Out (31 page)

I’m a cancer.
Jana, Carmen, all those people: a dread, life-threatening disease. He really
believes this. I don’t say anything else.

“Alright then,
off with you,” Ashburn says as if he’s
shooing
a dog
out of the room. A guard walks in, nudges me with the stick, and I stand,
silent, a meek mouse unable to fight back with words or actions. But maybe not
forever.

Carmen’s alive.
That’s enough for now. I pretend she’s holding my hand as I walk down the hall.

It’s time for a
meal, so they march me to the dining hall. So many guards...I don’t see how any
kind of resistance would work. I might as well just try and get shot. At least
then it would be over.

There’s a spot
next to Abraham, as if he saved it for me…I wonder, don’t they notice this?
What if he’s the spy? I glance at his long, ebony fingers as they tear apart a
piece of bread. Maybe he’s making deals too. Deals that don’t involve me.

“Numbers?” he
asks, coughing. A guard comes by and chucks him in the head with the metal end
of the stick.

Numbers. I’ve
forgotten them. What were they? Shit. I can’t believe I forgot them. Wait.
Seven and eleven were in there. Shit. I shake my head as I pretend to gnaw off
a piece of the horrible bread.

After what
passes for food (oatmeal again), we all shuffle back to our bunks for reading
time. There’s another note in my bible. The numbers.
 
32, 4, 66, 11, 7. I spend the whole time
memorizing them again, so I absolutely know them. I eat the paper.

When I sleep, I
dream of the numbers, and of Carmen, and Warren, and broken plates. I dream
about violently hacking Ashburn in two, strapping him to the visual orientation
chairs and shocking the hell out of him.

On our next
work shift, something feels different. We’re scrubbing like we usually do, with
three guards half-heartedly watching us as they talk and grab food. One of
their radios squawks, I hear urgent mumbling, and then the three run out of the
kitchen, leaving us alone.

Abraham watches
to be sure they’re gone, then helps Charles bring in a cart of dishes like
always, but this time, he pulls out a piece of paper and a pencil. “Write your
father’s address,” Abraham says softly. “And his name. The one who was in
broadcast TV.”

“Why?” I
whisper back. How do they know about that? How do they know about anything? Noah
reaches for a towel and kicks me, hard, in the shin. I stifle a yelp.

Abraham throws
him a dirty look. “Just do it. Hurry.” He checks nervously behind him. I take
the pencil and it takes a second for me to remember where I used to live.
 
It feels strange to write; I haven’t held a
pencil in so many days. I hand him the paper, which he hands off to Noah. Noah
is off, walking swiftly toward the back of the kitchen.

Minutes go
by.
 
The regular guards file in. “Fire,
my ass,” one says. “Tellez takes too many pills. He smells things that aren’t
there.”

Guard Two
notices Abraham and me on the floor. “Officer, protocol. Guests in proximity.”

The first guard
stiffens, points his shock stick at us, and says, “What are you doing in here
unsupervised?”

Abraham blinks
defensively and suddenly looks like a frightened rabbit. “We were working. We
kept working.” The guards look at each other, realize they left us here
unattended to see to Tellez’s mythical fire, and decide not to bother reporting
it.

“Get back to work,”
one barks. Under his breath, he mutters, “Dumbass Tellez. He needs a transfer.”

Abraham nods,
puts on a face of abject fear and submission. We continue to stack plates and
then he stands. One-eyed Jon walks in carrying a handheld tablet. “These guests
are to report to Dr. Ashburn immediately,” he says, gesturing toward me and
Abraham.

The guard
shrugs. “You take them,” he says to Jon. “I’ve already been running around this
morning, chasing non-existent fires. You can take them for a walk.”

Jon turns
toward me; his sewn-shut eye socket seems to be looking at me. “I can take
them, but Ashburn won’t like it. He always wants a real guard.”

“Screw him,”
the guard mutters. “He doesn’t always get what he wants. You’ve got clearance.
You walk them.”

Jon shrugs. “Fine.
I’ll need a key card.”

The guard yanks
a lanyard from around his neck. “Bring it back here or you’ll be headed for the
Cave, no matter what clearance you have.”

Jon sighs and
crooks a finger at us. “Follow me. Don’t try anything. I can have a shock stick
on your ass in half a second.”

