by Lee Brainard
32
FEMA 286, Syracuse, New York
Wednesday, November 21, 2018
Irina woke when the non-descript transfer van halted at the gate of a bleak-looking, fenced facility. Wonder where I am? Nothing offered the least hint. There were no signs. The two vehicles she could see both had federal plates. What time is it? She checked her watch. It was gone. Oh yeah . . . forgot . . . they confiscated it when they took me into custody. She felt a tinge of melancholy. The Baume and Mercier had been a graduation gift from her grandfather for earning her PhD. I’ll have to improvise. She glanced around, observed a hint of the sun behind the clouds about halfway up the horizon, and estimated that it was mid-morning.
A guard trotted out of the guardhouse—an Army-castoff M16 draped over his shoulder—looked over the driver’s identification and paperwork, had the driver sign a log sheet on a clipboard, then looked over the transfer manifest for the three persons in the van: Irina, a long-haired hippie-looking guy that appeared to be in his early sixties, and a petite blonde in her late thirties or early forties. They had been seated apart and ordered to maintain silence, so Irina hadn’t had an opportunity to learn their names.
Everything must have been in order. The guard motioned to his partner in the guard shack. With a lurch, the chain-link gate began creeping sideways. When it stopped moving, the guard nodded to the driver, and he slowly drove through the narrow opening into the facility. Irina craned her head to look back. The gate was slowly closing, locking her into an unchosen and undesired fate—a fitting metaphor for her life. But she wasn’t giving up. The gates of hell shall not prevail.
The driver made his way cautiously across the pot-hole-filled blacktop to a gaunt brick structure that looked like it could be a hundred years old. He stopped at one of the side entrances, climbed out, opened the door for the passenger compartment, and told the detainees to follow him. He led them into a dimly lit entryway with three small offices on either side, poked his head into the middle doorway on the left, and said, “Got three more for you, Bob.”
A voice answered, “Seat them in the chairs, Bart. I’ll be with them in a minute.”
The driver turned to the group, pointed to a cluster of worn vinyl chairs, muttered “Bob is the facility director,” and hustled for the exit. The place gave him the creeps.
Irina took stock of her new surroundings. She noted that the interior of the building was even more neglected than the exterior. The paint was faded and peeling. The ceiling tiles were yellowed with age and stained. Her eyes lingered on the office doors in front of her. The hammered glass panes in two of them were cracked. The center one, Bob’s door, was held open by a torn stuff chair. Apparently, the doors didn’t stay open by themselves—the building had probably settled. She was comforted by the faint sound of laughter and banter echoing down the hallway. That’s a good sign . . . they seem to enjoy a little freedom here.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice barking out of the office, “Burrage Krakenhavn. You’re first.” The long-haired fellow stood up, looking careworn and exhausted, and shuffled into the office. The name rang a bell. Krakenhavn . . . I know that name from somewhere. She tried to recollect where but drew a blank.
Twenty minutes later Irina received her summons into the dingy office. While he was not impolite, Bob engaged in no pleasantries. He asked her to verify her name and Social Security number. He rattled off the rules and regulations that she was expected to abide by. Then he warned her that those who were detained here were regarded as serious security threats by the government. He emphasized the word serious. Heads would roll if any of the detainees were allowed to escape and circulate in society. To prevent escape the camp was surrounded by a fifteen-foot tall chain-link fence topped with concertina wire, the gate was manned by armed guards, and the perimeter was monitored by cameras. Moreover, he was authorized to use deadly force in any escape attempt and he would not hesitate to do so. While he was a church-going man who took no pleasure in violence, he had mouths to feed at home and college educations to pay, so if push came to shove, he was not going to lose any sleep if his guards were forced to fatally shoot a detainee whom the government regarded as a threat to the country.
He stared coolly into her eyes as if he were trying to gauge her reaction. “Do you understand the things I have just gone over and do you agree to abide by them?” She nodded. He handed her an acknowledgment form which stated that he had explained the rules and policies and that she understood them and agreed to abide by them. She signed her name and handed it back.
