Authors: R.J. Leahy
He leans close, whispering.
“And that’s what I’m really after, Mr. Smith. We’ve known for some time that there are traitors within our ranks. I haven’t gone through all this trouble for the egomaniacal leader of a handful of renegades. We’ll find him soon enough. No, I want the name of the man on the inside.”
“
I... only heard one name. It might mean nothing.”
“
For your sake, let’s hope that is not the case,” he says.
So here it is. I thought I had the highest probability name when I first decided on this way in, but that was before Pen told me about the purge. Was he part of those purged? Is he still in the Council? Or maybe he led the purge himself. I have no way of knowing and so this is the biggest throw of the dice I
’ll ever make. “Keillor,” I whisper. “They said someone named Keillor supplied the plans to this station.”
I can
’t see his expression at first because he’s placed his ear right next to my mouth. When he pulls away I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. His face shows no emotion. For a long moment he says nothing, just stares at me. Finally he turns his head toward Ellison, as though gauging if the young Counselor heard, but Ellison is still at attention, his eyes straight ahead and his expression firm.
“
Are you certain?” he whispers.
“
I swear; I swear,” I mutter again and again.
He stands. Through the corner of my
eye, I watch him. He runs his hand through his hair and paces the room. Finally he stops and addresses Ellison. “I need to call HQ.”
“
Yes, sir. Should I send him out for interrogation?”
Remy
stares at me for a moment, considering. “No. I don’t want him talking to anyone. No one but me is to enter this cell or speak to the prisoner, do you understand?”
“
Yes sir.”
He pauses, looking at the wall that separates the two holding cells.
That’s right, what does she know?
“
Or the girl,” he adds. “In fact, I want you to station yourself in the hallway and clear the floor of all other personal.”
“
Sir?”
“
Am I being too vague, Counselor Ellison? No one is to have any contact with these prisoners. They are to remain incommunicado until I return.”
“
Yes, sir.”
“
And Ellison, if Mr. Smith here should accidentally ‘fall’, or otherwise succumb to a fatal mishap, then I promise that you will learn the art of interrogation first hand.”
Ellison looks nervously at me, like he
’s afraid I might die at any minute. I wish I could laugh.
They leave me on the floor in a puddle of my own urine. The pain is still agonizing and my entire body is cramping but I don’t have much time. I can see the back of Ellison’s head through the window of the door as I force myself to shimmy along the floor until I’m at the bed. Fighting not to cry out, I heave myself up and fall onto the mattress.
Getting out of handcuffs isn
’t a difficult skill to master, but it does require something to use as a pick and I’m a little short of materials. I am able to slip my arms down to my buttocks and slide the cuffs past my legs and out in front of me, something that’s actually easier to do naked than clothed.
I
’m a little unsure of the time, but there can’t be more than fifteen minutes before they fire up the ovens. I’ll have to hurry.
My fingers are
stiff and trembling, but I manage to work them into the stitching of the vinyl mattress cover and tear it loose. I keep an eye on the door as I start ripping the vinyl into strips, but Ellison appears to have taken Remy’s orders to heart and is unmoving in his position.
Taking the strips of vinyl, I tie them securely together
—all but the last one. I’ll need that knot loose enough to slip, but tight enough to hold my body weight for three to five seconds. Unfortunately, I have no way of testing the knot and so my survival may depend on Ellison. Luckily, he’s been given a pretty good incentive to keep me alive. I carry the vinyl ‘rope’ and the chair to the center of the room.
There are only two lights in the room, both ceiling pot lamps with heavy metal grates over them. I should just be able to reach one standing on the chair. Carefully, my weight teetering on the back of the chair, I thread one end of the vinyl strip through the light grating and tie it off, then tie the other end around my neck.
My hands are now cuffed in front of me, but I’m counting on enough panic on Ellison’s part that he won’t notice, at least for a few seconds. Now comes the hard part. Taking a deep breath, I send the chair skidding out from under me to bang up against the door.
The noise rouses Ellison and even through slitted eyes, I can see the terror in his face as he unlocks the door and rushes in. He reaches me just as the last knot slips and I hit the ground. As he bends over my prostrate body his expression changes, as though he realizes something
’s wrong.
Evaluate every situation thoroughly before committing yourself. Never rush in.
My kick catches him squarely in the throat. He staggers back clutching his neck as I leap up at him. Foamy blood oozes from his mouth. He grasps for his boot knife and manages to pull it out, but he’s already fading. It takes little effort to tear the knife from his grip and bury it in his chest.
Moving quickly
, I use his key to unlock the cuffs, then undress him and don his clothes. The hall is empty as I make my way to the second holding cell. Through the window, I get my first look at Abby.
There
’s a definite family resemblance to Pen. Long dark hair, intense blue eyes, she’s dressed in a one-piece prison garment, zipper up the middle. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed staring vacantly at the wall; hands in her lap. Even across the room I can see a slight tremor in them. This isn’t an interrogation cell; they don’t have the equipment for a formal ‘interview’, but they haven’t left her alone.
When I unlock her door and enter the room, her reaction is prett
y much what I expect, only muted. She glances up as I approach, then quickly looks away. The trembling increases, but she doesn’t scream; doesn’t shrink away in fear. There’s some steel in this girl.
Good, she’s going to need it.
