The Blood Pawn

by Nicole Tillman

  Standing on two feet, I drop my hands to my sides.

  “I'm sorry, am I dead or drunk?” I ask. “Because this feels an awful lot like a sobriety test.”

  “That depends, are you much of a drinker?” Paula winks, and for the umpteenth time, I question her sanity.

  Finally, I have to open up to her. I have to ask.

  “Aren't you scared of me?”

  Paula stills her hands and takes one step back, a heavy sigh leaving her chest.

  “I was,” she admits. “Until I realized there's nothing to be afraid of.”

  I slump back down on the bed, deflated. I pity this strange woman who has made such a horrible judgment call.

  “That's not true. You should be scared of me. You don't know what I'll do any more than I do.”

  “Pfft, I'm an excellent judge of character,” she says, puffing out her chest. “Just ask my four ex-husbands. They'll vouch for me.”

  I can't help it. She's just too adorable for words. A laugh bursts from my chapped lips and I cover my face.

  “Not sure if you're lovable or insane, but I think I'll go with the latter.”

  Her wide shoulders lift in a shrug. “Suit yourself. Could be both, you know. But you know what?”

  She steps toward me, reaching out a hand to place against my cheek. I feel her warmth seeping into me, just as I know my cold is radiating into her palm. It's nice... being touched. It's been so long since anyone has held me, hugged me, even offered me a hand of support. I didn't know it until right now, but I've missed it.

  “The dead don't laugh, sweetheart.” She smiles, and I feel my face fall. What does that mean? “See? Nothing to be scared of.”

  Paula takes her clipboard, along with the vial of blood, and leaves the room. Sliding the door closed behind her, she intentionally neglects to lock it. She really is insane.

  Once the main door closes, the nurse approaches me, her steps weary and hesitant. I know I should be just as warm to her as I have been to Paula, but that's not going to happen. Not today. Paula is someone I consider a friend. Someone I trust.

  I don't trust this girl, and she hasn't given me a reason to. I can smell her disgust. It clings to her blue scrubs, and now that I'm alone with her and that stupid syringe she's carrying, I just want to tell her to get the hell out.

  “And what is that for?” I ask, a frigid edge to my words.

  She looks down at the syringe and then back at me. “I- I think it will help your sores.”

  I glance down at the needle. “It's empty.”

  “Well, ye-yeah,” she stutters. “I can drain them. That way they won't be so-”

  “So what?” I snap.

  “Um... swollen? Raised?” She shifts from one foot to the other, suddenly unsure of herself.

  “I think the word you're looking for is disgusting. You and everyone else are tired of looking at them so they sent you in to make me pretty again. Right?”

  “I- um, actually, I volunteered.”

  “Uh-huh.” I let my eyes scan her from head to toe and back again. She's rail thin with unassuming features, but her eyes are free of judgment. “And your specialty is?”

  A faint blush paints her cheeks, and I'm starting to feel bad for being such a jerk to her.

  “I was a cosmetologist, but I was working on my degree in Biology when the outbreak happened. One of my professors set me up here. I'm just a gopher, really.”

  “A cosmetologist,” I chuckle. “So you really do have some deep-seated urge to make me pretty.”

  Her shoulders rise up toward her ears. “Only if you want me to.”

  Hell, what can it hurt?

  Don't be a pain, Maya. Don't give them another reason to get rid of you.

  I wave my hand and sit forward, letting her know I'm cool with whatever she's about to do. It's not like she can make me any worse than I already am.

  “Ow!”

  The needle stuck in the side of my cheek hurts worse than the ones used to take my blood, and without looking I know it's a bigger gauge. Hence the fact that it feels like she's scraping cells out of my pores using a steak knife.

  But I relish the pain. It tells me I'm still in here. I'm still alive. Somewhat.

  “Sorry,” she whispers, extending the plunger. “The first few will be uncomfortable. I could give you a local to numb the area, but I'm not sure that would help.”

  “Well, since I can feel it I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that my pain receptors are still alive for the time being.”

  “Yeah, but if I numb them there's no guarantee the feeling will return. I might kill them off for good.”

  I roll my eyes, and for a split second I think one might get stuck, pointed up toward the ceiling. I quickly blink and stare straight ahead.

  “Got it. Just do what you have to do.”

  Thirty minutes later, there's a metal basin half-full of a sickly yellow ooze. As much as it would have turned my stomach before, right now it doesn't bother me. The reality of it, at least. But the idea that it came from my body is a little hard to accept.

  “All done.”

  I can't see my reflection in the glass from where I'm sitting, so I look down at my arms. The sores no longer look like tiny, angry mountains. In fact, they're just small splotches of discolored skin. Most are a subtle pink against my gray-tinted complexion, but a few are a little darker.

  “Believe it or not, I think they'll fade with time. The red will diminish as blood flows to other parts of your body.”

  I haven't had the opportunity to talk with anyone since being put in containment, but I want so badly to open up to this girl since we're alone. I want to tell her that when I lay down at night, I can feel the blood pooling at my back, which is why I rotate 'sleeping' on my sides and stomach. I want to tell her that when I'm active, I can feel blood being forced through my veins, but when I stop, it all begins to settle again.