We walk out of
the kitchen, leaving the guards alone to discuss the stupidity of Dr. Ashburn.

In the hall,
Jon leads us down the corridor; Abraham plays the meek and subservient drone so
I follow suit. We turn corners and pass other groups, mostly guards who nod at
Jon as if he’s a friend or co-worker. “Why do they trust him?” I whisper to
Abraham.

Jon stops dead,
turns, and backhands me so hard I bite into my lip. “No talking,” he barks as
two guards turn the corner and see my mouth dripping blood. They laugh and
trade a knowing smile with Jon, who scowls at me like I’m a disobedient dog.

He walks on
until we get to a bend in the corridor, to a metal door where he has to use the
guard’s key card. A red button glows green, the door opens, and we go into a
deserted hallway. Immediately, both men relax against the wall. “Shit.” Jon
shakes his head, then turns to me. “You need to shut up.”

One of the
bug-eyed cameras is mounted in the corner, and a cold terror slices through me.
“They can see us,” I whisper.

“No they can’t.”
Jon flips his middle finger at the camera. “That one is conveniently broken.”

“He doesn’t
know anything,” Abraham says. “Remember when we were new?”

Jon ignores
that remark, then turns to me. “Listen carefully. Some of the guards are with
us.”

“With the
resistance?”

Jon rolls his
eyes like I’m incredibly stupid. “No, it’s a super secret boy scout troop.” He
glances at Abraham. “Are you sure about this one?”

“Do you know
anything about Carmen? Carmen Wilde…she’s in the women’s prison.”

“No.” Jon
glances at his tablet. “Okay, only a minute or two before they notice we’re
late. One of our people has been here for months working as a guard on the
women’s side. He’s taken pictures, video, uploaded it onto a flash, and we’re
sending the drive to your father, Warren.”

“Why?”

Jon looks like
he wants to punch me again. Abraham takes over. “Your father was a journalist.
It’s perfect; we were going to move forward and release the tape later, but now
we can get this even more exposure. We’re hoping he can get his media contacts
to expose what the Church and the U.S. government are inflicting on legal
citizens. Other countries won’t allow this to happen once they see the
evidence.”

“Oh.” That’s
the resistance? A bunch of videos of torture that might get on the news? Any
little bud of hope I had is immediately pinched off and stamped out.

“Do you
remember the numbers?” Abraham whispers urgently. “You’ll still need those,
when they get here.”

“When who gets
where?”

 
Scanning his tablet, Jon makes an annoyed
sound. “We have to go. Someone’s coming from east wing. Don’t talk.”

 
We slip back into the corridor as if nothing
happened and seconds later, two guards pass us. As we turn the corner, I see
that the functional surveillance camera is mounted in a way that makes our
secret corridor a blind spot.

Jon walks us
silently to Ashburn’s office. “I’m to deliver these two to Dr. Ashburn,” he
says to the guard.

The guard
frowns, opens the door, and says, “Doctor, did you request two guests from the
kitchen staff?”

Papers shuffle,
and Ashburn is at the door, eyeing us suspiciously. “No. Who brought them?”

“I did,” Jon
says, squinting with his blue eye. “Tellez gave me orders.”

Ashburn nods,
eyes glinting as if he just caught a juicy rat. “Tellez.” He glances at me and
Abraham. “You can take them to their bunks. I’ll make sure the front office
knows about Tellez.”

“Very good,
sir,” Jon says as he turns us back around the way we came.

He walks us
silently back to the bunk room, which is empty. “Rest up,” Jon tells us,
talking loudly for the cameras. “You’ll have twice as much work tomorrow
because of your little unexpected holiday.”

Abraham motions
for me to follow him to his bunk, which I do, conscious of the black bug eyes
watching us. “Sit,” he says, motioning toward the bottom bed. “Let’s talk about
you.”

A trick? Is he
really one of the bad guys? No…why would they tell me all their plans? Unless
it’s a test to see if I’ll rat someone out. Is it a test? How would they even
have know about Carmen – how would she have written the note? They must be
watching her, like me; oh God, this isn’t real – this is a set up-

Abraham puts an
arm around my shoulder. “Don’t be nervous. You’re new here. We’re all in the same
place, just trying to get right with God and become normal, productive citizens
again.” He pulls me closer, and panic wells up in my gut. “Let me help you get
better.” He plants a kiss on my lips, and it’s revolting, and I want to scream
and cry and claw my way out of the room, but he pulls me down to the mattress.

