Unfit

by Karma Chesnut

  “Skinner’s a lot smarter than he looks. If Laurence is planning something, chances are Skinner already knows about it. It would be safer for all of us if we just stayed out of it.”

  “Are you willing to take that chance?” John asked, looking to Tim who was eating happily, and looking around the mess hall at every wall, table, and ceiling tile.

  Buck thought for a moment. “We’ll just have to keep him out of sight whenever possible for now. Laurence has a short attention span. He’ll eventually forget about us and find someone new to target.”

  John wasn’t sure he believed that, and there were too many unknown factors in play for John to dismiss it all as casually as Buck did. If John had unknowingly stepped in the middle of a war for power, he doubted Laurence would let it go and move on that easily. Even if that was the case though, there was nothing John could do about it. Maybe Buck was right, and it was in everyone’s best interest he forget everything that had happened and hope Laurence would do the same.

  As breakfast came to an end and patients began to file out of the mess hall, two keepers appeared at the doors, gathering the lucky men who had visitors that day.

  Buck must have noticed John staring. “I wouldn’t hold your breath if I were you,” he said. “Terminal patients haven’t been allowed visitors in over fifteen years.”

  “I know,” John said. That had been part of the deal when he came up with the idea to transfer to the terminal ward, but he still found himself hoping the keepers would walk to him and escort him to that dark, miserable, wonderful little room where Morgan would be waiting for him.

  A passage from the journal flashed through John’s mind. The Council is beginning to suspect someone inside the asylum is responsible for inciting the rebellion. It had never occurred to him to question the validity of the journal. Perhaps it was naïve, but he had accepted it as truth then and still felt down in his core that it was genuine. Still, he wondered…

  “Do you know why?” John asked, trying his best to sound casual.

  Buck shrugged. “Rumor has it someone inside the asylum was aiding in the rebellion effort, sending secret messages to the front line and whatnot. So, to be safe, they terminated the visitation rights of the entire ward. Or maybe the Head Keeper was just in a bad mood one day. Or both.”

  John smiled, overcome with an unexpected wave of relief.

  Sticking to Buck’s plan, Tim, John, and Buck spent most of the day in their room, even though Tim had made it very clear, several times at increasing volume, that he would rather be outside or in the library than stuck in their “stinky room.”

  And in all fairness, the room was starting to stink. With three men confined to such a small space for an extended period of time, things were bound to get a bit fragrant. But Buck continued to patiently explain to Tim it was best if they all stayed out of sight for a while, and John had to agree.

  Even though it was for a good cause, however, spending all day, every day in the ten-by-ten room, leaving only at mealtimes, was beginning to make John antsy. It had barely been twenty-four hours and John already felt sure he was going to lose his mind if he didn’t get out of that room soon.

  And he wasn’t the only one.

  Buck read aloud from one of his pre-plague history books to help pass the time. It was interesting enough at first, but as one chapter turned to ten, John found it hard to pay attention. It didn’t help that even Buck sounded completely bored; his once lively voice had deteriorated in a flat, monotonous drawl.

  Tim paced the floor, growing more and more agitated as the minutes passed. He clawed at his arms with his fingernails as his breath quickened to a rate near hyperventilation.

  “You r-read that one already,” Tim suddenly shouted and began to pound his fists against the side of his head. “You r-read it a hundred of time.”

  “Tim, sit down and calm yourself,” Buck said sternly.

  Tim pounded against the side of his head harder, humming so loudly that John doubted he could even hear Buck.

  “Tim, sit down now,” Buck said again, but Tim started shouting, punching the side of his own head so hard John was sure he was going to hurt himself, if he hadn’t already. John rushed to Tim’s side and, doing the only thing he could think of, locked Tim into a bear hug, pinning his arms against the side of his body. Tim screamed at the top of his lungs, thrashing against John as he struggled to get free.

