, even. Surely it’s just an act.
He steps aside and lets the guards push past him.
“You don’t have to handle her so rough,” he says.
As expected, the other guards ignore him.
The room is dark and dusty. There are windows, but piles of books and old mechanical parts clutter the tables and counters along the walls, high enough to block much of the light and potentially cause an avalanche.
The room feels as cold as it looks. I’m trying not to tremble, but it’s like trying not to itch. The more I think about it, the worse it gets. I wish I could say it was the cold that causes the tremors in my fingers, arms, and chest, but it is undoubtedly the man standing at the other end of the room staring at me.
The two guards let go of my arms at the man’s orders, and they step back and stand near the door. Warden Black steps from behind his untidy desk and stops about five feet from me as if he is supposed to keep his distance.
“It’s a shame they had to shave your hair,” he said. “I’ve always loved red hair on little girls. They say red hair often matches a fiery personality.”
I feel sick that he remembers what color my hair was before it was shaved off.
He steps to his right, then to his left, pacing back and forth with his hands behind his back as he looks from the ceiling to the ground, his eyes darting back and forth. Then he stops, turns on his heels and looks at me again. “Do you have a fiery personality?”
“No,” I say.
“Warden Black. No, Warden Black.”
“No, Warden Black,” I mumble.
“We shave heads and hose down our new arrivals to prevent outbreaks of lice throughout the camp,” he says. “Sometimes it’s not enough, and we just have to deal with it.”
I’m not daring or stupid enough to ask how they deal with lice outbreaks. Do they kill people who have lice or do they give them soap? I don’t want to know the answer to that question.
“I’m interested to know who you came here with,” Warden Black says. “I’m guessing it’s a father or a brother because none of the women in the group tried to interact with you.”
“I told you, I’m an orphan.”
He doesn’t believe me, and I know I’m not very convincing, but I’ve got to keep to the script.
“Children don’t tend to make it very long by themselves,” he says. “Especially not in the Containment Zone.”
He stares down at me with dark eyes that look like b
uttons stitched onto sunken circles of leather. He is tall and thin like a stork—about as skinny as the prisoners I remember seeing at the fences when we were brought into the camp. His sharp eyebrows are stitched into a downward position, his mouth stuck with a frown underneath an unkempt beard. By the look of him, I can’t tell how old he is. He seems about ten years older than Papa, but I’ve noticed a person can look a lot older than they are if they don’t take care of themselves. Warden Black doesn’t seem to have taken care of himself very well for the last several years.
“I was told you were caught trying to break into a home,” he says as he rests his hands behind his back.
“I was hungry.”
“It’s against the law to break into homes.”
“No one lived there.”
“It still wasn’t your property.”
I feel my cheeks get hot and it's my red face that gives me away. For the first time since I've seen him, Warden Black smiles. It somehow makes his crooked nose form into a beak, completing his bird-like appearance.
“You are fiery, aren't you? We will have to keep an eye on you.” A laugh is choked down by his thin lips.
“So, orphan, your number is 2987?” he says, turning to look at a paper on his desk. “What is your name?”
“Skylar.”
“I haven't met anyone with that name before.”
I can't imagine he has asked too many people what their names were.
“I suppose you think it's harsh to have you here. It is a death camp, after all.”
I say nothing.
“Well, if I let everyone go who thinks they shouldn’t be here, then there wouldn’t be a prison, and I would be out of a job, wouldn’t I?”
I want to ask him if he likes his job. I want to know if when he was a young boy, did he envision himself being the leader of a prison camp?
Instead, I bite my tongue. My toes curl into the bottoms of my shoes. I’m itching to get out of this room. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t understand why Warden Black is determined to learn more about me.
“The end is the same for every prisoner here,” he says, “but there is an order of things. You do the right thing, your time left on this earth will be more pleasant. Still, there are dangers in this camp that are worse than dying.”
I don’t want to know what he means by this.
“There are people here who would push you around. Abuse you. Terrorize you. Do unspeakable things to you. All because you’re a child.” He lets the words settle in my brain for a moment, as though he waits for the seeds of my imagination to sprout and reveal the terrors that await me when I leave this office. “However, I don’t want my camp to be full of violence and mayhem. Anyone caught terrorizing others is punished harshly. Sometimes executed. Still, that doesn’t mean I can’t take extra precaution with you and make your life here safer.”
Safer. I wonder if he knows how ridiculous he sounds. What is safe about knowing I’m going to die here? What is safe about being told that I will one day join the thousands of bones resting on top of Vulture Hill?
“Thank you,” I say.
“Thank you, Warden Black,” he corrects.
“Thank you, Warden Black.”
“I have arranged for you to have a cellmate,” he says. “Her number is Nine. She’s older. Less wild than many of the others. She lost a cellmate and has requested to have the cell to herself. I was ready to give it to her until you came along. I see value in having you two together.”
He talks like he genuinely cares about my life, but how could Warden Black be this way if all he wants is for me to die in the end?
“This is a work camp, too,” he says. “We answer to our leaders in Screven, and we have quotas to meet and deadlines to make.”
“What kind of work?”
