by S G D Singh
“You're not in your precious suburban America anymore,” Luk said as the newcomer fell to his knees with a soft whimper. “You're in a place of slavery and starvation. No one knows you are here. No one would believe this place even exists. You're in a perfect hell, my brother. Welcome to the heart of Babylon.”
“Stop,” Nadifa said. “He gets it. Just stop, man.”
“That there?” Luk continued instead. “That's what's left of Mr. Ray Miller. You wanna know why he was killed?”
The newcomer shook his head no, but Luk was on a roll.
“See, in this place no one eats unless we all play their little games. They watch to make sure we do.” Luk pointed at the sky, then the trees. “People have tried to resist, believe that they have. A group of our strongest and finest decided to fight just two days after I got here. They had a whole brave and mighty plan and everything. You wanna know what happened to them?”
The newcomer blinked, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
“Their hands and feet were sent back to us instead of breakfast. And no one ate for five days.”
The newcomer looked to Nadifa, who wanted to shake his head—No, it's not true, don't worry—but he couldn't. It was true. Luk's own father had been one of the men who'd gone down to The Resort that day and never come back.
“You have a few choices,” Luk continued. “You can stay on this side and pick fruit, lettuce. Even eat a little of it, if the drones don't catch you. Then there's housekeeping down at The Resort. Real house slave role-play shit.” The newcomer flinched. Nadifa stepped forward to reassure him, but Luk put a hand out, glaring, and he stopped. “But there is only one thing that earns enough to eat a full meal. And that thing, the thing that earns enough weight to actually fill your stomach? That lets you sleep through the night without feeling like your fucking insides are eating themselves? You can join the fights.”
The newcomer looked at Nadifa again, and he shook his head. No, not an option.
“But it's risky,” Luk continued, “because the crackers, they only want to fight for the pleasure of beating us bloody. The humiliation, the subjugation, is the whole point for them. Sure. You're supposed to pretend, make it fun for the crowd, you know?”
Luk crouched down, getting in the newcomer's face. “But you can't actually fight. You have to let the crackers win every time. Ray here, well, he forgot where he was, I guess. Or maybe he wanted an end to this hell, we'll never know.”
The newcomer continued to stare at the ground, tears and snot falling to the dirt in front of him. When he finally raised his gaze, Nadifa saw that something had changed in him. Hope hadn't left his eyes completely, but it was close. He definitely didn't believe freedom was a state of mind.
“What did you say your name was again?” he asked Nadifa, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Nadifa Duale.” Nadifa reached to help him back to his feet.
He nodded. “Darnell Cleaver,” he said, then glanced at Luk, who looked away.
“His name is Lukango Alston,” Nadifa said. “He apologizes.”
“No, he doesn't,” Luk told Darnell. “Nadifa prays half the day, so he still thinks he can find a way out of here. He's wrong. We're all as good as dead. We just haven't stopped breathing yet.”
Darnell's eyes widened, and Luk added, “C'mon, man. We'll show you around your coffin.”
“You don't have to be a naxariis badan asshole about it,” Nadifa muttered as he followed Luk and Darnell to the orchard, where they gathered their baskets off the ground. “No one's been here longer than four months. There has to be a way out.”
“Except the butcher,” Luk said. “No one knows how long that crazy motherfucker's been here.”
“Except the butcher,” Nadifa conceded. He wanted to say something in the butcher's defense, something to convey the man's deep sadness to Darnell, but by then they'd entered the tunnel.
Nadifa remembered Luk's words. “They see nothing.” Suddenly, their underground prison made more sense.
The smell hit them first, like always, and Nadifa wished he was back in the orchard. The air here was stale with the smell of too many humans with too little water and no soap. Two floors underground, a gust of wind from some mysterious opening somewhere farther along the corridor covered them with the stench of cow urine and manure, growing ever stronger as they came to the passage that led to the cafeteria and the dorm.
Luk pointed left, into the darkness. “That way takes you to the subway. It opens twice a day for sixty seconds for anyone on housekeeping duty down at The Resort. Once at eight and again three hours later at eleven.”