  “It’s okay, Tim,” John said in Tim’s ear, struggling to keep hold of the boy. He was stronger than he looked. “It’s okay. Everything is going to be fine.”

  Buck stood with John now, using the same soothing voice. “Just breathe,” Buck said.

  Slowly, Tim began to settle, his muscles relaxing in John’s arms. John carried Tim over to his bed and laid him down where he quietly rolled over and closed his eyes, exhausted from the tantrum.

  “Thanks,” Buck said as he sat down on his bed, looking utterly defeated.

  “How often does he get like that?” John asked.

  “Less often than he used to, but he’s getting bigger now. Stronger every day. And I’m an old man.” Buck sighed. “He’s not wrong though,” Buck said, pulling himself out of his stupor almost as quickly as he had sunk into it. “We have read these books more times than I can even count. It may be time to brave going back to the library.”

  John looked at Tim, resting peacefully in his bed, curled up on his side. It was almost the same position he had been in when Laurence sent his lackey to attack him.

  “I’ll go,” John volunteered, scooping up the pile of old books.

  “Are you sure?” Buck asked.

  “Of course. Laurence may not like me, but I’m not a threat to anyone. He has absolutely no reason to send anyone to attack me. You and Tim stay here and rest. I’ll be back shortly.”

  John quickly made his way to the library and collected as many books as he could carry. Picture books, epic novels, anything that seemed like it might help keep Tim entertained a little longer while they waited for Laurence and the rest of the terminal ward to forget about them.

  He was making his way down the hall when he heard a familiar voice say, “Well, look who’s here.”

  Stopping dead in his tracks, John looked up and saw four men in gray uniforms leaning against the wall in front of him as if they had been waiting for someone. In his hurry to get back, John hadn’t even realized he had absentmindedly turned the wrong direction out of the library and was heading back to his old room, the red line separating the terminal ward from the temp ward several yards behind him.

  One of the men was Amos, but it took John a moment to place the other three. The tallest one was Cyrus. John had met him his first day at the asylum, a time that felt like a lifetime ago now. The other two were Cyrus’s goons that followed him everywhere he went like little lap dogs. All of the men scrunched up their faces as if they had smelled something foul. John kept his eyes on the floor, hoping to slip by his old friend without incident.

  But he had no such luck as one of the men stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

  “Looks like you were finally right about something, Amy. The boy did show up after all. I think you must be lost, red,” said Cyrus, spitting on the floor.

  “Oh, he’s definitely lost,” another man added. “Why else would a filthy red come into gray territory?”

  “The library is a communal space, gentlemen,” John said.

  “It speaks!”

  “That’s funny, I don’t see a nasty red line anywhere,” Cyrus said. “He looks familiar, though doesn’t he?” Cyrus continued, in a mocking tone. “Come over here, Amy,” he called, but Amos stayed at his place leaning against the wall, glaring sideways at John. “Don’t you think he looks familiar?”

  Amos turned his eyes to the floor. “No,” he said.

  “Are you sure?” Cyrus egged on. “I’m pretty sure you know him. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

  “He’s not my friend.”

  “Come over he
re.” Cyrus grabbed Amos’s arm and pushed him in front of John. “Get a good, hard look. Are you sure you don’t know this red?” he asked, smiling.

  Amos looked around nervously at the men now circling them. Puffing up his chest, Amos finally replied, “Never seen him before.”

  The men all snickered. “What should we do with this red piece of trash since he’s not our friend?” Cyrus asked.

  Suggestions erupted from the other two men, their voices overlapping and forming into one incoherent roar.

  Out of the corner of his eye, John spied a figure approaching, dressed in red. He both hoped and feared it was Buck or Tim, coming to see what was taking John so long. But the silhouette was too big to be either of them. Laurence stopped at the corner and leaned against the wall, his arms folded as he watched. If the other men had noticed Laurence’s arrival, they didn’t seem bothered by it.

  “Am I really so terrifying that you had to bring your whole gang with you?” John asked. “If you have a problem, Cyrus, face me one-on-one like a man.”

