Through Glass

by Rebecca Ethington

  “I’m sorry, Lex,” she said, her voice deep as she turned to me, “but I just can’t trust you yet.”

  Her face pulled up in a wicked half smile, her high ponytail swinging as she lifted her arm, the gun pointing right to my chest.

  The sound of a shot echoed through the empty blackness as light burst from the end of the gun.

  I never felt the impact. All I saw was black. All I felt was cold.

  Everything was cold, so cold and hard. It was the first thing I was aware of; the cold, hard floor that someone had lain me on. It wasn’t like the grocery store, I could already tell that nothing would be familiar. I knew I had been brought here. I felt the cold rock beneath me, my fingertips running over the small crack in the stone as if looking for something familiar, I already knew there wouldn’t be any and it scared me.

  A dull, red light seeped through my eye lids, stinging my retinas. A light that should be unbelievably welcome only brought more questions about where I had been brought and why. Answers that I wasn’t sure I would find.

  My eyes opened slowly to a grey cement room that surrounded me. They burned as they attempted to adjust while I took in the cement that seamed and cracked like an over-used bomb-shelter. I held completely still as I looked around the bare space, the only other objects that I could see were a circular grated drain in the floor and a lone light bulb, the dim glowing orb hanging from a single wire. The frigid temperature of the empty room seeped into my body, making my skin prickle, even through my father’s leather jacket, everything was too cold.

  I didn’t dare move, a million horror movies ran through my mind as the room in front of me came into clearer focus. I looked at the three walls that faced me. Three bare walls, I couldn’t even see a door.

  I was trapped here.

  A shiver wound its way over my skin and I moved into myself in an attempt to find warmth, however the one movement made it very clear that it was not going to happen. The coldness of the cement was everywhere.

  Everything ached as I moved, deep tissue aches that rippled over my body until they congregated over the still throbbing pain in my head and a spot right over my heart. Right where I was sure the bullet had hit.

  My eyes widened at the thought, my hand flying to my chest in a panic. My fingers gripped the fabric of the shirt I wore, a tiny hole over my heart the only evidence that anything had even happened. That I had been shot. There wasn’t a sign of a bullet or of blood. My skin was smooth and unmarred beneath the hole. Besides the pain in my chest, I wouldn’t have known anything had happened. Someone had washed all sign of that away.

  I was clean.

  My clothes had been cleaned as well. A sharp scent of detergent was stagnant in the air around me. The grit on my skin and hair that I had grown so used to was gone, instead, the smoothness that I hadn’t felt in years was all that remained. It was weird how the grime had become normal and now, without it, I felt unclean. I ran my hands over my skin, missing the texture of the filth I had lived in for so long, but glad someone had washed me.

  Washed.

  I sat up quickly, my head spinning with the movement as my fingers clawed at my jacket, pulling the sleeve on my right arm down to reveal the skin of my wrist, the lines of Cohen’s drawing now barely visible.

  “No,” I panted, deep fear rippling through me as the panic began to grow, my heart seizing together painfully. “Nonononono.”

  I covered my wrist with my hand, my illogical thinking begging me to cover it up before it disappeared forever. I couldn’t lose it, the last precious thing that Cohen had given me. It clung to my skin like my brothers clothes, my father’s jacket. I couldn’t lose it. I patted my jacket pockets, searching for a pen, and almost screamed in relief as my fingers found one, tucked in the back pocket of my brother’s pants.

  I pulled it out quickly and traced the tip over the back of my hand until the ink flowed before moving to the skin on my wrist.

  I trailed the tip over the faded lines, the image of my face coming into clearer focus with every line I added. The tension in my heart left as the ink dried. Cohen’s mark back in place.

  I stared at it for a moment as my nerves calmed the frayed edges of my anxiety, lying down gently. There was no way to calm completely while locked in a prison, yet somehow, at least the pen gave me one less thing to worry about. I looked at the mark once more before replacing the sleeve of the jacket. My eyes moved to drag around the room in expectation of finding something else.