Bob lightened up a little bit. “Now for the mundane stuff. First up, your work assignment. Would you prefer to work in housekeeping, in laundry, in the kitchen, or in maintenance?”
Hate cleaning toilets . . . don’t have a clue how to fix toilets . . . laundry sounds boring. “I’ll take the kitchen.”
He nodded. “Report at 5:00 a.m. to the kitchen for the morning shift. Francis Ferguson will be your supervisor.”
“Secondly, practical directions and pointers. The kitchen is down the hall to the right. Breakfast is served from 7:00 to 7:45 a.m., lunch from 12:00 noon to 12:45 p.m., and dinner from 5:00 to 5:45 p.m. The supply room and the commissary are also down the hall to your right. Both are open from 8:00 a.m. to 12:00 noon and from 1:00 to 5:00 p.m. Monday through Friday. The ladies’ sleeping quarters are on the second floor and the men’s on the third. The stairs that lead to the sleeping quarters are down the hall to the left. The women are housed twelve per section. Sections A, B, and C are filled. You may take any available bed in section D. Just let brunette Joyce know the bed number. Each bed comes with a dresser and a closet rod. If you need anything beyond that, you are on your own. There are two bathrooms on the second floor with ample sinks and toilets. No showers are provided, but the boys in maintenance have rigged up some crude showers in the warehouse. They have also set up a makeshift laundry room back there.
“When you leave here, stop at Room 7, also known as the supply room. There you will be issued some necessary personal items and allowed to choose necessary clothing from the racks and bins. You will also be given your first five-dollar allotment for purchases at the commissary. The allotment is distributed every Friday.”
He remained silent for a moment, rubbed his chin as if mentally running through his checklist, then said, “That will be all. You are dismissed. Oh, one more thing. I don’t want to see your face in here unless the sky is falling.”
Irina nodded but remained standing, her eyes fixed on him pensively as if waiting for permission to speak.
“Yes?”
“Where am I? And what is this place called?”
Irina sensed that he was trying not to smirk. “Classified and classified,” he replied dryly, then he pointed toward the door, “Bye.”
She walked down the hall to Room 7 for her supplies. An attractive older woman behind the counter greeted her with a friendly smile, “Hi newbie. My name is Cassie . . . Cassie Morrison.” Handing Irina a set of sheets she said, “Sorry that we’re all out of 800 count,” and grinned broadly. Then she set a selection of blankets on the counter. “We got wool, acrylic, bed spreads, and quilts.”
Irina selected a pastel pink acrylic blanket and a boys’ bedspread with four vignettes of John Wayne riding his favorite film horses—Duke, Banner, Beau, and Dollar.
“That’s quite the combination,” Cassie said, muffling a giggle.
Irina, seeing the irony herself, sheepishly replied, “I’ve liked cowboys since I was a little girl.”
Cassie inquired, “Have you roped one yet?”
Irina replied, slightly embarrassed, “No, I haven’t.”
“Well, God bless you, darling. I hope you find a man who comes with integrity, honor, and courage. Most of them today come with a big ego, a wussy button, a lazy streak, and a wagon full of games and toys.” Irina laughed. Cassie handed her a small box with the rest of her stuff: a tan pillow case that would match her bedspread, a toothbrush and con
tainer, a tube of toothpaste, a soap dish and bar of soap, a small pouch to hold her hygiene articles, two washcloths, two towels, a laundry bag, a hairbrush, and a worn five-dollar bill.
Irina glanced at the clock. It was getting close to noon. She picked up the box and said, “Thanks, Cassie, I’ll come back after lunch for some clothes,” and bolted out the door.
She hustled to the commissary and asked about shampoo and a watch. “No time for small talk, hon’?” said the blonde behind the counter who appeared to be in her forties. “Is the town hall on fire?”
Irina smiled, enjoying the humor and the fact that both the supply room and the commissary were manned by Southern girls. Lots of Southern drawl around here . . . I can get used to that.
The sassy gal continued, “My name is Joyce, Joyce Meribeth Lee, but I’m usually referred to as blonde Joyce to distinguish me from brunette Joyce.”
