Liberated

by Abi Ketner

  So, come on, Wilson. Let’s get this over with.

  Sutton’s concerned face hovers over me as he brushes a strand of my hair back. I gulp, cough, and clear my throat as his eyes drift to mine. “Oh, thank God.”

  “Hi again,” I whisper.

  “You’ve had me worried sick.” He pinches the skin of his throat and shakes his head. “However did you get into this mess?” He peeks over his shoulder, making sure no one’s coming.

  “Trying to save you,” I explain.

  “But, my dear girl, you shouldn’t have come back here, not for me. You were supposed to run as far away from here as you possibly could.”

  “And leave you here to rot?” I shake my head slightly. “Never in a million years. You don’t deserve this.”

  “No one does,” he says.

  I sigh. “True, but after everything you did for me and countless others, there’s no way we’d ever leave you behind.”

  “Well. No use arguing now, is there?”

  “Nope. At least there’s still a sliver of hope that Bruno and the gang will get us out of here.”

  “Let’s focus on that possibility,” he says. But he can’t hide the doubt in his voice and the worry lines on his forehead. “Losing Cole … It feels like I’ve lost my son.” He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his nose. “I can’t fathom what you and Bruno are going through.”

  The suffocating reminder pulls me under.

  “Change of subject,” I say, vigorously rubbing my face with both hands. “What caused the bleeding?”

  “Good diversion.” He leans forward and holds my hand tighter. “The blade sliced your liver pretty much in half, which caused the internal bleeding. Lexi, you’re lucky you got here when you did.”

  “Lucky?” I croak, turning my face toward him with my eyebrows raised.

  “Yes, lucky,” he repeats. “And, fortunately, you only lost a small piece of your liver, so I believe, without complications, you’ll bounce back just fine.” He pauses and then whispers, “Physically, that is. But, unfortunately, I’m banned from giving you drugs.” That’s when I register that he wears new bruises. On the left side of his face is a black-and-blue shiner. His hands tremble as he strokes mine, and the whites of his eyes are bloodshot.

  “I understand.” I squeeze his hand, but unlike in the past, it’s cold. It saddens me to witness him in this condition, the broken-down version of the Sutton I once knew. Desperation crawls up to strangle me. I lower my voice. “Thank you for the letter.”

  He jerks my hand, grabbing my attention. “It made it to you?”

  “It did.” He frowns for a moment. “Some was blurred from water I guess.”

  “When the time is right, I’ll explain everything to you. You have my word.”

  “I get it,” I say. My mom said the same thing before she died.

  “Look, Lexi, I know you feel as if you have nothing to live for, but, darling, you’re wrong,” he says urgently. “I can’t change what you’ve lost, but I can give you hope. This isn’t over, not yet. It was written in the letter, the reason you need to keep fighting—” Footsteps approach, and Sutton tenses. “Hope is never dead,” he whispers, and I nod, already sensing a presence in the doorway.

  “I’ll try to hold on to that,” I promise him.

  “No more talking,” Wilson says, stepping out from behind Sutton. He takes a baton from his waistband and, in a flash, smashes it into Sutton’s side. Sutton falls to the floor, grimacing as he curls into the fetal position.

  “You monster!” I shout. “What’s wrong with you?” I push myself onto my elbows, but Wilson’s firm hand shoves me back down. “He did what you asked him to do, and you still beat him! What gives you the right to treat people this way?”

  “You’ve got nerve, little girl, questioning me when you’re in no position to do so.” He turns toward a guard behind him. “Take her to her cell.” Then he turns back to Sutton. “As for you … your work here is almost done. I suggest you try to enjoy your last few days.” He laughs above Sutton’s crumpled figure.

  Sutton whimpers, his green eyes glazing over. It’s enough to make me dry-heave. My head throbs, and my hands form into fists. What I wouldn’t give for a gun right now.

  “Sutton,” I whisper. He presses his lips together and nods, not letting go of his side.

  “Give me a break,” Wilson sneers. “He’s suffered through worse—much worse.” He snaps his fingers, and Shane comes through the doorway. First, he glances at me, and then he notices Sutton lying on the floor. He rushes to Sutton, his neck flushed and his jaw tightening.