Warden Black’s grin returns and with it comes the bird’s beak ready to peck away at my insides until I bleed to death.
“That,” he says, “you will learn soon enough.”
“Why are you being nice to me?” I don’t really think he’s being nice to me. The man saw a child and with me comes an opportunity to intimidate. Papa warned me about people like him—people who made themselves bigger than they really were. It’s not hard for me to see that Warden Black needs to feel powerful. But a man in that kind of position is dangerous. So long as I show him respect and am willing to bend to his will, he won’t see any need to show his power in a more forceful way.
Warden Black looks offended by my question, his eyes blinking more than they were a moment ago.
“Why wouldn’t I be nice to you? I am nice to all of the inmates here. All of you are my friends. I must take care of you the best I know how until…” His eyes dart left and right. “…until this is all over.” He turns and walks around his desk until he’s in front of the desk chair, then sits. I don’t know what the creaking noise is—his knees or the fragile wood beneath his hollow body.
“You will learn soon enough what kind of place this is,” he says. “It comes with a grim introduction, but you make a life as you can. I imagine there are prisoners here who will outlive even me.” He looks down at his desk for a moment as if to contemplate his own words. Then, a snort. “Well, perhaps not, but the idea is to make a life here as you can. Obey orders, don’t cause trouble, and your trip to the top of Vulture Hill won’t be so bad.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Liam
IT WAS MIDDAY when the guard came to my cell and banged his metal baton against the bars. The noise rattled my senses and jerked me awake in such a jarring fashion my body seemed to levitate above the ground for half a second.
A bellowing laugh burst from the guard’s mouth, and he leaned against the cell door and shook his head. “It’s strange to see someone in cell number 255,” he said. “Been empty for some time.” He paused as if waiting for me to ask him why. When I didn’t satisfy his need for my inquiry, he scowled and continued even though I didn’t ask.
“They call him Rusty. He’s the other prisoner assigned to this cell. He’s been in solitary for a month. Warden was going to have him executed, but has decided against it. It’s actually been a lot worse around the camp without Rusty’s presence.”
I desired to know more, but this was what the guard wanted. He wanted the satisfaction of knowing something I didn’t. He wanted that feeling of power over me.
A simple beating would have sufficed, but that had probably gotten old with this guard. I imagined you could only beat people so much before it too became dull and boring.
I refused to show any interest in what the guard said. Still, he continued.
“He doesn’t look like much, but he’s a killer. You might think some people in the camp don’t deserve to be in here, but he ain’t one of them. Rusty is as bad as they get. Scheming. Vile. Loves violence. Even some of the guards are scared of him.” He let out another wheezing laugh. “And he’s your cellmate.”
I dared not look at the guard. I knew if I did, I would betray the growing fear within me.
“In fact, they’re letting him out of solitary tomorrow,” he said.
Despite my determination to stare away, my eyes met the guard’s, and my fear was on full display. This gave him another laugh that shot spit halfway across the cell.
An hour later, all the new arrivals were released from their cells and guards herded us through a hallway and into a large, empty common room.
The room is cold and mostly dark but for a few windows in the corners. There are chairs in the middle, but no one sits. The guards encircle us with their rifles resting comfortably in their hands. The guard who had stopped by my cell earlier stands in the corner of the room separate from many of the others, looking out the window. I can’t help but wonder if he wants out just as bad as the rest of us. With his assignment to Vulture Hill, is he as much a prisoner here as I am?
Near the entrance of the room, a large man marches toward the group. His weapons are holstered and his black uniform is slightly different
than the other guards. His boots are shinier, his shirt nicely pressed. His presentation seems flawless. The muscles in his neck and shoulders look like slabs of rocks neatly placed one on top of the other.
Compared to the rest of us, many of whom seem frail and hungry, all of us with shaved heads and no weapons, this man is a giant.
“My name is Davis,” he says, his voice deep and booming. I get the feeling that if he yelled the whole prison might come tumbling down. “I’m your cell block leader. Each of you answers to me and no one else. If I give you an order, you obey it. If any of my guards give you an order that is contradictory to my order, you obey my order. If Warden Black gives you an order that is contradictory to my order, you obey my order. Do you understand that?”
The room is silent, but for the sound of Davis grinding his teeth.
“In here, I am your Warden. Your life is in my hands, and I can do what I want with it, understand?”
I wonder if there is a female version of Davis in Skylar’s cell block. I’m sure there is. I want to imagine that it’s much worse being on the men’s side of the prison camp, but something tells me it’s terrible no matter where you are. Perhaps her cell block leader isn’t a totalitarian troll, but there are worse difficulties in other areas, I’m sure. The fact that she is a child is the scariest part of all. It makes her stand out. The last thing you want to do in a place like this is stand out.
“I’ve got a list with your numbers, and with the numbers are the corresponding jobs within the camp, ” Davis says. “Does everyone remember his number?”
Silence is the reply, and it’s enough for Davis. He calls out from the list and one-by-one each man steps forward to receive a paper which explains his new job.
3,325 — mining.
3,326 — mining.
Beyond the Gates Page 3