Irina smiled, a little embarrassed that she hadn’t introduced herself, and apologized, “Sorry. My name is Irina Kirilenko.”
Joyce grabbed her three-ring binder, wrote Kirilenko, Irina at the top left of a clean page, and placed the page in its proper place alphabetically. “I’ll have to start an account for you. The only watches I have cost more than the five bucks in your pocket.” She reached into her case and pulled out several samples. “We carry a mediocre selection of Timex offerings and Fossil knock-offs.” Irina picked the sturdiest looking woman’s Timex and handed Joyce her a five dollar bill. Joyce gave her four dollars in change and wrote Timex—twelve dollars on the first line. Underneath the entry, she wrote one dollar paid and recorded the date. “Trust me. You’ll be glad you have the four dollars in your pocket.”
Irina said goodbye, scurried out the door, and hastened down the hallway looking for the stairway. She wanted to select her bed, put her things away, and wash up before lunch. The spied the stairwell at the end of the hallway on the right, burst through the entry, raced up the stairs to the second floor, and hustled through the door into the second-floor hallway. This will be easier than I thought. The doors on the right-hand side had letters painted on them, A to F. She found D and walked in.
Interesting. The room was set up in an open-bay fashion with twelve single beds. The dressers were a haphazard assortment of styles from hotels and second-hand stores. Most of the closet rods were salvaged from retail stores, but some were merely pieces of black pipe fastened to a 2X4 frame with a diagonal support for stability. She noticed that three of the claimed beds had desks: one a small wooden desk, the second a cheap computer desk, and the third a piece of plywood set on milk crates. The scene was almost quaint. She appreciated the ingenuity she saw here. It brought one of Pastor Vargas’ quips to mind, “Those who adapt, survive. Those who adapt well, thrive.” She chose bed number eleven because it came with a large dresser and a real clothes rack, tossed her belongings onto it, grabbed the things she needed to wash up, and raced down the hall to find the ladies’ room. For a bad situation . . . this isn’t too bad. Just wish I wasn’t still wearing the same jeans that I wore for my disguise.
33
FEMA 286, Syracuse, New York
Wednesday, November 21, 2018
Standing in the lunch line, Irina heard two middle-aged guys in front of her say in unison, “It’s Wednesday. We always have chicken nuggets on Wednesday.” Then they chortled. Must be a line from a movie before my time. A woman jested, “Hey. We get three different kinds today.” A husky voice bantered back, “Outdated fast food, outdated school lunch, and outdated supermarket.” Several snickers followed. The scene reminded her of high school. But there was something deeper there . . . more evidence of adapting . . . it brought to mind something her grandfather observed as an airborne commander in Afghanistan during the Russian occupation, “A sense of humor in harsh conditions indicates resilience—the men haven’t lost heart.”
When she arrived at the serving counter, she said yes to the chicken nuggets and french fries, chose cucumber slices and carrot sticks, selected a yogurt and a can of sparkling lemon water, and filled one of the divisions in her tray with Miracle Whip. Dipping fries in catsup was okay, but she preferred mayonnaise or Miracle Whip. With her tray full, she turned to look for Cassie or blonde Joyce but didn’t see either, so she sat down at a table by herself. An attractive brunette quickly joined her and identified herself as Joyce Howatt. Irina grinned. Must be brunette Joyce. It was. Not waiting for Irina to introduce herself she continued, “If you haven’t already figured it out, I’m brunette Joyce.”
“Glad to meet you. I’m Irina Kirilenko.” She paused for a moment then added, “Before I forget, I’m supposed to give you my bed number . . . I chose eleven.”
“Already figured that out, dear. Cassie told me that you had taken the John Wayne blanket. I saw the blanket on bed eleven. Simple math.”
Irina looked a little unsettled as if she regarded this as nosiness.
Joyce explained, “Don’t worry hon’. It’s not like we’re a bunch of talebearers with nothing better to do than gossip. It’s just a small world in here. There’s very little privacy and even fewer secrets.”
Irina noticed that Joyce was trying to stifle a smile. She cocked her head and queried, “What gives?”