  I turned a bit, my eyes widening at a plastic tray set near the wall behind me. The bright plastic covered with food.

  It wasn’t the cold food of long forgotten tin cans. It was real food; turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn, even a roll. It reminded me of school lunch on “Turkey Dinner Day”. The pungent smell of residual fried food mixed with spices.

  My body rocked toward the tray before withdrawing, my back rigid as I glared at the food that taunted me. I wanted to eat it. I could feel my stomach grow with want, saliva filled my mouth with need, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat it. I couldn’t do it.

  First, I didn’t know where I was and if that wasn’t reason enough, the person who I am quite sure brought me here had shot me.

  Sure, I didn’t show any outward signs of having been shot, but that didn’t change the fact that she had done it. I still felt the pain in my chest so I was sure it had happened.

  I eyed the food, trying to ignore the rumble in my stomach and scooted away slightly. I was sure they hadn’t poisoned it. Although, why would they keep me alive only to kill me with food? Even with that knowledge, it didn’t take away my fear of the food. My lack of trust toward the people who had brought me here. The people who had shot me.

  I shouldn’t have trusted Bridget. I shouldn’t have followed her. Even with the writing on the wall, follow the blue. Maybe the rules that the madman had written were more insane than I had thought. Warnings? Rules? I didn’t know where they fell anymore. They had kept me alive and now they had imprisoned me.

  I sighed heavily, trying to settle my fear and look at things logically, but I already knew my options were limited. There wasn’t anything I could do now except find a way out and, judging by the empty state of the room, that wasn’t going to happen.

  I moved away from the tray until my back hit the cement wall, my knees pulling up against my chest. I felt so naked and exposed in this room. Even though I didn’t see any cameras I was sure they were watching me. Combine that with the fact that they had taken my backpack and the rail and I felt even more violated.

  I wasn’t even that worried about the rail, I needed my pictures, I needed my pens.

  “We didn’t poison it, Lex.” I jumped at her voice, plastering myself against the wall as I frantically scanned the empty space. It was the same grey walls and swinging light bulb. Even so, I knew I had heard her voice, which only meant one thing; I was being watched. I sunk back against the cement wall, trying not to grumble.

  “I’m sure,” I mumbled under my breath, making my voice loud enough that I was certain she had heard me.

  “I gave you a pen for the mark on your wrist. Doesn’t that count as a show of good faith?” her voice came again. My shoulders tensed a bit at the fact she put it there to make sure that I could redraw the lines.

  “You don’t eat a pen,” I spat a little angrily, her admittance of her control over me making my stomach turn.

  “True, but the ink didn’t seep into your skin and kill you, either.” Her voice sounded casual enough, however the implication of what she had said was absolutely terrifying.

  I froze at her voice, willing myself not to look at my wrist and make sure I hadn’t broken out into boils or anything. I could feel my hands shake at the thought and I let my breath out. My chest shook a bit at the exhale in my attempt to ignore her.

  “I wouldn’t clean you to kill you,” her voice came again, making me wonder if she had read my thoughts from before.

  It was a stupid thought, readin
g minds. I shook my head and looked up in the direction the voice had come from, assuming the camera to be somewhere near the top of the room. It is where they always were in crazy spy movies.

  “You shot me, though,” I countered, smirking dangerously toward the ceiling.

  “I didn’t shoot you.”

  I couldn’t help it, I laughed. A good, loud scoff that part of me hoped would irritate her. I let the sound die and closed my eyes, not really wanting to talk to an empty room anymore.

  “My chest says otherwise,” I grumbled, keeping my voice low.

  “It was an electronic pulse. It’s fatal against the Tar, but only knocks humans unconscious. So, lucky for you, you haven’t begun to turn. Or yes, I would have killed you and then you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  My eyes opened slowly as the crackle of the microphone cut off her voice, the words lingering in the air.