  “You’re not a man anymore. You’re barely even human,” Cyrus roared in John’s face, knocking the books out of his hands. “You think we’re too stupid to see the way you look at us? Like we’re trash? You’re the one who’s trash. Don’t matter how much you try to talk and act like one of them Northridgers, it don’t change what you are—nothing but a disgusting red.”

  Looking around Cyrus, John’s gaze met Amos’s. “Just let me walk away, Amos. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Well look at that,” Cyrus proclaimed. “He knows your name, Amy. Perhaps you were mistaken, perhaps he is a friend after all. Perhaps he’s a dear, dear friend.”

  Amos shook his head vigorously, staring at the floor, avoiding John’s gaze. “No,” Amos said again.

  Leaning in, Cyrus whispered in Amos’s ear, “Then prove it.”

  Amos’s eyes finally met John’s. There was no sympathy there. No remorse. Just hate. Amos sucked in his cheeks and spat right in John’s face. The others erupted in cheers as John wiped the spittle from his chin.

  “I don’t have any red trash friends,” Amos said.

  Spurred on by Amos’s boldness, the other men spat at John too, hitting him in the face and neck. John turned to walk away, hoping the crowd had taken their pound of flesh and would leave him thoroughly belittled. But they had no such intention.

  As John turned his back, one man pushed him hard from the side, slamming John’s shoulder into the wall. He struggled to regain his balance. They were circling him now, cutting off any and all escape paths.

  Cyrus threw the first punch, landing squarely in John’s stomach. John doubled over. Then they were all on him, grabbing him by the hair to force him upright so they could continue landing blows to his stomach and face.

  Laurence stood at the end of the hall, watching the incident with bemused interest.

  “Help,” John called out to him before he was silenced by another blow to the stomach, knocking the breath from him. Laurence began to step forward, looking about as intimidated or concerned as he would be breaking up a fight between a bunch of five-year-olds, but he stopped himself mid-step and leaned against the wall to better watch the fight continue to unfold. The men laughed and imitated John’s feeble cry for help, screeching “help, help,” in a high falsetto as they continued their abuse.

  The blows continued to land—on his face, his ribs, his legs, anywhere they could reach. John held his hands above his head, struggling to ward off the attack as he lifted himself to his feet, but ultimately failing as they seemed to come from all directions at once.

  The final blow landed right in his groin. Whether the blow landed there by accident or not, John had no idea, but the pain was instantaneous and sent him collapsing on the floor. He tried to swallow down the agony, but he felt as if his stomach was trying to escape through his throat as the urge to vomit was overwhelming. His entire pelvis felt like it was on fire, hot knives stabbing him in the gut over and over again.

  Something about that final blow spurred Laurence into action.

  “Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Laurence asked as he approached, smiling.

  “Nothing that concerns you, red,” Cyrus said.

  “Four against one. Doesn’t seem very sporting now, does it?”

  Puffing up his chest, Cyrus hissed, “Perhaps you should mind your own business.”

  Laurence chuckled. “And you should watch that mouth of yours, boy. Show a little more respect.” He carefully stepped across the red line towards Cyrus.

  “This is gray territory. We don’t take orders from filthy reds,” Cyrus spat. “Get back to your side unless you want the same treatment,” he said, a tremor in his voice. He took a step back as Laurence approached.

  With one arm, Laurence grabbed Cyrus by the neck, dragged him back across the line, and threw him up against the wall, his feet dangling in the air and his eyes wide as saucers.

  “Looks like you’re in my territory now, boy.”

  Choking for air, Cyrus gargled some unintelligible sound.

  “What was that?” Laurence asked, bringing his ear closer to Cyrus’s mouth.

  Cyrus coughed again, his face turning bright red.

  “It sounded like you said you’re sorry, and that you and your little army of half-wits are going to stop stirring up trouble. Is that what you said?”