“Nothing really. Just laughing about the John Wayne blanket. That blanket was here when Cassie arrived and took over the supply room. She passed out more than eighty blankets since that day and nobody wanted it. She started a joke a while back that the blanket was waiting for the chosen one to come—whoever picked the blanket would be the one that would foil the evil empire’s cover-up of the Rogue. They would also be the first one to escape.” She continued over the top of a giggle, “We never imagined that a woman would pick the blanket, much less a classy girl who looks and acts more like a model than a cowgirl.”
Irina raised her eyebrows and pointed to her shirt.
“Hon’, your jeans and plaid shirt don’t fool anyone.”
Irina blushed with self-consciousness. Joyce noticed her uneasiness and changed the subject. “So, Irina, why are you here?” Without waiting for a reply she continued, “Let me guess. Either you were made privy to information on the Rogue which you were not authorized to know, or you were part of a Minoa team and disseminated information about the Rogue to people who were not authorized to know.”
Irina raised her eyebrows, “How did you guess?”
“It wasn’t a guess.” Smiling knowingly she continued, “Welcome to FEMA 286, generally referred to, in internet media and government circles, as simply 286. This is where the federal government sends folks who pose a threat to their Rogue cover-up. Everyone here, except for Francis the cook and Dr. Andy Gordon our physician, was sent here for the illegal possession or dissemination of sensitive information on the Rogue. Some were part of a Minoa team—whether research, government, or enforcement. Some stumbled upon this information. Some were party to the Anonymous effort to steal and leak the information. Some were members of the media who published the information that Anonymous stole. The government keeps us all together in several camps, isolated from the other classes of detainees and prisoners, so we can’t make converts to our conspiracy theory.” She made quote marks with her fingers as she said conspiracy. “So, were you a leaker, a hacker, a webbie, or just an unlucky duck?”
“A leaker. Actually, I am the one who discovered the Rogue. I discovered it in May of last year while working under Dr. Goldblum at Cornell.”
“So you’re the whiz-kid?” Joyce remarked, not really asking a question, but expressing a eureka moment.
But Irina was more interested in learning about 286 than talking about what she did to get here. That could come later. “So where are we?” she asked.
“Frenchie says we are in an old industrial park on the outskirts of Syracuse, New York that has been empty since he was a teenager nearly twenty years ago. He says they used to sneak in here and party. From several of the windows on the third floor, you can see several businesses just outside th
e park that he recognizes, like Jiffy LTL Delivery and Franklin Salvage.”
“Tell me about the FEMA camps.”
“There are three classes of FEMA camps. The 100 series, which were the original camps, are used for getting the unwanted off the streets and out of society—the homeless, drug users, non-violent dealers and criminals, unlicensed prostitutes, and the chronically unemployed. The 200 series are designated for white-collar criminals, troublemaking religionists, and the so-called soft terrorists, who pose zero threat of violence. The Rogue camps are a special class in the 200 series. The 300 series are for security risks who are potentially violent, like patriots who have threatened to fight for freedom and deucers who have vowed to defend their second-amendment rights.
“A bipartisan think tank first came up with the idea, and time has proved them correct, that it would be far cheaper to keep derelicts and non-violent criminals in FEMA camps than in other government programs or jails. Although some have expressed concern that the camps are run like ‘nice’ POW camps, the public as a whole has a favorable opinion of them. The bottom line is . . . the camps work. They keep the homeless and other unwanteds off the streets. They have lowered welfare, unemployment, and law enforcement costs. They have freed up law enforcement so they can focus on bigger issues. And they cost very little to run. The fact is, many of the camps are actually run at a profit. They are all housed in government-owned properties like closed military bases or abandoned industrial parks. They are all engaged in a business, mostly light manufacturing or recycling precious metals and specialty alloys. A few repair electronics or appliances for the second-hand market. The detainees do their own cleaning, cooking, and maintenance. If a sink leaks or a toilet breaks, they fix it—with salvaged materials as far as possible. If a washing machine or a refrigerator breaks, they fix it or replace it with another second-hand model.