Nadifa watched Darnell look to the right, toward the light above them, then to the locked door that read NO ACCESS. Klexters disappeared and emerged there at unpredictable hours, keeping everyone on edge. Darnell took it all in but said only, “Housekeeping is only three hours?”
“You earn more food coupons,” Luk said. “But. Not everyone comes back. I don't recommend it.” He looked pointedly at Nadifa when he said this, and Nadifa knew Luk was thinking of Zahi. He wanted to tell Luk to go right ahead and try telling Zahi what to do. No one had been able to change his cousin's mind once it was made up since she was old enough to scream. And if Zahi thought she could gather information by cleaning psychopath's bathrooms and doing their laundry, that's what she would do, no matter how many people didn't come back on the eleven o'clock train. Especially if people didn't come back.
The trio entered the cafeteria, which was a generous name for a room the size of a low-ceilinged three-car garage. The center was lined with dented metal benches bolted to the floor. Five vending machines made of nothing breakable were imbedded in the far wall. One held water in gelatinous orbs instead of bottles, and four spit out random incomplete fractions of MREs, either a main course or a snack, depending on the number of coupons fed into it. Next to the vending machines sat the produce scale, a block of metal that weighed and swept baskets of produce straight to the refrigerated compartment in the train, then spit coupons out a tiny slot.
Everyone turned to look at them as they entered, and Darnell bumped into Nadifa as he took a startled step back at the sight of the fifteen captives who remained, everyone except Nadifa's grandmother.
Ayeeyo would be in their corner of the cramped dorm, Nadifa knew, preparing for Dhuhr, noon prayer. He could almost hear her clicking her tongue in disapproval when he caught up on his prayers after dark yet again.
She'd be careful not to spill too much water on the painted cement floor as she cleaned her feet, face, and hands. She'd fix her hijab, no matter how perfectly the headdress made from their coarse green prison clothes was wrapped on her head. Finally, she would bring her precious Quran down from its makeshift shelf and turn to face the spot on the wall that faced the Qibla—which they'd guessed was east and marked using the few stars they knew, having no idea where the prison was located. She would begin her prayer, adding the rakat for istikhara as she did five times a day now, asking God for extra guidance.
And five times a day, no one would disturb her, no matter how futile they felt Ayeeyo's prayers were in a place like this. Everyone wanted to be proved wrong.
Zahi rose from her meal and walked toward them now, her own makeshift hijab frayed at the ends, her dark eyes filling for an instant at the sight of Darnell. Nadifa hoped for the hundredth time that day that his cousin hadn't heard about Ray.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Luk called, as if everyone weren't already watching them. Each time a new captive was brought in, they each hoped he or she would be the last and then the next time a new captive was brought in, their hearts broke a little. Ms. Johnson coughed, and it sounded even worse than the night before.
Luk said, “This is Mr. Darnell Cleaver. He'll be joining us for the foreseeable future, so please give him a warm welcome.”
No one spoke, turning back to their meager rations in gloomy silence. Ms. Johnson coughed again. More than a few people shook their heads. Finally, Mike
stepped forward from where he'd been standing by the vending machines and handed Darnell two coupons. He always had extra, being taller than most and therefore able to reach more fruit. And saving them didn't work. The coupons disintegrated within hours into nothing but cotton fibers and dissolved with the slightest moisture.
“The chicken noodles with vegetables ain't half bad,” Mike said, offering his hand to Darnell. “And Nadifa'll always pass on anything with ham.”
Darnell looked down at the coupons he held—stamped like bastardized five-dollar bills, the confederate flag replacing the image of President Lincoln, the ink red and blue instead of green—and Nadifa watched his expression harden just before Zahi snatched the notes from his hand and shoved them at Mike's chest.
“Not helping,” she said, offering Darnell a packet of food instead. “Have some oatmeal cookies. The sugar helps with the dizziness. I'm Zahi.”
Darnell tried to smile, but couldn't manage it. “I'm actually not hungry,” he said.
