Beyond the Gates

by Jason D. Morrow

  “Three-three-three-three,” he calls out.

  “That’s me,” I say under my breath. I want to reach out and squeeze Sky on the knee or shoulder, but I don’t dare. The wandering eyes throughout the room will not see who we are. Not today. And I particularly don’t want a loudmouth like Chet to see anything.

  I don’t look down toward Sky. I don’t look back to offer assurance. I walk straight to the door and enter another dark hallway.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Liam

  THE HALLWAY BEYOND the mysterious door, the one in which no prisoner has come back, is dark, cold, and damp. It’s much like the rest of the prison, but it’s unusually quiet with just myself and a single guard leading the way.

  Chet wasn’t lying. Hutch does look young. I can’t speak for his intelligence, but if he really is stupid, that can be both an asset and a danger for me. An asset because he could be easily manipulated. A danger because someone could manipulate him in a way that harms my plans.

  Hutch has no fear of me. I could jump him. Maybe even take his gun and kill him. But he knows I won’t, that or he hasn’t even considered the possibility. The only reason I would do such a thing is if I were suicidal, and as much as Vulture Hill is a terrible place, it hasn't inspired me to commit suicide.

  In fact, it feels so oppressive, so overtly degrading that I think it makes prisoners want to stay alive as long as possible just to prove to Warden Black that they can. I, for one, feel that the prison is an injustice, even to the ones who have committed crimes. Who are the ones who put murderers in prison? Who locks the thieves away? No elected official. No one in power by popular vote. They are the same ones who would put a twelve-year-old in a death camp filled with greyskins. They are the same people who would capture greyskins and sort out the more fit ones to attack settlements.

  They are evil.

  Therefore, we are all here unjustly—even the murderers and thieves. There is no official government in power with the real right to put anyone in prison. Not anymore. That world died when I was a child.

  All of life is survival now. It is almost all I have ever known. It is all Sky has ever known. So, even being caught and put into a death camp is just another step in the long game of survival. We just rolled the wrong dice, it seems.

  “I don’t like these dark hallways,” Hutch says as we walk. “They’re too cold.”

  I don’t know what to say to the kid. I’m being led to a torture chamber and he’s making small talk? Maybe he is as daft as Chet believes.

  “Do you know what this questioning is about?” I ask.

  “Oh, it’s always the same thing,” Hutch says. “Just a few general questions. Maybe a little bit of pain. Nothing too bad. I don’t think anyone’s ever died because of it. Well, there was the one, but we think he had a heart condition.”

  “And you’re okay with torture?”

  “It’s not torture,” he says thoughtfully. “If we don’t do this, then we don’t know what kind of prisoners are here. We need to know what kind of people we’re dealing with in order to be safe—in order to have a peaceful camp.”

  Peaceful? How could someone expect that?

  “Your name is Hutch?” I ask.

  “All my life.” He turns and smiles at me when he says this. He’s got a baby face and probably couldn’t grow facial hair if he tried.

  “How long have you worked here, Hutch?”

  “A couple of years now,” he says. “I work directly for Warden Black. He’s the only person I have to answer to. He said he needed someone he could trust. I told him I was the man for the job.”

  “That simple, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “You don’t have family?”

  “Nah,” he says. “They all died when I was little. My brother used to talk about heading to Screven and joining the army to make a life for himself. After the herd attacked my village and killed my family, I figured it would be a good option for me. I was a bit too young, but I went for it. Went through training. Worked in Screven for a bit. Now I’m here.”

  I can’t imagine how terrible of a soldier Hutch must have been to have landed an assignment here. Looking at him, he doesn’t seem like a Screven soldier. He seems too nice. His eyes aren’t dead like all the ones I’ve met before—like the other guards that work at Vulture Hill.

  There’s an innocence in Hutch that doesn’t belong in a place like this. Yet, he serves proudly. If only he knew what was truly happening. If only he didn’t believe the lies he’s been fed. If only he knew the truth—that Screven and everything that comes out of it is evil.

  You’re on the wrong side, Hutch.

  But maybe he isn’t. The rest of us don’t seem to be winning. One day, when there is nothing left to conquer, Screven will stand alone. At least by that point they won’t need the greyskins.

  Hutch leads me to another room where there are two guards, a man and a woman in long white lab coats, Warden Black, and another man who stands in the corner of the room, his face hidden by shadows. Was this the man, Holbrook, that Rusty had mentioned before I was brought here?

  “Prisoner number three-three-three-three,” Hutch announces as he waves me into the room.

  “Liam,” Warden Black says with a smile. “Welcome.”

  I don’t say anything. My eyes fall on the middle of the room where there is a white plastic seat with leather straps to hold down my head, arms, and legs. I already know the seat is reserved for me.

  “So, should I make myself comfortable in the torture chair or do I need permission first?” I ask. The guard in front of me raises a hand in the air and slaps me across the face with the back of his hand.

  The force of the slap is enough to make me stumble back a step, and since it is unlikely Sky will make a sarcastic remark to the warden, I concentrate on the pain and numb it instantly. I can feel the warmth of blood rushing to the spot, but the nerves send no signal of distress to my brain, allowing me to stare at the guard confidently.