“Don’t fight,”
he whispers. “This is just so I can tell you what you need to know.” He
pretends to kiss my neck. “Pretend like you’re enjoying yourself.”

I try to
imagine Carmen’s lips on my skin, but I can’t.

“The numbers,”
he whispers into my ear. “When I tell you, you have to use them to get through
a door, the one in the kitchen. I’ll show you tomorrow. We have to open up the
doors for the people outside who are coming.”

He kisses me
once more. “I can see you’re not ready yet,” he says more loudly, shaking his
head. “You go back to your bed and read the Bible. Maybe God will help you see
the truth.” I stumble, shaken, from his bed and get to mine, climb the ladder,
grab the book. Abraham covers his eyes with his arm, and I don’t hear any more
from him.

I doze off, but
a piercing alarm wakes me. Men are scrambling, guards are poking randomly at
people with shock sticks, and I’m on the top bunk trying to stay out of the
way.

Abraham and Noah
stop at my bunk. “Lock down,” Abraham yells over the noise.

“Why?” I jump
down to join them. Guards are running every which way, and “guests” are
wandering aimlessly, as if they have no idea what to do without the guidance of
the shock sticks.

“Usually it’s
because someone breached the perimeter,” Noah whispers in my ear.

“What do we do?”
I ask.

“Sit on the
bottom bunk,” Abraham motions to the empty bed. We climb in and huddle like
little boys in a fort. “We have a couple of minutes, no more.”

Noah fixes his
dark eyes on me. “The package was mailed yesterday. Our guard will tell us when
and if it works, if the media exposure happens or not.”

“Then what?” An
ear-splitting claxon drowns out all other noise.

“We won’t get
much notice, but when and if there’s a raid, we’ll get out and assist. That’s
why you have to remember the numbers.”

“I do.”

A booming voice
calls out, “All guests to designated sleeping areas. This is not a drill.
Safety inspection in three minutes.” The claxon continues to scream.

“We will only
have one chance,” Abraham says in my ear. “You have to be ready at all times.”
I nod as Noah and Abraham scramble back to their beds. Have faith, Carmen said.
Have faith.

After the “safety
inspection” (which consisted of guards randomly shocking people in their beds),
our routine returns to what passes for normal. Something is different, though;
guards are doubled, more heavily armed, and we have no opportunity to
communicate at all.

At our next
therapy session, Dr. Ashburn has covered one wall with an enormous piece of
poster paper. At the top, in very precise letters, is written THINGS WE MISS.

“Today we’re
going to talk about the future,” he says, pacing in front of the poster. “You
all know that there is only one way out of this facility, and that is
rehabilitation. Today I want you to focus on what you want to have back in your
life, things you miss, things that could inspire you to be better guests and to
strive even harder for God’s grace.” He scans our circle. “Jeremiah. You begin.”

Jeremiah stands
shakily, walks to the doctor, and reluctantly takes the red marker. He faces
the blank paper, and finally, in tiny letters, he writes “steak.”

“Great!”
Ashburn takes the marker and jots something in his tablet. “Steak. Yes, I’m
sure you’d all agree that the food here is not…gourmet caliber. How
about…Abraham?”

Abraham unfolds
his long body from the floor, and as he stands next to Ashburn, I notice his
height. He must be a good three inches taller than the doc. He takes the marker
in long, dark fingers and scrawls in large letters “Freedom.”

“Freedom,”
Ashburn says as if Abraham has written something in an incomprehensible foreign
language. “Interesting choice. Could you tell us a little bit more about that,
Abraham?”

The man sighs
as he returns to his grass mat. “Freedom to choose,” Abraham answers as if
every word is precious.

“To choose
what?” Ashburn asks pleasantly.

“To choose
where to live, what to eat, when to sleep, what work to do.” Abraham is careful
not to mention love…no sense antagonizing the dragon.

Ashburn arches
an eyebrow. “Of course, it is natural for men to want their freedom. God made
us as independent thinkers and gave us reason and intellect. However, when a
mind is compromised by sickness or great evil, choices must be made until the
person is well. You wouldn’t let a schizophrenic person who hallucinates live
alone and choose a job, would you?” He doesn’t wait for Abraham to reply. “Sebastian.”