“It's the air down here,” Nadifa told him, trying to sound positive. “You'll get used to it in a few minutes.” Which wasn't true. It's impossible to get used to the smell of a living grave.
“Eat,” Zahi demanded this time, sounding so much like her mother that Nadifa felt his heart twist with loss for the aunt—the parents—he would probably never see again.
Kevin stepped up next, offering Darnell a packet of mixed nuts and three water orbs. He was cheerful in a way that told Nadifa he knew nothing about Ray Miller's murder.
“Fire or flood?” he asked.
Darnell glanced around in confusion, and Nadifa pointed to himself. “Hurricane. Ill-advised family vacation to Florida in May. Three weeks and four days ago yesterday.”
Darnell looked around at the crowd, realization dawning. “Wait. Were all of you picked up by an ambulance after a disaster?”
“Flood and fire are tied at the moment,” Kevin said, nodding. “For me, it was a Louisiana tornado. Bad day, man. Never trust an ambulance with out-of-state plates. Drove right past like three white dudes, too. Last thing I remember before they injected me with something to help calm me down was that the inside of that fucker was nothing like an ambulance. That shit was pure serial killer victim transportation all the way.”
Darnell turned to Luk, who said, “Southern California. Mudslide. Six weeks ago tomorrow.”
“Flood in New Jersey,” Darnell told them softly, shaking his head like he was trying not to cry. “We should've evacuated, but my dad was on a business trip and my mom was home with a flu she'd caught at work. I thought we could get out fast if we needed to, but…”
“Flood leads by one!” Jamal called from the back of the cafeteria, marking the wall with a stick and startling Darnell out of his thoughts. Nadifa wanted to tell Darnell not to feel ashamed, that they were all equally guilty of accepting the “help” that resulted in their abductions. No one could expect a person to suspect in the middle of a disaster that they were about to be kidnapped and taken to an underground prison run by white supremacists. Few would believe such a place existed, even if they were told.
“You gonna give him the tour?” Kevin asked Zahi, his smile hopeful.
Zahi looked up at Darnell. “Am I?” she said.
The newcomer shrugged, glancing at Nadifa and Luk. “Sure. Whatever.”
“Tour!” Jamal called, joining them. Kevin raised his arms, calling for silence, and Mike joined the group at Nadifa's side. Luk walked away to place their baskets of fruit on the steel table, then stood waiting for his coupons while the machine weighed them. Nadifa watched him collect his coupons, then hand a few to Mr. Howard who looked even more aged and impossibly thin than the previous week.
Zahi looked pointedly from Darnell's face to the food he held, and the newcomer took a reluctant bite of one of the cookies while she nodded. When she was satisfied, she led them out of the cafeteria and back up the ramps into the afternoon sun.
“Welcome to the American Nightmare Weight Loss Resort and Spa,” Zahi began, spreading her arms wide as she turned in a slow circle, her voice dripping with cheerful sarcasm. “Situated within more than three thousand acres of farmland, this gated resort is tailored specifically for the rejuvenation of your oppression. Your non-refundable package offers one meal of questionable nutrition daily, a breakfast of questionable origin every fourth day, and includes multiple workshops in humiliation and guided hikes through The Resort's picturesque slave labor experience, where the opportunity to ask yourself what a human can endure to survive will remain present in your mind throughout your stay. And as if that wasn't enough, guests can choose amongst unlimited fitness classes that have earned The Resort a top spot on The Kunty Klan Reader's Choice list.”
Darnell turned to Nadifa, his expression bewildered, but Nadifa shook his head. Plenty of people thought his cousin was insane, and maybe she was. But at least her insanity made people smile, and sometimes that was all a person needed to keep hope alive in hell.
Zahi quickened her pace, leading them to the ditch that ran between the cherry orchard and various lettuce patches. The ditch was full of running water that Nadifa knew narrowed to a trickle no wider than his ankle less than a mile farther along the farmland before disappearing into a pipe in the earth long before it reached the fence.