  “Turned?” I asked, only slightly regretting asking the question. I was at her mercy anyway. In a lot of ways it didn’t matter what I said anymore. I was in a cement box and they could kill me at any moment with poisonous gas or a collapsing ceiling. Both seemed plausible.

  “Hmmm…” her voice came over the speaker again, her curiosity raising her tone an octave. “You eat the food, Lex, and I will tell you all you want to know.”

  I froze, my eyes darting from the cement roof to the red tray of food that still sat in front of me.

  “And what do I want to know?” I asked, hating how much my hunger mixed with my curiosity to rebel against me.

  “Everything, Lex. You want to know everything. About the charter and the Tar and why you were spared. You want to know about everything that has happened in the past eight years.”

  My head snapped up at her voice, at what she had said. Confusion cut through me and I felt my breathing try to pick up, the pain surging through my spine at the quick movement. I could hear her laugh trickle through the microphone, her humor at my reaction rippling over the cold grey walls.

  “Eight years?” I repeated, my voice low and airy in confusion.

  “Yes, Lex, eight years. Eight years since the sky went black, since the French dropped an atomic bomb on us in an attempt to keep the Tar away and since the war began. Eight years since the world changed.”

  I was standing, staring at the ceiling. I didn’t remember standing, I didn’t remember moving. I stared at the ceiling as her words tried to seep in, as my mind rebelled against them.

  “Two years,” I corrected her, knowing before the words even left my mouth that it was pointless.

  “I know it feels that way to you, Lex, but it’s been eight years since the blackness came. May 8 2014. The sun was setting for the last time that we would ever see it…”

  “No.”

  “…when the Tar escaped from the underground prison the American government had kept them in…”

  “No!”

  My voice rippled around the room, the intensity of it growing as it bounced off the cement walls. Her words stopped the moment mine broke free, the silence in the room stretching as I tried to control my breathing; as I refused to hear what she was trying to say to me.

  I refused to hear the logic behind it because then it would make it real.

  I didn’t want it to be real.

  “I am telling the truth, Lex.” Her voice came again, the sound soft and hesitant through the crackle of the speaker. “And, if you eat that food, I will tell you everything.”

  The speaker popped as she cut off her microphone, the sound echoing before it was gone, leaving me in silence.

  Eight years. I couldn’t believe that. I couldn’t. I went to sleep, I woke up. I marked the calendar for every day, every month. I was so careful, obsessive in my tracking, in my endless countdown until when I would escape. Until I would be with Cohen again.

  Yet then there were days. Days when I woke up and the clock had stopped. Days when the dust had grown an inch deep overnight. Even with that, though, I didn’t look different. I didn’t feel like almost a whole decade had passed.

  I lifted my hand, the boney fingers stretching before me as I stared at them. I didn’t look like anything. I didn’t look like I could be almost thirty. I looked like a skeleton. I turned my hand over, a small red dot from where they had taken blood the only thing that stood out against my clean skin.

  The world had changed and obviously it had changed around me. While I had stayed locked in my home, these people had fought and created something real. Now, that tray of food in front of me was the only path for me to find out what. To know that I wasn’t the last person alive. As much as I feared them, I still wanted to know about them.

  I stared at it, knowing there wasn’t any other option, but hating the loss nonetheless. I couldn’t wait.

  I slowly slid myself forward, the fabric of my pants rubbing against the cement as I scooted toward the tray. The smell of the food seemed to grow as I moved, the saliva in my mouth increasing.

  I clutched the plastic spork in my hand and dipped it toward the mashed potatoes. The plastic split the potatoes before I raised it to my mouth. I eat and she tells me everything. I exhaled deeply, my breath running over the food I held before me and bringing the scent right back to me. I needed to know everything. I needed to trust them; the only survivors I had found.

  I didn’t question myself anymore; I only closed my eyes and took a bite.

  It was better than the cold stew, better than the green beans. The luke-warm mash hit my tongue while the sweet tang of the gravy increased the flavor of the potatoes. I sighed at the taste and the heat against my mouth; something that was so foreign I had forgotten how it felt, how it increased the flavor.

