by James Tow
giggling dies out, “How long has grandpa been in there mom?” Alyse asks.
“About thirty minutes now,” she replied.
Curiosity runs through me, “Your grandfather started the St. Andrews faction?” I guess.
“Him, and some of his friends,” Alyse confirmed.
“Don’t be modest Ally,” her mom says. She turns to me and said while pointing at Alyse, “It was mostly the little she-devil’s doing,”
I turn to Alyse, impressed, “You? Really?”
She blushes and says, “Well I had some serious influences.” She answers my confused look by pointing up at the ceiling to our left. Hanging from the wall, side by side, were two black flags that I knew all too well. On both flags, sprawled in white spray paint, read ‘Liberty NOW!’ And on the bottom of both flags read ‘G. Reed,’ on the left and ‘P. Reed,’ on the right. Awe struck, I get to my feet and walk toward them, reaching up and touch the black fabric.
“Remember when you thought that was ridiculous too? Just like the parachutes?” Paul said smugly.
“Where did you get these?” I asked, ignoring Paul.
“The one on the left, my grandfather got from New York City. And the one on the right…we got from Austin, Texas,” Alyse told me.
I look back at her and turn back to the flag to the right.
“Our first one,” Paul confirmed from the kitchen. I turn back.
“Wait…New York City?” I say smiling—reminiscing the ‘fun’ we had there. I start laughing, “Jumping from the Empire State building is fun,” I told them.
I look back and they’re looking at me with awe. “We were in a jam. A serious one…we thought we were going to die,” I said. “But…when in desperation, you do the craziest shit.”
Paul returned with a plate of some kind of steaming gray matter. He handed it to me, and I just look at it.
“I know,” he said, “I know.” He sat back on the sofa, next to Alyse, and I sat in my original spot—scarfing down the food. It was scorching hot, but I was starving.
“You jumped from the Empire State Building?” Alyse asked Paul in a whisper. Paul started laughing.
“What have you been telling her?”
“Just some good times,” I tell him in between bites.
Paul scoffs, “Good times.”
A man, down the hall from the kitchen, could be heard screaming, “Fuck you! You old bastard!” Everybody stops and turns to the voice. Anna and Alyse get up, and walk down the hall—adjacent to the kitchen. Paul and I follow. Down the short hall was a lone room, and an old man standing just outside the doorway. He was closing the door, so I didn’t get a good look inside. What I did see was a black man, strapped to a chair, in the middle of the room. Once the door shut, I focused on the old man who was wiping the blood from his hands. He was wearing a white t-shirt, covered in blood, and blue jeans with suspenders. His short gray hair was slicked back with a few messy strands sticking up, here and there.
“You have a prisoner?” My question wasn’t directed to anybody specific.
“Yeah,” Alyse said. “He’s a high ranking mercenary among Pollick’s group. We snatched him up while we were escaping from Seventh-Gate.”
“What’s the point of beating him?” I asked.
“Information,” she said. “He’s considered a general in their ranks. So naturally, he has to know something.”
“Something…” I repeated to myself. It’s broad, but anything helps at this point. We have nothing to go on—no information on leader whereabouts, base of operations, or any other juicy stuff. Now that I think about it, past information Paul and I got was purely luck. In the right place at the right time was all.
I make my way through the crowded hall, and confront Alyse’s grandfather—Paul shows up at my side.
“Anything interesting?” I asked him.
“Nothing,” he said in his Scottish accent—still wiping the blood from his hands. He’s a burly old man. His beer gut is more prominent than Jack’s. His gray beard reached down to his chest. This man had as many scars on his body as I do. His face holds a collection of small scars, mixed in with a series of wrinkles.
He looked up at me then smiled. “Ah, Gabriel. I’m Andrew Hound. It’s nice to see you up and moving.” I give him a nod and look at the door.
“I can’t even get his name. All he says is how his men are coming to kill us all,” he chuckled.
A man yelled from behind me, “Let me have a go. I can knock some sense into him.”
Another man yelled, “Yeah, you’ve been at it for half an hour now. Let us go in there.”