“Guests will enjoy the privilege of starting each morning,” Zahi continued, “with a sunrise visit to the tranquil Shit Ditch, where guests are lucky if they find some semblance of privacy in this popular space. From there, participants may take part in countless core-strengthening activities such as picking their choice of cherries, apricots, or blueberries while staring hopefully through a state-of-the-art electric fence, or sitting back and waiting to be discovered by the good guys. Or they may opt for a more interactive, mayonnaise-flavored experience and take the train to clean up after supremacist brats and their twisted parents, all while practicing the serene art of Not Speaking, and remembering that at least this option includes the much mourned-after shower with soap. Even a fresh set of stylish vomit-inspired attire.”
By now Zahi had led them back into the darkness of the tunnel. She swept through the cafeteria and down the dismal hallway that led to the dorm. The lights along the low ceiling dimmed, flickering off then on, painting the dreary walls the color of piss. The air was even more unbearable with the stench of cows, and Nadifa wondered again how the butcher could stand living so close to the animals.
“Guests are then welcome to finish off the day with a restorative, relaxing night in one of our tranquil suites, sleeping stacked like poultry in customized hammocks made from Satan's own used jockstraps.”
The group watched Darnell as he gazed around the dorm in horror, and Nadifa saw the space through his eyes. Hammocks hung from rods bolted to the cement floor, stacked nearly to the ceiling. The meager clothes people had arrived in folded neatly, waiting for the day they would be needed again. Destroyed shoes lined up beneath the hammocks, tattered and filthy blankets, lumpy and nearly-gutted pillows. And across from the row of hammocks, a line of rusting sinks that dripped, the water pooling against the low walls that hid three toilets no one used if they could possibly help it.
Mr. Howard's wife slept at the bottom of the second row. It seemed she hardly moved these days.
Kevin handed Darnell a folded shirt and pants, the shirt tattered, the pants nearly new, both green like the ground two floors above their heads. Green no one would notice from an airplane.
“Too soon, man,” Nadifa told him, and placed the clothes on the nearest hammock instead.
Zahi turned to Darnell, her expression filled with sadness, and Nadifa could tell she'd lost what little belief she'd had that laughter could possibly improve their situation. He knew he had just heard the last tour she would ever give.
Maybe there would never be another new arrival.
Kevin spoke softly. “Open your eyes, my brother,” he said. “This American nightmare is nothing new. But like those before us,
we struggle against the social evils of an unjust system. We wait, we choose our battle, then we stand up and fight.”
Darnell looked like he might cry as he nodded at the floor.
“We'll find a way,” Zahi added, her voice nearly a whisper. She took Nadifa's hand for a moment as she passed him, leaving the room, and Nadifa looked down at the pen his cousin had managed to smuggle up from The Resort for him. This was the third one, its intricate golden swirls on bright red plastic so out of place in the dingy space of the dorm. The maps in his pocket felt suddenly heavy. He knew he should get them out and show them to Darnell, to explain how far they'd come, how much they knew, to share his ideas of escape, but now every action seemed meaningless.
How could they escape when there was no one to fight, and nothing even vaguely resembling a weapon? How could they stand up when strength left their legs a little more every day, no matter how hard they tried to hold onto it?
A horn blared through the room then, startling everyone and waking up Mrs. Howard.
“Attention,” the Klexter's familiar metallic voice rang out along the cement, “all personnel are to gather in the cafeteria immediately. You have thirty seconds.”
Thirty seconds was a generous amount of time to walk the few paces from the dorm to the cafeteria, even for Ayeeyo, and Nadifa waited nearly twenty seconds in silence, looking at the crowd's reflection in the Klexter's shining helmet as the man stood perfectly still.
“When I call your name,” he said finally, “you will step forward.”
The Klexter tilted his head a fraction, then said, “Lukango Alston. Kevin Bell. Darnell Cleaver. Nadifa Duale. Malik Harris. Michael Hayes. Jamal Turner.” A nod, as he counted them. “These seven have been selected for dinner service tonight and banquet service tomorrow night. Report to the train in ten minutes.”