I glance at the new watch on my wrist, the one once owned by
Counselor Ellison who no longer needs a watch now that he has all the time in the world. It’s almost eleven. As I near her, I start talking, low and fast.
“
I’m not a Counselor. I’m here to get you out. We don’t have much time. I need you to come with me now.” I hold out my hand.
She looks up at me: distrust, confusion, anger. She starts to speak then thinks better of it, her eyes flitting between me and the open door.
“Now,” I say.
Again she surprises me. Doesn
’t ask any questions, just takes my hand. We exit and she starts for the rear door, but I pull her back. “Can’t,” I say as I keep her moving deeper into the building. “The station is filled with Counselors.”
We reach the basement door and I open it.
“You have to trust me. You won’t like what we have to do, but it’s the only way. Do you understand?”
She nods. “I’ll do whatever you say.”
I don
’t know why but I feel like I need to say more, even though she’s given me no problems so far. Maybe I want to give her something to hold onto for the next few minutes. “Pen’s alive. She’s waiting for you.”
I immediately regret my decision
. Her face falls and her lower lip begins to tremble and for a moment, she looks like she might break down. But she doesn’t fall apart on me. She draws in a deep breath to gather herself, then nods. I take her arm and guide her quickly down the steps.
There
’s an odor about the place. Not strong or noxious like you might expect, but subtle and not quite identifiable. Yet something about it triggers panic. Maybe it’s instinct. You smell it and you want to run.
We reach the basement and for the first time she fights me, trying to wrestle her
arm free of my grip. Along the walls are stacks of shiny body bags, neatly lined up—removed from the freezer earlier today. On the other side are the five ovens, their doors shut. She doesn’t scream but her eyes are wild with fright and I have to be firmer than I want to be to keep her from fleeing back up the stairs. I grab both forearms and hold them tight in front of her.
“
We have to get into the ovens.”
She shakes her head violently, refusing to look at me, trying to break free.
I can’t do anything else but speak slowly and calmly as I hold her in a tight grip. “Listen to me. It’s standard procedure. The operator raises a lever to open a trap door in the oven. It’s to release any remaining ash or fumes before opening the oven door. The trap door opens to a bin in the sub-basement. From there we can get out. They’ll be here any minute. Abby, look at me.”
Slowly she stops fighting and stares at me.
“There’s no other way.”
I don
’t know if she’s trying to figure out if I’m mad or if this whole thing isn’t some sort of sick mind game of the Counselors, but finally she nods.
Relaxing my grip but still holding her arm, I lead her to the nearest oven. She keeps her head down, her eyes on the floor. I grab two paper masks from the dispenser and hand one to her.
“Put it on.”
The twin doors creak as they open. It
’s better than I thought. There’s little residual ash, but there’s some; the remains of a human being who’s last minutes were spent here. Abby leans against me. I can only see her eyes now over the mask, but they plead with me not to do this. I don’t look at her for long.
A table for sliding the bodies sits in front of each oven and I help her onto it, then get up myself and we crawl inside. A small plume of ash kicks up. I can hear sounds in the stairwell and quickly close the oven doors behind us. The space is tight and we
’re pressed close together.
It
’s dark as a well inside. The air, even through the mask, is heavy and tainted with a sick, oily scent. She shudders, but doesn’t make a sound. I never let go of her hand.
The noise from the room grows louder. People talking, joking; the sounds of carts and gurneys being moved; the clanging of metal. Someone turns on a radio. Suddenly the bottom of the oven drops out and we fall. I manage to twist in time to catch the blow on my back, Abby on top of me. The drop is only four or five feet and we land in a large bin meant to catch the ash.
Mercifully, it’s been emptied.
She tries to get up immediately, but I hold her still for a moment, listening. But the sound of our fall doesn
’t appear to have been heard. We climb out of the bin and I lead her to a small window high on the wall. It’s latched from the inside and once opened, I help her up and out to the alley. As soon as she’s outside, she drops to her knees and tears off the mask, losing the contents of her stomach. I climb out behind her. We don’t have time for this, but I give her a little space. That was probably the worst thing she’s ever had to do. I can’t say the same.
When she looks like she
’s ready, I take her through the alleys and side streets, heading northeast toward the nest in the one-twelve.
She glances at me as we walk.
“Thank you… I’m sorry; I don’t even know your name.”
“
It isn’t important. And don’t thank me. You’re a paycheck, nothing more.”
“
A mercenary?”
“
Nothing so glamorous. Just your garden-variety thief.”
“
Did Kingston send you?” she asks.
“
Never heard of him.”
“
He’s…”
“
Lady, I really don’t want to know.”
“
All right,” she says, “if that’s the way you want it. But thank you anyway.”
We
’ve gone maybe six or seven blocks when she stumbles and falls. I help her up and she puts her hand to her forehead. “I’m all right, just a little weak.”
Even without the availability of an interrogation cell, they would have followed standard procedure and given her minimal food and water rations
—enough to keep her alive while also keeping her constantly hungry and thirsty. After four days, it’s not surprising she’s weak.
I know the neighborhood around here well enough and take her to a shadowy corner near the trash bins in the delivery area behind a row of storefronts.
“We can’t stop. They’ll be after us soon,” she says. “I’m surprised we haven’t seen Counselor vehicles pouring out of the station by now.”
“
We’ve got a little time.” We huddle for warmth against the building and I relate the events of the last few hours.
“
Who’s Keillor?” she asks.