  I greedily scooped another heaping mound and shoved it into my mouth. The scoop was so big that it drizzled down my chin. I moved it around my mouth, letting the taste hit every bud on my tongue and increasing the heavenly taste.

  I scooped, I ate and I slurped until the spork couldn’t do it for me anymore and my fingers worked better. I ripped apart the turkey, shoving the meat into my mouth with greedy, little fingers.

  In the back of my head something begged me to slow down, to use the spork, to be respectable, but I didn’t care. All the fickle worries of before were lost in the taste of the food.

  Before I was ready, it was gone, only the roll was left. I ripped it apart and sopped up the bits of gravy and mashed potatoes that had hidden in the corners of the tray with the squishy bread, using it as a sponge in my desperation to eat everything. I licked my fingers from my disgraceful eating, the smooth texture of my skin odd against my tongue.

  “Feel better?” Her voice echoed around the room the second I was done, her voice light and calm as she pacified me.

  I couldn’t help but laugh at her, the real meaning behind her words clear. I ate like an animal. Sadly, I didn’t regret it.

  “I forgot how good food tastes,” I whispered, my eyes unwilling to move away from the tray, wishing more would magically appear on its surface.

  “When was the last time you had real food?” she asked, but this time her voice didn’t echo as much, the sound sounded more stable. I looked toward the sound, everything in me tensing at seeing her standing in the room.

  Or not her, a projection of her. An image of Bridget stood before me with the same high ponytail and battle worn clothes except I could tell it wasn’t her. She was a shadow, a hologram; the translucent image wasn’t strong enough to obscure the wall behind her.

  I looked at her, my eyes narrowing again as she walked forward and moved to sit beside me. She smiled, the image looking real and sincere. I wanted to say it was true and, in some ways, it might have been, yet seeing her only reminded me that she had shot me. The thought only made my blood boil more.

  “I didn’t think you would want to talk to a disembodied voice for this,” she said simply, her arms resting on her legs as she leaned toward me.

  I tried to smile snidely at her, but nothing came, so I just stared at the
odd, three-dimensional image of a girl, my hand clenched against my sides.

  “Were the green beans at the grocery store your first food after you left your house?” she asked, her hand gesturing toward the now empty tray.

  I hesitated. I had eaten the food as requested, hoping to gain information about what was going on, though now, seeing her here, I had a sinking feeling that I wasn’t going to be getting many of my questions answered. I exhaled and looked away from her, not seeing another option than to answer her simple questions and hope they led me toward the answers that I wanted.

  “No,” I said, my eyes focused on my hands. “I found a can of beef stew in the room where I found the rules.”

  I saw her nod out of the corner of my eye, her lips a hard line.

  “And what did you eat before that?” she asked.

  I exhaled and laid my head back against the cement, this was only getting better and better. I didn’t want to answer, I wanted to refuse and ask my own questions—demand my own answers—but I already knew it wouldn’t work that way. I had walked into a trap or rather, eaten the school lunch in a cement box.

  Like a rat in a trap.

  I sighed and looked away from her, knowing I didn’t have another choice.

  “The food they brought for me,” I said simply, not wanting to elaborate. Besides, I had a feeling she already knew exactly what I was talking about. I could tell by the way her shoulders tensed. The way her breathing became shallow like she was trying to hold in her fear or anger.

  It made me uncomfortable, watching her react like that. I wanted to say it was probably nothing, but I knew better. I still had vague memories of movies, of books, she was looking at me like I was dangerous. I simply wasn’t sure why I would be.

  “Eight years ago, the sky went black,” Bridget began, my head whipping toward her as she actually began to give me the answers she had promised me; something I hadn’t expected. Her body tensed as she talked, the tension making me nervous. “It happened everywhere, not just here. Creatures erupted out of the ground in the middle of farmlands in Montana. They flew into the air and covered the sky around the earth in a matter of minutes. They wiped the sun from the sky and then they began to eat everything they could.”