Beyond the Gates

by Jason D. Morrow

  I tap Nine on the shoulder lightly, hoping not to annoy her. She turns to look at me. No smile. No readable expression at all.

  “Can you tell me what’s going on?” I ask.

  “It’s the same thing every day,” she answers. “There is almost never a change in schedule. Make it through one day and all your questions will be answered.”

  If Nine knew me in the least bit, she would know that my questions would never all be answered. I used to annoy my parents to no end with my questions. With love, and no small amount of patience, my parents never turned me away and always did their best to answer me.

  Nine’s eyes stay on me for a moment and she seems to consider the fact that being left in the dark is the hardest part of being here. She sighs and shakes her head slightly.

  “It’s dinner,” she says, looking from side to side. “If you can call it that, but we take what we can get. Complaining never did anything here but make things worse.”

  “I was afraid to ask you anything as we walked,” I say. “Everyone seemed so quiet.”

  “There are a lot of unwritten rules around here,” Nine says. “One is that we aren’t supposed to talk while we’re in line, walking from one destination to the next. Now that we’re in the mess hall, it’s fine.” She shakes her head and shrugs. “Maybe they think we will get distracted and take too much time to get to where we need to be if we talk. I don’t know. No one really knows the reason behind anything the guards want around here. We aren’t supposed to ask questions. We aren’t supposed to know things. We’re supposed to do what we’re told and follow the rules, written or not.”

  “I want to thank you for waking me,” I tell her. “I haven’t slept in two days.”

  “If you think you’re tired now…” Nine shakes her head and turns back toward the front of the line.

  It’s true the past two days have taken a toll on me. I still have pains in every limb and in my back, and my eyelids feel like I have weights on them. In spite of all this, my mind races as I try to figure out my new surroundings. When I walk through the doors into the large building, it seems like the entire camp is here.

  The ceiling rises a good fifty feet above my head. The walls are a beige metal. Every square inch of the dirty floor is occupied by tables, many of them filled with prisoners sitting shoulder-to-shoulder as they eat off their trays. It’s hard for me to see past some of the lines and I can’t tell how full or empty the trays seem. No smell in the air makes me excited to eat.

  I’ve never been great at estimating, but my guess is there are about 3,000 people packed into this one building. It has to be the entire camp.

  On the other side, men sit at the tables and fill up the other half of the building. There’s a dividing wall about waist high through the middle of the room to indicate the men’s side and the women’s side. My heart beats harder when I think about Papa being on the other side of this room.

  I scan the crowd, trying to find him, but it’s impossible. It’s a sea of bald heads, men and women alike, and I’m not sure I would even be able to recognize Papa without his hair or beard, especially from far away.

  It seems prisoners are allowed a little more freedom in the mess hall. Some of them walk around, looking for a seat, so we apparently aren’t assigned a spot. Guards post themselves at the corners of the room. A few of them pace up and down the narrow walkways, gripping tightly to their rifles.

  It wouldn’t take much for the mass of prisoners to overpower the guards, but then where would we go? To the prison yard? Would we all climb three razor wire fences? No. The other guards in the camp would come out and mow us down with guns. They would probably release the greyskins, too. Those of us who didn’t get shot would be ripped to shreds by those monsters.

  The line in front of me shortens and eventually I find myself in front of a bar. I pull a tray off the top of a stack and set it in front of a large man. I can tell he’s a prisoner because he’s bald and wears the same uniform as the rest of us. A guard stands behind him, probably to make sure the man doesn’t give anyone too much food. However, it seems working in the kitchen has its benefits. The man isn’t skinny like the other prisoners. He has a pot belly and a thick neck.

  “You’re new,” he says to me as he ladles a thin liquid into a bowl and sets it on my tray. The soup has no color. There are about two slices of carrots, a wedge of potato and a tiny sliver of chicken. He then sets a small piece of bread next to the bowl.

  “Yes,” I say, not sure if I should speak at all.

  “Kids shouldn’t be here,” he says. He looks over his shoulder at the guard behind him who isn’t paying attention. The man then scoops another ladle out and nearly makes my bowl overflow. Then he winks at me.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Make friends. Stay close to them.”

  I nod at him, not knowing what to say. With a quick smile, I turn away from the bar and follow Nine who is already making her way to a table that is quickly filling up.

  She sets her tray down and sits slowly. I feel like I can almost hear her bones creaking. I choose a spot across from her at the end of the table and try not to spill my full bowl of soup. Looking at the others around me, I feel guilty that I have so much more than everyone else.

  “Who’s the kid?” asks a woman sitting next to Nine.

  “I’m Skylar,” I say. “Today’s my first day.”

  “You say that like it’s your first day of school,” the woman says as she slurps the room temperature broth.

  “I’ve never been to a school,” I say, “but I know a lot about them. My parents told me all kinds of stories.”

  I have to be careful here. I don’t know these people. I can’t really trust them any more than I can the guards or Warden Black.

  “But they died a few years ago,” I add.

  “Oh, poor thing,” the woman next to Nine says. She looks over each shoulder then reaches out a hand to shake mine. “I’m Katherine. Been here for three years now. Still alive.”