  “What did you do to him?” he asks desperately.

  Wilson ignores him with a wave of his hand. “Drag him to his room.” Then he turns his attention back to me. “Once you’re settled in your cell, it’ll finally be time for us to have that little heart-to-heart.”

  In that split second, I make a decision. I regret telling Sutton not to save me. If he’s able to endure the abuse he’s been through, then I can do the same. Cole and my friends wouldn’t want me to give up. Not now. Sutton’s right. As always.

  “I’ll tell you nothing,” I say between clenched teeth.

  “You’ll change your mind,” he sneers.

  “Go ahead,” I spit. “Torture me all you want. I don’t know anything. You’ve wasted all this time on me. For nothing. Such a shame.”

  “Torture?” he laughs.

  Shane helps Sutton stand and wraps Sutton’s arm over his shoulder before shuffling out of the room, Sutton gritting his teeth with every step. I want to scream and run to him, but Wilson gives me a cold glare and slaps his baton in the opposite palm. Then, without further explanation, he spins on his heel and leaves me alone with my grim thoughts.

  I slump back in my bed, trying to breathe. Sutton told me to trust him, but about what? What’s left to hope for? I sort through all of the possibilities, and none of them make sense.

  Two guards file into my room and push my bed out of the room. I narrow my eyes, absorbing every detail of this place that could be important later on. Because I’m trusting Sutton, I have to help in whatever meager way I can. I press my blanket down, pretending I’m not paying attention to what’s going on around me. The guards don’t seem to notice as they talk amongst themselves.

  They push me past an open doorway, through which is a large room filled with people in blinding-white lab coats. I slowly lift myself up to get a better look. The people in the coats wear blue gloves and work at stations surrounded by what looks like the familiar vials we stole. Several high-powered microscopes are arranged around the tables, and no one speaks. Only one of the lab workers bothers to glance my way, and his stare bores into me, alarmed and … familiar. He inches across the floor, checking around him to make sure he isn’t drawing attention. He gives me a wink and then stumbles into our path. The guards jerk me to a halt.

  “Back to work, Gabe,” one of the guards snaps.

  “Actually, sir, I’m puking my guts out,” Gabe answers hesitantly. “And I was hoping you’d grant me early leave.”

  “Not a chance,” the other guard says. “Wilson just ordered for you to work around the clock.”

  “What good am I while hovering over a toilet?” Gabe asks, careful to avert his gaze. “Not to mention I’m contagious. I doubt Wilson wants his workers vomiting all over his precious lab.”

  The guards look at each other, as if having some kind of silent conversation. In that split second, Gabe turns to me and mouths, “You okay?” I nod. “I’ll pass it on.”

  The guards snap back to attention, and Gabe quickly morphs into a sick, bent lab worker. He stumbles closer to the guards, making heaving noises. They push my bed away from him, their faces crinkling with disgust.

  “Go. Get out of here. But be here tomorrow at five a.m. sharp,” one of the guards says. He shoves Gabe aside and then pushes me forward.

  “Will do. Thanks,” Gabe calls. He winks at me, and his white lab coat disappears. I exhal
e, releasing my fear, knowing there are still people who choose to be brave, even when they know the risks.

  The dry-wall hallway ends, and cement blocks begin, telling me I’m being taken somewhere into the original Commander’s quarters. The lights dim, only one bulb about every fifteen feet. I count them, trying to focus on anything but Cole, when the rattling of a cage makes me anxious. Confined space isn’t something I handle well.

  One of the guards open a black cage with a clank, and the other guides my bed into an old elevator.

  Breathe, Lexi. Think happy thoughts. Uh, that’s a problem. I don’t have any happy thoughts.

  They crank the cage closed and pull a lever, which sends us downward at a painfully slow pace. I watch as the cement blocks move past. The air’s damp, and the temperature drops. I shiver, but of course, no one offers another blanket.

  Seeing Gabe reminded me of the others. I can only imagine what they’re going through, desperately awaiting information. They’re probably busy picking up the pieces. Like me. And hanging on by a thread.