  The slap would have made some fall to the ground, no doubt. The guard grits his teeth, probably contemplating sending another my way but then thinks better of it.

  “This is just a routine examination we have for every newcomer,” Warden Black says, motioning to the seat.

  I make my way to it and sit down without arguing. I’ve already decided to take whatever torture they plan to dole out. I will feel what Sky feels. I will not make this easy for myself.

  “What exactly are you examining?” I ask, not expecting to get an answer.

  Warden Black surprises me.

  As two guards fasten the straps to my forehead, wrists, and shins, Warden Black stands in front of me with his hands behind his back.

  “We are interested in the mental state of our prisoners,” he says. “We want to know who they are. Where they come from. Why they are here. We want to know everything about you.”

  He motions to the man in the corner.

  “This man is Lieutenant Holbrook. He is from Jeremiah Adams’ office in Screven.”

  The man steps out from the shadows and reveals a young face. He’s probably thirty, maybe a year or two older. He wears the black uniforms of the Screven soldiers, but with a few added patches to indicate he’s an officer.

  I can’t help but lift an eyebrow at him.

  “The name Jeremiah has been around since I was a little kid,” I say. “He was old then. I’m starting to think you Screven boys are just pretending he’s alive. Maybe he never was. Maybe he was just someone you made up just to scare the rest of us.”

  I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Normally I would have kept my mouth shut and just let them do to me what needed to be done, then get out of here. But something about seeing Sky energized me. Apparently, it has also severely obscured my judgment. My mouth should be closed tight, yet here I am, talking too much, getting myself into trouble. I’m as bad as Chet.

  I’m surprised again to find Holbrook smiling at me. I thought surely I would have brough
t on another slap or perhaps a punch to the gut.

  “We don’t get your kind in here a lot,” Holbrook says. “Most everyone comes in here, takes the interrogation, screams a little at the pain, then they are taken away. Rarely is the conversation this lively. I’m inclined to not allow it, but I’ve gotten so bored with these interrogations I’m intrigued by your spirit.”

  He looks me up and down, his smile fading.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I would love to know the answer to that myself,” I say. “Just trying to leave the Containment Zone. I don’t see how that’s a crime, considering there shouldn’t even be such a thing as a Containment Zone.”

  “You’re wrong there, I can assure you,” Holbrook says. “There needs to be a Containment Zone because the sectioned off area is so infected with greyskins, it is the only way to keep them from getting out.”

  It is the first time I wonder if instead of lying through his teeth, does a Screven soldier actually believe what he’s saying? Does Warden Black? Holbrook?

  “If we let everyone out of the Containment Zone, then it wouldn’t be very contained would it?”

  “I’m just a person,” I say. “I’m not infected. I have never murdered anyone or stolen from anybody.”

  “That’s unlikely given the state of our world,” Holbrook says. He scoots a stool in front of me and sits, his dark eyes level with mine. The stare feels cold as if he is trying to study me to see what I’m hiding. “As for the status of Jeremiah Adams, I can assure you, he is very much alive. And he will continue to live for a long time.”

  Is he talking about an ideology? A symbol? A physical man?

  “That’s not to say the man isn’t ill,” Holbrook says. “And he’s searching for a cure.”

  A cure…

  “For the greyskin virus?” I ask.

  My heart pounds. Could this really be what the guards are questioning people about? A cure? I would think such an idea would be preposterous with disastrously low odds if it weren’t for the simple fact that I am here and I have found a cure for the greyskin virus.

  My thoughts cut immediately to Sky. What if she cracks under pressure? She’s never been physically tortured before. What if they hurt her so badly that she has to tell them about me?

  It hits me. She can avoid the torture altogether if I just tell the truth. If I tell Holbrook right now that I have the cure for the greyskin virus set in my basement at my home, Sky might be spared.

  But, from what I understand, no one is (usually) killed by this interrogation. If everyone has to go through it, then would it not be worth it to hold my cards close to my chest and make the decision to let Sky be tortured for information in hopes that she could hold out long enough to keep the secret?

  The thought sickens me. These people have no idea about the effect they have on our minds. Unless, they do know, and they are masters of psychological torture as well as physical torture.

  “Yes,” Holbrook says. “He is searching for the cure to the greyskin virus. But it’s more than that. He is looking for the very thing he spent a long time researching. Starborns. Have you ever heard the term?”

  I shake my head.

  “People with a certain kind of blood,” he says. “Adams coined the term because he said his research led him to conclude that these people with this special blood were born of the stars. These people of the stars mated with a few of us meager earthlings and left.” He waves a hand in front of his face. “Sounds like complete nonsense to me, but that doesn’t change the fact that there are people in this world with special gifts or abilities.”

  My heart nearly stops.

  “Which brings us to the point of this questioning,” he says as he stands from the stool and walks over to a table with a set of jumper cables connected to a machine with knobs and switches. He flips two of the switches and turns one of the knobs to the right a fraction. It’s enough to let me hear the hum of electricity flowing through the wires.