  Katherine is brighter and full of smiles, unlike most everyone else I've seen here. She is a lot younger than Nine, but she’s not a child like me.

  “I guess you’ve already met Nine,” she says motioning toward the older woman.

  “Actually, we’re cellmates,” I say.

  Katherine’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “That’s great! It wasn’t good for you to be alone in that cell of yours.”

  “I liked it that way,” Nine murmurs, her eyes remaining on the table.

  Katherine waves her off. “Don’t mind Nine. She’s always that way.”

  “Yeah, she is,” a voice says to my right.

  I look up to find a tall woman setting her tray down next to mine. She's older than Katherine and younger than Nine, her eyes a pale blue..

  “Janet,” she says, looking down at my tray. “Wow, you must have been in Watty’s line. Lucky.”

  “He gives better portions?” I ask.

  “Only sometimes,” Katherine says. “He can’t do it all the time or the guards would see. He could get in a lot of trouble for that.”

  “I don’t have to have all this,” I say. “We can split it.”

  “Kid,” Janet says, “if the food guy gives you extra food, you take it. You slurp it down like you’re never getting another meal because it could be a while before you see a portion like that again.”

  I nod and start slurping the soup quickly. I’m terribly hungry, but that fact doesn't change the taste of the soup any. There’s hardly any flavor and seems barely more than water with a few chunks of meat in it. The bread is about as hard as a rock, but dipping it in my soup helps some.

  “I, for one, think it’s good you’ve got a roomie, Nine,” Janet says. “You’ve been grumpy ever since April died.”

  Janet says this almost as if someone dying wasn’t a big deal, though Katherine turns her eyes downward and Nine doesn’t say anything.

  “I’d be in a better mood if my cellmate croaked,” Janet says as
she soaks her bread in her soup.

  “We’d all be better off if your cellmate died,” Nine answers.

  “There’s the feisty Nine I know,” Janet says.

  Nine ignores the comment and continues eating.

  Katherine offers an explanation. “Janet’s cellmate is a woman named Natasha.” She looks over her shoulders again. “You have to watch out for people like her. They like to cause trouble.” She looks up at Nine. “Don’t they?”

  Nine nods.

  “Nine works with Natasha at her job,” Katherine says.

  “Natasha will kill you quicker than one of the guards,” Janet adds.

  “How do you survive?” I ask Janet.

  She shrugs. “I only have to see her during cell time, which is once in the afternoon and at night. We don’t talk to each other much, but when we do, I just listen and agree with whatever she says. It helps that my job is on the other side of the camp.”

  “What’s your job?” Katherine asks.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. I haven’t been assigned one.”

  “Oh, really? They usually assign jobs to people when they first get here.”

  “After they sprayed me with the hose and shaved my head they took me to a dark room for a few hours. They pulled me out and took me to see Warden Black.”

  The three of them stopped eating. Even Nine looks up at me. “They what?” Nine asks.

  “I met with Warden Black,” I repeat, slurping more soup.

  Nine leans forward, her blue eyes staring at me intently. “What did he want?”

  This is the most emotion I’ve seen from Nine since we met in our cell. Her surprised expression tells me that a meeting with the warden isn't common.

  “He just said it was unusual to have a child here,” I say. “He said he wants to keep me safe.” I nod at Nine. “That's why he paired me with you. Said I need a good cellmate. I mean, he was sure to tell me that I would still die here in the end, but he wants me to have a decent life here as long as I can. It sounded so weird the way he said it..”

  “I've never seen Black’s office,” Katherine says.

  “I bet it's full of baby skeletons,” Janet says.

  “No,” I say, “but it's pretty junky.”

  “Did he say he wants you to do anything like spy on us or something?” Janet asks.

  I start to answer, but Nine cuts me off.

  “Enough,” she says. “We don't need to bother Skylar with so many questions. She's had a rough trip to get here, I'm sure.”

  The other two lower their heads back to their soups. Something about me meeting with Warden Black sparked their interests and Nine seems more interested in me.

  “There are a few things you need to know if you’re going to make it very long here,” Nine says.

  “Okay.” I drink the rest of my soup and set the bowl down in front of me. My stomach rumbles for more.

  “When the guards are herding us, they don’t like us talking,” Nine says. “It makes them nervous.”

  “Got it,” I say.

  “When you find out what your job is, you have to work hard. Then keep working. Don’t stop working. You only get a break if the guards say you can have one. Don’t ask for one. They don’t like that. Cell block leaders can be ruthless and brutal, but ours is Marta. Generally, she’s nice enough, though I’ve seen her kill before, so you still don’t want to cross her.”

  I nod, and Janet speaks next.

  “Basically just try not to be noticed by the guards,” she says. “The more you become a target, the more your life will become a living hell.”

  “And stick with people you know,” Katherine says. “Like us. Most people here are just normal people in a bad situation, but this place can change you.”

  “You might want to stay away from me if you can,” Janet says with a smile. “You don’t want Natasha sniffing around your business. You become her target, it’s just as bad as annoying the guards.”

