by E. L. Giles
I hear the ticking of a nearby clock, which hangs on the side wall next to tall, wide, black draperies. I find it weird to put draperies on a wall, unless there’s a window behind it. I wait…and wait some more. The surrounding silence starts to weigh on my nerves, and the ticking of the clock is driving me to a point that I’m about to get up, pull the clock off the wall, and throw it against the floor. What’s taking so long?
Dreary thoughts slowly creep into my head. They aren’t new though, more like old acquaintances to me. There’s Stephen who died from his wounds for having acted like a shield over me. Guilt stabs at my stomach. There’s the unificator-turned-guard who was shot in the head trying to save my life. The pain spreads to my chest, piercing my heart like a sharp, invisible blade. There’s Marcus, who did more for me than anyone else. He’s probably dead. I feel weak. There’s Josh, who saved my life twice and is now imprisoned in this place. The thought hurts me in a such way that dying seems more humane. Too many people have already sacrificed their lives to take me out of here, and still I’ve probably thrown Josh to his death for not having been worth the sacrifice.
I am really the only threat here, by my mere presence alone.
The door beeps just as I punch myself in the face in a fit of rage, and then a clicking noise announces the opening of the lock. The door squeaks on its hinges, sending shivers all over my skin. My heart pounds harder—and not where I punched myself, but also behind my forehead. This headache is becoming intolerable.
I turn my head slightly to see who’s coming in. A short but large man materializes, and he walks by me with a rigid, military-like posture that reminds me of Alastair. He holds two steaming mugs. Under the dim light, his eyelids cast shadows over his eyes and make them look like two deep black holes that stare at me.
He drops the two mugs on the table, sliding one close to me. There are two white pills beside the mug.
“For your head,” he says with a twangy voice while tapping his own forehead with a finger, “and your ankle.”
I stare at the pills, disdain in my eyes. I’m not an idiot. This must be some kind of trap and I will find myself revealing secrets or maybe die in front of him. Who knows what they’re capable of?
“They’re painkillers,” says the man, rolling his eyes.
I shake my head. I guess he didn’t expect that. He scours the pocket of his jacket and produces a little plastic bottle. He opens it and pours some of its contents into the palm of his hand.
“See?” he says. They do seem to be the same pills I have in front of me. He takes two between his fingers, pops them into his mouth, and swallows them. “I’m not dead.”
I guess I can trust them then. My headache is becoming uncontrollable, and my chin and ankle throb. I need them. I pick one up, bring it to my mouth, and swallow it. Then I pick up the other one and swallow. They don’t look like the ones I used to give to patients during my time as a nurse, and it takes less than a minute for the pain to be erased completely. I’m amazed by their effectiveness. They should have given these to us instead of the liquid painkillers we had to inject patients with.
“Feel better?” he asks with a tone of forced concern.
I nod and bring my attention to the steaming mug. It’s only now that I see the liquid inside that I realize how thirsty I am.
“Coffee,” he says, sipping at his own mug.
I put mine to my lips and take a sip. It tastes bitter and full-bodied, not quite what I expected. I shove it aside and focus my attention on the man.
“Adamus Keita,” he says, introducing himself. “Citizen G8909-26—”
I cut him off. “Lisa.”
He recoils in his chair and frowns, surprised by my attitude, I guess. We aren’t supposed to call ourselves by our names when speaking with officials, even if our names were given by them in the first place. It’s counterproductive and just plain stupid. “Well, citizen…Lisa”—my name sounds weird coming from his mouth—“it looks like you’ve had quite an interesting journey, haven’t you?”
I hold his stare but say nothing. Where is he going with this?