  Hopefully, Gabe can pass on whatever he knows, and it’ll help my friends. He certainly seemed relieved to see me. If he’s thrilled knowing I’m alive, the others probably will be, too. If that’s the case, I’ll have to find a way to survive this, even without Cole. I end my thoughts there, knowing if I think too much about him, I’ll disintegrate.

  The elevator stops, and the guard struggles with the rusted metal lever.

  “Piece of junk,” he says as he pries it loose. They roll me into another dimly lit hall. This is definitely farther down than I knew existed. During the revolt, I was only given a layout of the upper floors of the Commander’s quarters. I wonder if they were aware there was a buried prison beneath.

  Condensation drips off the cement arch at the end of the hall. The two guards park me beneath it, so dirty water spills onto my lap. They hand over their papers to a guard sitting at the entrance. No one smiles, and their posture’s tense, shoulders squared. Above the prison guard, a camera is mounted. He returns the papers with a nod. “All the way to the end,” he says. He never bothers to acknowledge my presence.

  “But that’s where—”

  “Wilson’s orders,” he says firmly. “He’s sedated.”

  My mouth drops open. Oh, fantastic. They’re putting me in with a mass murderer or some crazy person.

  “All right,” the guards reply.

  On the right side, black prison bars separate us from individual cells, but I can’t make out who’s being kept in each one. The figures I observe look more like animals. Hunched backs, fingers twisted in all directions. No one even bothers to turn his or her head in my direction. I’m just another Sinner being carted in.

  One, two, three, four cells pass. Bars line three sides of each cell with the backs butting up against a cement wall. I count twelve before they stop at the last cell and enter a pin code in a panel on the wall. The door opens with a loud squeal. Inside, they get me settled and then slam the door closed. Outside again, one of them addresses me.

  “Food and water will be brought twice a day. If you need to piss or crap, there’s a latrine right there.” He points to a hole in the floor in the back corner. “Try not to miss. You’re under constant camera surveillance, so don’t try anything stupid. Like strangling yourself with your blanket.” He turns to follow his comrade, but then remembers something and pivots back. “One more thing: do not speak to the other prisoners. Or there will be consequences.”

  Then they leave me.

  When I inhale, the smell of mold travels up my nose, and my pulse quickens thinking about the spores entering my body. I pinch my nostrils closed and breathe through my mouth, as if that’ll make a difference. My legs are restless while I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Checking my surroundings, I notice that no one bothered to clean up the last prisoner’s feces in my makeshift toilet, and despite pinching my nose, it’s not an odor you ever forget. I almost choke, but I hold my breath until it passes.

  Across the cell, a camera watches my every movement. It’s no wonder the control room was where we found the Commander. Him and Wilson must’ve stared at the screens all day. I slump back in my bed, squeezing my eyes closed for a minute. There’s no way out of here and even if I could escape, I wouldn’t know where to go. In all the maps of the Commander’s quarters I’ve studied, there was nothing about a hidden prison this far underground, and thus nothing about the kind of prisoners being kept here.

  I’m truly and totally alone.

  The thought snaps something inside of me. Cole’s gone. Really gone. And I’m here, doing what I thought was right. Only now, I’m asking myself if it was the best choice. Should I have listened to him? I know blaming myself for what went wrong would be useless. Cole shouldn’t have shown up like he did, but I should’ve known he’d never leave me to go alone.

  Tears flow freely down my face. I block out the fact that a camera’s fixated on me. In my mind, it’s just me and I allow myself this one moment to cry. But when I gasp on a sob, the pain rips through my abdomen. Taking a knife through the heart would’ve been easier than this. How am I supposed to help Sutton when no one even knows where I am? And even if the others do show up, will they ever find me?

  The sound of shuffling feet approaches.

  Get yourself together, Lexi.

  I go completely still as something clangs into the bars adjacent to my cell.

  Every muscle tenses in expectation. I try picturing what kind of poor souls are imprisoned here, and the images that flash before my eyes make me cringe. Judging from the look of this worn-down, rusted place, many others were here before me, and Wilson doesn’t seem to have plans of stopping.