I look back at Paul and ask, “Can I get another orange?” The disgusting after-taste of the sheep’s bladder hit me. Paul looked puzzled and turned to fight his way out of the crowded hall.
“Now fellas,” Andrew started, “There’s no way he’s going to tell us. I’m probably just going to end him.”
The group objected with shouts and incoherent yelling. This had Andrew second guessing. He was looking down at the ground—weighing his options. A tap on my shoulder turned me around and Paul was holding out an orange. I tell him thanks and put my hand on the door knob. Everybody quickly falls silent.
Andrew put his hand on my shoulder, “Look son. I don’t think terrorizing him is going to get you any precious intel.”
“I’m just going to sit down and have a chat,” I told him.
Some guys behind me start objecting further—wanting their turn to wail on his face.
I turn to Paul and say, “Doing the same thing and expecting different results.”
“Ignorance,” he confirmed.
Anna
10. Discretion
I paused and the scurrying sound of pencil sliding across paper was left to float about the room. There were only a few left who didn’t feel the need to write anything, but they were listening intently nonetheless. And that was good enough for me.
“So, after further interrogation Gabriel managed to extract intelligence that would lead them back to what was formerly known as America or ‘The States,’ as many people called it back then…” One of the kids, from the center section, held his hand up—cutting me off a bit short.
“Yes?” I called out to him.
“I’m not sure if it was in your agenda or not, but how exactly did Gabriel get the intel? It sounded like everybody else tried and failed. I was just interested in what he did different.”
I could only pause and think carefully. I could lie, I could tell them the truth, or I could simply omit. Lying goes against my character. The truth hurts. And omitting just stinks. If I were a student, I wouldn’t want the teacher to keep anything from me. Of course, I’d be biased in my attempt for the truth. Then it wouldn’t be the truth. I look around the audience and realize I’ve paused too long. Mom, what would you tell them?
Everybody has flaws.
“To be honest, that information has never been passed on. So there’s no way of knowing, unless you’ve actually seen it yourself. Which is a bummer because all I know is that Gabriel entered that room alone,” and the silence continued. “Not even Paul knew. Maybe if you had a time machine,” I added with a shrug and chuckle and the audience joins in on the humor. That sucked.
“Alright, I know you guys are bored. So I’ll wrap it up for today,” I look at my watch. Twenty minutes passed schedule. “I’ll resume tomorrow—same time.” A majority of the students moan and groan in objection, while others immediately stand and head for the doors.
The creep, sitting in front of me, stands up and approaches me. “You have lovely green eyes,” he told me. Again, I could only pause. What is with this guy?
“Sorry, but I’m just not interested,” I tell him. He drops his head, “Can’t blame a guy,” he said and makes his way up the stairs toward the doors. Yeah…I can.
Once the auditorium is clear, with an exception of a few stragglers, I plop myself down in the chair the creep occupied. I look up at the last slide the projector shown
on the screen: two black flags with ‘Liberty NOW!’ and their initials sprawled in white spray paint.
I can’t take my mind off of the question from earlier. What would they think of the older Reed brother if they knew he wasn’t ‘stable?’
I didn’t lie, entirely, in my answer. Only those who were there knew what went down in that room, and it wasn’t passed on because nobody ever spoke of it…except my mom. What Gabriel didn’t know, was that the interrogation room wasn’t sound proof. I turned around to see the old man sitting forward in his seat. His head was down, but I could see his eyes. The pained expression of when you remember something that you want erased. He looks up at me then smiles and nods.
I turned back around and stare at the projection while I replay my mom’s memories as my own…
11. …Interrogation
The room was dark with the exception of a single candle, lying on the floor by the prisoner’s feet. It was dank, with an aroma of sweat and blood. Puddles of water stay still on the hard floor—mirroring the stone ceiling. The stone walls were stained with several anonymous substances.
The African-American male was bound to the metal chair which lay in the middle of the room. The chair itself was bolted to the floor, and the American mercenary had his arms behind him, his legs tied to the chair’s legs with thick rope. His head hung, leaving me to face his bald head.
I stood in front of him for a few seconds before lying down on the ground. He threw his head up. His facial structure is disfigured by the beatings he undoubtedly received. He had a broken nose, swollen eyes, split and