  “I need to know if you have any special abilities.” He shakes his head. “Not like being really good at math, or the ability to build things and work with your hands. I mean…” He searches for the word. “Supernatural. Can you see things before they happen? Can you hold your breath for days on end? Can you…can you heal yourself?”

  Does my ability really fall under the realm of the supernatural? Sure, I can numb the pain, but isn’t it possible that I merely have a high pain tolerance?

  Holbrook presses the end of the jumper cable into my neck, and my vision goes white as the shock travels through my body. My muscles seize, my joints twist nearly to the point of separating. I can feel my body lift inches off the chair despite the straps holding me down.

  When he releases me from the grip of electricity, I wish I could just fall over and die. Everything in me wants to use my ability, but I can’t. If Sky has to face this, then so do I.

  “What do you have to say?” Holbrook asks, getting close to my ear. “Did your special ability come about when you were you being chased by a greyskin? Did it save you?”

  The way he forms his questions is a tactic. At least, I think it is. There could be no way Holbrook would know about my unique ability unless for some reason Sky had said something about it. She wouldn’t. I know she wouldn’t. She is too smart to make such a big mistake. But it might not be about smarts. The stress of this life in a death camp could have gotten to her. She could have simply broken at all the greyskin death surrounding her every day.

  “What’s your power, friend?”

  I clench my teeth and turn my head to look Holbrook in the eyes. “I’m a fast reader,” I say.

  His eyes narrow at me, and for a moment, I think he might just pull out a gun and shoot me in the head. Instead, he walks to the table and turns the electricity knob more to the right, comes back, and shoves the jumper cable end to the side of my neck.

  The pain courses through my entire body. So what if I used my ability to numb my nerves? Wouldn’t it be better than breaking under pressure?

  No! I can’t! Please, make it stop!

  It feels like a minute before Holbrook takes the cable away and my body falls limp against the chair. I can’t think of Sky being in this situation. The voltage might kill her. But they also might spare her the torture since she is just a little girl.

  “Please,” I tell him. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I will say anything…just…please.”

  My words of desperation seem to be enough for Holbrook, and I mean them. To have the extraordinary ability to ignore pain altogether and not use it out of duty to my daughter doesn’t feel worth it at the moment, but the thought is just weakness.

  “Take his blood,” Holbrook says to the two people in lab coats.

  They move in on me quickly and fill a vial full of blood. It strikes me that Holbrook wasn’t merely sent here to find out about a cure—he especially hasn’t come to look for someone who has created the cure through scientific means. He is looking for what he calls Starborns.

  Normally, I would think the idea of these Starborns would be ridiculous. Given his description, however, it would seem that I am one of them.

  I’m not sure what they plan to do with my blood, but they take the vial away and store it in a large container with other vials—the blood of the prisoners gone before me.

  “I feel bad having to do this to every prisoner,” Holbrook says. “I really do. But you must understand that it is necessary.”

  I took the pain of their torture and didn’t break. Still, if they took my blood so they could test it, and if they somehow can see that I indeed do carry a special ability, then I will be in big trouble. They might even kill me.

  But how many prisoners are here? How many have come before me? Why is Screven searching for Starborns? My first thought is so they can eliminate them before they become a threat, but that doesn’t seem right.

  Holbrook mentioned that Jeremiah Adams, our fearless leader, our president, our dictator, is sick. Maybe
he somehow has the greyskin virus, but also cannot succumb to the virus’ lethal outcome?

  No. It doesn’t make any sense. Something like that couldn’t happen. Yet, here I am. A man with the ability to ignore the worst of pains—to shut off the nerves that would otherwise inhibit me from surviving. Never before a year ago did I have that ability. It came to me in a time of need, just like Holbrook said.

  There is no point in me telling them the truth for Sky’s sake. They are going to do the same thing to her no matter what I say. The realization of what I am feels surreal.

  I am a Starborn.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Skylar

  PAPA IS A Starborn. I’ve known it for about a week now once Nine warned me about today’s questioning. She’d told me it was just something all of us had to go through at Vulture Hill.

  “They’ll ask you about special abilities,” she said to me. “You know, weird ones, like telepathy and stuff like that.”

  “Why?” I asked her.

  She then gave me a brief explanation about the Screven leadership’s obsession with finding a kind of person called a Starborn. As she described to me what a Starborn was, I immediately thought of Papa. I was sure of it now. I knew he was a tough person, but who could walk with leg wounds and a greyskin bite?

  Of course, I kept Papa’s secret, but I couldn’t stop hammering Nine with questions. She didn’t answer most of them, simply giving me a wave of the hand as an answer several times. Finally, she told me enough was enough and that none of it mattered. I just needed to get through my questioning, take whatever voltage of electricity they would send through my body, and it would be over quick enough.

  My mind reeled for the next week, and I was barely able to keep my questions to myself. I even brought it up at dinner once to Katherine and Janet, but they simply shrugged and said it baffled them completely. They’d never heard of Starborns before or since.

  “If you ask me, Screven is filled with crazy people,” Janet had said.