  “I think just being a kid here is going to make me a target,” I say. “Have you seen others my age here?”

  The three are quiet, the answer apparently being something they don’t want to talk about.

  “It’s difficult for a child here,” Nine says. “How old are you?”

  “Twelve.”

  “So young,” Katherine says with a pouty lip. It’s almost as if she’s already expecting me to die within the next couple of days or something.

  “It’s good Warden Black put you with me,” Nine says.

  “Surprising, but good,” Janet says.

  “Why is it surprising?” I ask.

  “Warden Black isn’t exactly known for his kind spirit,” Janet answers. “I wonder if he’s got something up his sleeve.”

  “Enough,” Nine says again.

  “I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing,” I say. “You mentioned a job. What should I do since I don’t have one?”

  “You’ll get one,” Janet says.

  “You will have to speak with Marta about it,” Katherine says.

  “I can help you with that,” Nine says.

  “And what are your jobs?” I ask.

  “Laundry,” Kathrine says.

  “Maintenance,” Janet says.

  Nine’s expression turns solemn again. “Disposal,” she answers.

  “Like garbage?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Bodies.”

  I can feel my face drain of blood. “Bodies?”

  “Greyskins,” Nine says.

  It’s one of the only times in my life where I would rather stay silent than ask more questions.

  “I’m sure you smelled them when you came in, didn’t you?” Janet asks. “I don’t even smell them anymore.”

  I nod slightly, my eyes fixed on nothing in particular. My fears have been confirmed about the greyskins, and suddenly it feels too real. This is someone whose sole purpose is to deal with the death that reeks through this camp. She is the one who sees the reality of why we’re all here.

  All at once questions scream through my mind, but they never make it to my lips. I need to know more, but I don’t want to know more. I feel sick. I can’t imagine having that kind of job.

  Warden Black says he wants me to have a good life here. Surely I won’t be assigned to such a task.

  A loud commotion erupts on the men’s side of the mess hall, and I think about Papa. I wonder what kind of job he’s been assigned. I hope he doesn’t have to deal with dead bodies. I hope he’s okay. I know he’s worried sick about me and I wish I could tell him I’m fine, that my cellmate isn’t crazy or hoping to kill me. I wish I could hug him.

  I wish I were anywhere else.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Liam

  THERE ARE TOO many rows of tables to count. Too many bald heads bobbing up and down, slurping at the thin soup in front of them.

  My heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I saw the women piling into the building. I had thought that Sky being a child would have made her stand out. Now, I don’t know whether to worry that I didn’t see her or be glad. I hope she is here. Safe. Hidden in plain sight. But I can’t pull away from the nagging feeling that something bad has happened to her.

  This feeling will never go away; it is the worst part of this prison for me, though I would be a captive to these thoughts no matter where Skylar was. Stuck here in prison with her out there in the Containment Zone by herself would be just as maddening. I’ve wondered if it is better that she is here. At some point, I will be able to establish contact with her, surely.

  I can’t succumb to the belief that either of us will die here. If I die, she dies. If she dies, I don’t have much of a reason to try and escape.

  The cure?

  The cure is good for only one thing as far as I am concerned: keeping Skylar alive. If she’s scratched or bitten by one of those greyskins, the cure would keep her alive, and she wouldn’t have to turn into one of them. The rest of the world can turn into them for all I care. I m
ay have had ambitious thoughts of getting the cure to the rest of the world, but I see that the rest of the world is full of people running scared for their lives and other people trying to dominate. Does the world deserve to be saved? It has done little for my family or me.

  So, what about the people who are simply trying to survive? What about those like my daughter and my wife who wanted to live in relative peace? Do they deserve the cure?

  They do. But even if I were able to escape this prison, I would have to travel 400 miles or so just to reach the vials of precious liquid. Then I would have to escape the Containment Zone. Then, I would have to try and mass produce the medicine and distribute it to every living person I could.

  It’s pointless to even think about. The governmental authority would take control of it as quickly as possible. If they didn’t succeed, then raiders would try to steal it. I would be killed. Skylar would be killed. Then the cure would never be given to ordinary people; it would be hoarded for those in power.

  Of course, this wasn't what was running through my head when I discovered it. First, I thought about saving my family. Then, I thought about saving the world. Now, the world will continue its descent into hell and probably never recover.

  The conditions were right for me to discover the cure, yet the timing was all wrong. We needed this cure forty years ago when I was just a child. Now, I’m afraid it’s too late.

  The line in front of the bar in the mess hall moves at a snail’s pace. I’ve given up hope of trying to spot Skylar on the other side, partly because I don’t want to be seen searching for someone in the women’s part of the room. Someone might start asking questions.

  Still no sign of my cellmate yet. Rusty, was his name? The guard painted a picture of someone I wouldn’t want to share a prison with, much less a small cell. I’m not worried about me, though. The worst he could do is hurt me, and I can manage the pain. I suppose he could kill me. As far as I’m concerned, that is not the worst outcome, but for Skylar, it could potentially be fatal for her, so I suppose the worst he could do is kill me.