  Shifting on the gurney, I turn toward the cell next to mine, squinting to see. A figure begins to take shape in the darkness. Shadows hide his face, but I’m pretty sure it’s a man judging from his wide shoulders. He cocks his head, and I make out his tangled beard and long hair. He leans against the bars, his frail hands gripping them for balance. I remember the guard saying the prisoner closest to me was drugged, so maybe that explains the leaning.

  Then the stench hits me. Body odor and the sting of old blood, mixed with excrement. If he was once a man, it’s hard to decipher, for Wilson has broken him down so much. What did he do to deserve this? I know I’m not allowed to talk to him, so what am I supposed to do? My insides crawl thinking about some guy staring at me like a piece of meat …

  “Go away,” I whisper.

  “No,” he answers. His voice is low and raspy, like it’s been dragged through gravel. He sways a little, catching himself and straightening before speaking again. “It’s … not possible.”

  “We’re not allowed to talk.”

  “Is … Is your last name Hamilton?” I peer at his face with suspicion, noting his eyes and how they see through me. He cocks his head to the side, waiting for my reaction. I gasp, pushing myself as far back on the gurney as I can. Panic envelopes me as I check my arms, hoping to find an injection site or anything to explain this hallucination. I am losing my mind. Did Sutton give me something I wasn’t aware of? Or maybe Wilson’s just trying to drive me mad by playing tricks with my head and my heart. Because this right here is the cruelest thing he could possibly do to me.

  Lexi, tune it out.

  I cover my ears.

  No, no, no way! It’s not real. It can’t be him. Get the hell out of my head.

  His mouth parts, as if searching for something to say, but I’m scared one more word will cause me to lose any sanity I’ve got left. Wilson’s threats about breaking me with a weapon I wouldn’t expect come ringing back in my ears.

  It doesn’t make sense … I went to his memorial service. Mom, Keegan, and I sat broken and crying as the minister spoke of his life. Guests signed a book, and we received his last belongings, the clothing he was wearing, his glasses …

  Yet, right now, a set of turquoise eyes stares back at me.

  I grip the sid
e rails of the gurney so hard my knuckles turn white, and the rails rattle from my shaking body.

  “Please don’t be frightened,” he says. “I’d never hurt you.”

  His voice is different. Deeper. It’s not him. I know for sure now that I’m trapped in one of my hallucinations. Come on, Zeus, where are you? Bring me out of this!

  “I apologize for making you uncomfortable,” he says slowly. “It’s just … you’re the spitting image of my daughter … and the Commander took me from my wife and two kids years ago, so … I suppose it’s my desperation causing me to grasp for straws.”

  My eyes widen in disbelief. I glance at him once more, thinking this apparition will disappear, but it doesn’t. The uncanny stranger remains there, looking broken and smelling awful. He’s nothing but skin and bones, and his shaggy hair has streaks of gray. He blinks rapidly before rubbing his eyes with his filthy hands.

  My chest starts tingling, and I’m lightheaded. I shake my head in disbelief. Wilson and the cameras be damned. Prying my fingers off the rails, one by one, I swing my legs off the gurney. My feet hit the cold floor, and my lungs constrict when the burning pain spreads across my abdomen. I lean over, placing my hands on the side of the gurney to hold me steady, until the pain becomes somewhat tolerable and my lungs suck in enough air. I grab the pillow and press it against my stinging core, and with the added support, I manage to shuffle toward the stranger before me.

  He takes in my injuries. “Are you—”

  “Fine,” I blurt out, still shaking.

  “I’d beg to differ,” he says, his voice breaking. As I place one of my hands on the wall to steady myself, his jaw drops. “Remarkable,” he says. “You look just like her.”

  He’s not disappearing. My heart begins to beat faster. Why can’t I wake up from this hallucination?

  I take two more steps toward him and grab the bars separating our cells. Our fingers touch. I shiver, because his are like ice, but his grip’s as strong as my father’s always was. He wraps his hands around mine. His fingernails are all missing, leaving ugly black scars. I should be petrified of this stranger, but I’m not.