  Cyrus nodded vigorously as his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

  Laurence dropped Cyrus to the ground and the gang ran off down the hall, Cyrus coughing and sputtering as he fumbled to his feet and took off after them.

  “You took quite a beating,” Laurence said, now turning to John.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” John said, still on his hands and knees, trying his best to hide the pain still pulsing through his body.

  “Bad enough to bring you to your knees.” Laurence stood squarely in front of John now, studying him. John squirmed under his gaze, unable to read the intensity behind his eyes.

  Kneeling next to John and cocking his head as he examined John’s face, Laurence said, “If I didn’t know any better, Johnny, I’d say you were experiencing a very specific kind of pain.”

  John pushed himself up so he was sitting against the wall. The pain was still there, but he forced himself not to show it. It took every ounce of self-control he had to slow his breathing and manipulate the muscles in his face to relax.

  He had to think fast. “I just had my procedure done,” he lied. “It’s still sore.”

  But the ruse didn’t fool Laurence. He scanned John from head to toe. “Are you unsterilized?”

  John instinctively pulled his knees tighter against his chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, so it’s a secret?” Laurence lowered his voice to a whisper. “And here I am talking about it in broad daylight. I’m so sorry. How stupid of me.”

  John stood. “As I said before, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He took a step forward, ready to push his way past Laurence if he had to.

  But as he tried to leave, Laurence moved in front of him and, without warning, punched John in the groin.

  John fought back the urge to scream as he crumpled to the floor. He wrapped his arms around his stomach as blinding pain surged throughout his entire body for the second time.

  Laurence stood over him, and through the cloud that swarmed John’s head, he could hear him laughing.

  “I definitely made contact with something,” Laurence choked out between chortles. Clearing his throat, Laurence crouched down next to John, gawking at him with the same curiosity as a child observing a caged animal. “I forgot how satisfying it was to instantaneously bring a man to his knees like that. I must say, I’m impressed,” Laurence smirked. “That’s quite a feat, keeping the keepers in the dark about their little oversight. Not to mention hiding it from the other patients.” Laurence cringed. “The men here are a little… unstable. Prone to jealousy. And if any of
them were to find out you skipped your operation, well, they’re likely to take matters into their own hands to correct it.”

  “What do you want Laurence?” John said through gritted teeth, still struggling to catch his breath.

  “I don’t want anything, Johnny. I am but a humble servant of the system. A mistake was made, and it is my duty to see it rectified.”

  Everything was unraveling too quickly, and John felt he was grasping desperately at a thread that was slipping through his fingers right before his eyes. What would he tell Morgan? How would he explain to her that he had already failed her and their baby?

  “Please,” John heard himself whisper.

  Laurence leaned in closer. “What was that, Johnny?”

  “Please,” John said again, ready to get on his knees and beg if necessary. “Please, don’t tell anyone. You don’t know what’s at stake here, what I’ve had to do to get this far. Please, Laurence. I’ll do anything.”

  Laurence’s face twisted into an expression of mock pity. “I think the stress of your little secret is finally getting to you. Don’t worry, Johnny,” Laurence said, slapping John hard on the back, “I won’t tell a single soul.”

  John was silent, unsure of what to say. Surely there was a catch coming. He couldn’t imagine a favor like this came for free, especially not from a man like him. But John wasn’t about to question Laurence’s sudden grace. He simply nodded and wholeheartedly replied, “Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” Laurence said. Standing up and turning to leave, he added, “I’ll contact you shortly to discuss the best method of payment.”

  There it was.

  No good deed came without a price in the asylum.

  “What?” John asked.

  Laurence laughed. “Oh, Johnny,” he said, shaking his head. “You didn’t think my silence came for free, did you? Every secret has a value and believe me, I understand just how valuable a secret like this is.”

  “But I don’t have anything to give you,” said John.

  “Of course you do,” Laurence said. “Or do you not realize? I own you now, boy.”