“Found unable to fulfill your task of bearing a child. Found guilty of multiple reports of insubordination and refusal to obey direct orders…without counting the rising number of reports of harassment. You’ve been judged inept to be reassigned and then sent to the Retirement Center.” He pauses, raising his eyes over the sheet of paper he holds in his hands, then drops his eyes back to the paper and continues. “From there things become a lot more interesting.” He sips noisily at his coffee. “It looks like you’re the only survivor of the convoy. Isn’t it strange, especially since you’re the very last person to have seen Marcus Ruther alive before he committed suicide? And even stranger that he sent you a personal car right after you messed up royally with a patient who was a complete nut.”
“Was he?” I spit. I can’t hold my tongue.
Does he take me for an idiot?
Adamus grins, and I notice how dark his eyes are and how deadly they look. “Who were they?” he asks.
“Who were who?”
“The driver, who was he? The people who helped you take down the convoy and kill some of the unificators and guards? Where are they?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “I did nothing. Where’s Josh? I want to see him.”
“One thing at a time.” He slaps his hand on the table. “First, you tell me who and where they are.”
“Where who are?” I cry.
He sighs heavily as if he’s running out of patience. “I know you’re one of the rebels. So, where are they?”
“I am not a rebel. I don’t know any of them. I don’t even know where any of them are,” I retort. I hope I’m a good liar.
“Well then, how do you explain the presence of known rebels among the victims?”
“I can’t, because I didn’t know. How do you explain two guards aiming guns at me like I was a criminal? How do you explain that they shot another guard dead and tried to kill me because he helped me get out of the bus before I got sick?”
I think I sound convincing because for a moment he looks abashed. “I must admit it sounds particularly convincing said that way,” he says. “If only we hadn’t heard about the possibility of some rebels’ actions against us. The possibility that has been visibly confirmed, don’t you think?” Adamus leans forward, closing some of the distance separating us. “I ask you again, and suggest you tell me the truth, where are they? Who are they? One name. One place, and you’ll see your…Josh.”
He lies and it’s evident that he won’t let me see Josh that easily. I can tell by his demeanor as he speaks and looks at me, frowns at me. He’s not worth my trust.
I shake my head. “I can’t tell you, because I don’t know any of them.” Besides O’Hare, Stephen and his friends, probably Marcus, and the unificator-turned-guard too. But I must keep that to myself. “I know nothing. I told you.”
“All right. You know what this is, right?” He shows me his forearm where a skull is tattooed. I nod, unable to detach my eyes from it. I don’t know what frightens me more, the fact that he’s a unificator clothed like a guard or the fact that he thinks I’m a rebel. I guess it’s a mix of both, plus the fact that I don’t know what he is willing to do to reach his goal. Am I about to be tortured?
Adamus drops a pile of pictures on the table. “Do you know who this is?” I pick one up—the closest one to me. It’s dark, blurry, and grainy, but I distinctly discern who is in the picture. I recognize his bulky frame and his rough face that is wrinkled by years and years of hard work.
O’Hare.
I pick up the whole pile of pictures, some showing him around a fence, others in which he walks along the wall of a building I don’t recognize. I try to look at them as uninterestedly as possible. I must not show Adamus I know him, but I fear it’s too late. I think I betrayed myself the moment I recognized him.
I drop the pile on the table and shake my head.
“I don’t.”
“Hmmm,” he says. “How unfortunate.” He slides the hem of his sleeve back and stares at his golden watch, the unificator’s expression mocking me with deadly promises. “Well, you’ll be glad to hear he has taken the Retirement Center down. Still nothing to tell me? You, who seemed so convinced about the reality surrounding the Retirement Center.”
I shake my head. “I don’t.”
My voice is turning feeble. That’s what O’Hare had to do then? But why does Adamus think I know him? Unless…unless it was him they were searching for in the woods, the “he” the unificators called for.
Adamus slams both fists on the table, and my coffee mug slips off, crashing to the floor.
“You know what I think?” he yells at me. “I think you lie.” He shoves his chair back and gets up. He walks over to me, gripping the edge of the table to hold himself up. He walks past me, moving like a predator toward its prey, then grips the backrest of my chair. I feel his head beside mine. I feel the hot air of his breath blowing in my ear. “But we’ve got a little something to refresh your memory.”
The twist in my stomach is sudden and strong. I grit my teeth but can’t suppress the squeal of pain. What is it that would refresh my memory? The possibilities are endless, each of them more painful than the next. What if it’s Josh and they torture him right here in front of me so I’ll speak? A beeping noise, followed by a click, resonates in the room. Someone is coming in. I turn around and look at the door, but through my blurry eyes, I can’t see much. I blink the tears away and wipe my eyes dry with the hem of my sleeve. Now, clear as day, I see who is standing in front of me: President Nightingale.
He’s finished with Josh. I’m sure they will torture him in front of me.
“Come on, Adamus. That’s not the way we treat our guests, is it?” he says with his unique, high-pitched voice.
Adamus moves away from me and stops beside President Nightingale. He leans over his shoulder, brings his mouth to his ear, and murmurs something I can’t hear. For all the time it lasts, President Nightingale’s demeanor remains unchanged; he bears a sickening grin of satisfaction that raises his mustache high over his cheeks.
Terror surrounds me as I stare at President Nightingale walking toward me. Adamus leaves the room, and the grin doesn’t leave the president’s face during the time he takes to get to the seat Adamus occupied only a minute ago.
“Where is he?” I hurry to ask President Nightingale.
His eyebrows arch high, then he says, “Aren’t you familiar with the principles of courtesy and civility, citizen? Let’s start from the beginning.”
He gets up from his chair, stops on his way to the door, and then turns around to face the table again. He stretches out a hand and says, “I think you want us to call you Lisa, right?” he says. “I’m President Nightingale.”
Under the insistence of his narrowed eyes, I don’t have any other choice than to follow this ridiculous process of fake courtesy. I take his hand and shake it as I nod, confirming my name. I hope President Nightingale will be more reasonable about our implication in the rebels’ actions than Adamus.
And above all, there’s a hope—a faint hope—that he will release us. It’s stupid to hope so, I know, but as long as there’s hope of any kind, I guess it helps me to hold onto it.
“Sorry for Adamus. I fear he’s getting old,” he says.
Old? He didn’t look older than forty. President Nightingale, on the other hand, must be eighty at least.
“Where is he?” I insist.
He raises a hand to shut me up. “Everything in its own time, my dear,” he says. “According to Adamus, you don’t know this man?” he asks, pointing at the pile of pictures on the table.
“I don’t.”
“Well, that is such a shame.” He bites his lower lips. “Since I counted on you to enlighten me about him and be perfectly honest with me.” He gets up from the chair again and heads toward the wall with the clock and the black drapery. “If you don’t mind, I think we will start right where Adamus left us.”
He presses a switch on the wall, and the drapes open, moving along a railing system on the ceiling. Behind the thick piece of fabric is a wide, dark window. I don’t see what’s behind it though.
“Come here, my dear,” he says. He crooks a finger at me and moves it back and forth insistently.
For a moment, all I hear and all I feel is my heart beating in my ears, pounding hard and making them to ache. What is he going to show me? I hold the edge of the table with my hand and push myself up, but I forget about my ankle, and the pain is too sudden, instantaneous, and striking that I fall back into my seat.
“Oh, sorry, my dear. I forgot about that.”
He hops by me, the way a kid does in the schoolyard, stretches out an arm I have no other choice but to take, helps me to my feet, and walks me up to the window.
“What am I supposed to look at?” I ask, impatient, contemplating this black board that only reflects my own silhouette, arm in arm with President Nightingale. The scene is stomach turning.
“Patience, my dear. Patience.” He stretches his free arm toward a second switch and presses it. A light turns on behind the window, revealing a room strangely decorated like an apartment. It has white plastered walls and a little round table in the middle on which lies an untouched plate of food. A door opens on the side wall of the room, framing a human shape.
“So?” he asks.
I squint to see past the dark surrounding the door. The silhouette moves, pushed by a guard behind him. I recognize that shape. I recognize his gaze. I recognize this man that now stands a few inches behind the window.
It’s O’Hare.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I’m not sure if I should sigh with relief because I don’t see Josh behind the window or freak out because I still don’t know where he is. And above all, how can I hide the fact that I know O’Hare? I’m a terrible liar and way too expressive not to show the truth on my face. If only Alastair could have taught me how to stay emotionless, it could have helped me right about now. But the facts are: I’m here and O’Hare is there, I know him when I said I didn’t, and I fear our eyes betray us. But why does O’Hare bear this bloody bandage around his forearm? And why doesn’t he look at me? His eyes meet mine and then wander elsewhere, like he’s blind. Maybe Alastair taught him a thing or two then?
“You really don’t recognize him?” President Nightingale says, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t,” I say, raising my voice. “Now you tell me, where is JOSH?”
“Okay then,” he says. “I believe you.” His voice sounds weird, deceptive, and betraying. There’s a different meaning beneath his words, like he’s preparing something. Something that doesn’t sit well with me. President Nightingale turns his head towards me, staring at me with his little, round eyes.
“So, you won’t mind if we kill him straight off, I suppose.”
Kill him. The suggestion stabs like a dagger in my chest, making me wince. I pinch the skin of my waist with my free hand, digging my nails through the fabric to force pain. I must focus on something other than the fact that I may have O’Hare’s fate in my hands right now.
How am I supposed to act? What am I supposed to do? Confess that I lied? He will ask what else I lied about. I could also stick to my lies and keep affirming I don’t know him, keep trying to save what remains of this world I believed in. I must keep trying to save Dolores and Alastair from the fate O’Hare, Josh, and I will surely meet. Because if they could kill O’Hare only to force me to speak or kill Anna, who did nothing more than give her casual behavior free rein, or even send me to be killed for not being able to fit the mold they wanted me to, then I’m certain they won’t spare anyone’s life no matter what I say. Those are the lengths they are willing to go to obtain what they want. This reality breaks any remaining pieces of hope I had left in me.
Death is the only way out for us, and
I can’t help the guilt from overwhelming my thoughts.
I stare into space, my eyes wandering over the dark window in front of me. I see O’Hare without really seeing him. It’s more like a shape moving in the background. It’s like a blanket that covers my senses and hinders me from seeing properly, from hearing what’s going on around me besides this high-pitched ringing in my ears. It’s a blanket that hinders me from feeling the pain which I try to inflict on myself as I dig my nails deeper and deeper into my skin. It’s like I’m already dead. Dead, until I wake from this catatonic state. Wake, at the sight of a new shape materializing through the doorframe. His body may remain hidden in the darkness, but who this shape belongs to is no secret. I would recognize him in whatever darkness surrounded us, with his tall stature and long hair and the protrusions on his back that can only be one thing: wings.
“What are you doing?” I yell. “What is he doing there?”
“A little experiment, my dear,” President Nightingale says, still staring at the window.
I turn around, rage guiding my senses now, and as I grip more firmly at President Nightingale’s arm, I reach my free hand up and clench it around his throat.
“What little experiment, you monster?” I hiss through my teeth. “Don’t even dare touch him, or I swear I will kill you.”
A guard enters the room, hurrying toward us, but before he can grab me, President Nightingale holds out a hand that makes the guard stop instantly. And with strength I wouldn’t have expected from the president, he pulls my hand from his throat. His hand feels solid, like iron. I try to force my hand back to his throat, but it’s useless. I want to kill him more than anything else, but he’s far stronger than I am. I should keep trying, I know, but I’m weakening. I’m too weak on my own, in fact. I can’t save anyone, like my dream taught me.
“It’s all right. It’s all right,” President Nightingale says, his voice throaty. As he waves his hands, the guard turns on his heel and leaves the room. “Next time, I’ll whip your little friend unconscious. Got it?”