  But that's too much for her. I know it is.

  So instead of opening my mouth and starting that macabre conversation, I offer her a kind smile. At least, I think it's kind until she grimaces.

  “I'll bring you a toothbrush next time I come back.”

  Ugh. Is it that bad?

  I swivel on my bed and bare my teeth at my reflection.

  Eww.

  All my teeth are coated in blood. Red and black splotches mar my once perfect smile, and I quickly snap my lips back together.

  “Thanks, I'd appreciate that,” I mumble.

  “No problem.” She gathers her things and turns to leave.

  “Ma'am?”

  She stops and turns to face me. “Sarah.”

  “Sarah,” I say. I've always thought that was a pretty name. “Is there any chance you could bring me something to eat?”

  I'm not really hungry, but my mouth is so dry I want something to chew on. I'd settle for a stick of gum.

  She looks around, falling back into the uncertain and easily frightened girl she was when she first walked in.

  “I'll see what I can do,” she says, a shake to her voice. I've scared her somehow. “But there's one more test they want to do first.”

  One more test. Always one more test.

  I nod. “Do I get to eat in the cafeteria?” I already know the answer to that question, but I ask anyway.

  Sarah shakes her head and points to the rectangular slot positioned in the middle of the glass door. I didn't know what that was for, but now I do. They'll slide my food inside, the same way convicts in prison receive their meals.

  “Got it. Thanks anyway.”

  With a tight smile, she exits the room and locks the door behind her. The squeak of her tennis shoes hits my ears in rapid succession, telling me she's hauling butt to get out of containment as fast as she can without actually sprinting.

  Figures... I say I want something to eat and she heads for the hills, thinking I'm in the mood for a Sarah Sandwich.

  The large metal door doesn't close behind her, but I immediately see why.r />
  My other teammates file inside and begin lining the walls, holding me in their watchful gaze. Once all fifteen of them are inside and standing like statues around the perimeter of the room, nurses and guards join them. The noise in the room quickly grows as people exchange pleasantries while uttering questions and staring at me in wonder.

  This is new.

  I don't know why, but the three men walking through the door have assembled an audience.

  Arthur March, Secretary of Defense, looks positively giddy as he speaks to Vice-President Bartholomew Wilder. In front of them, unblinking and stern, stands Louis Decker, President of the United States.

  This can't be good.

  The second I open my mouth to ask what's going on, Secretary March reaches out and presses a large square button on the wall.

  Definitely not good.

  Red lights flash through the room, blinding me. They whirl around, painting everyone's faces. Fear and excitement mingle among the crowd, but I feel nothing. No dread. No hope. Just curiosity. I want answers. Well, and food. Now that I've had time to think about it, I'd really like food right about now.

  But my subtle hunger vanishes the moment two guards wheel a huge wooden crate through the door. They steer the dolly it's on carefully, angling the package toward my prison door. It's just big enough for a person to fit inside, like a crude coffin, and anger begins to bubble up inside me, sweeping away the numbness.

  I don't want to get in that thing. Is that how they're going to transport me? And where the hell do they plan on taking me?

  Someone enters the code to unlock my door and the crate is wheeled flush to the threshold. That's when I notice the padlock. And the sound.

  Groaning creeps its way into my glass enclosure, and my eyes bolt open wide when a heavy realization hits me square in the chest.

  They're not putting me in the crate.

  They're taking something out.

  “What is that?” I ask, directing my question at anyone who will answer.

  But no one does. Not a single person lifts their chin to acknowledge I've spoken.

  Carefully, a guard unlocks the padlock, throws aside the metal bar keeping the door in place, and pulls his arms back to safety.

  Not good. Soooo not good.

  I brace myself against the concrete behind my legs and watch as the front panel swings open wide... and an honest to god, dead as a doornail zombie shuffles out to greet me. Sores and long cuts cover his lanky gray body, and he glances around the box, his blue and red gaze calculating.

  “What are you doing?” I scream, darting my eyes between the crowd and the approaching corpse.

  “Relax, Maya.” Paula stands right outside the room, her voice muffled. In her hands are a clipboard and pen, like she's poised to take notes on whatever is about to happen. “Breathe. Just stand your ground.”

  “Ur-wee. Mamee foo.”

  The guttural sounds catch me off guard and I stand stock-still, eyes glued to the man.

  “Is... is he trying to speak to me?”

  “He is,” Paula says. “But you won't be able to understand him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he chewed off his tongue,” Paula answers, a severity to her voice. “And ate it.”

  I cringe away, pressing my back to the wall to get as far away from the creature as possible. If he chewed off his own tongue in hunger, there's no telling what he'll do to me.

  He approaches, and I hold my hands up, preparing to fight him off.

  “Oh God...”

  Closer and closer he inches, his legs jerking, one hand lifted toward me while the other dangles limply at his side. He stops mere inches away, leaning his head toward mine, and I have to turn away. I can't take his close proximity, and if he's going to rip me apart, I'd rather not watch.

  This isn't exactly standing my ground, but I don't know what they expect me to do. Shake his hand? Square off with him?

  But the man doesn't attack. He doesn't maul me. In fact, he doesn't touch me at all.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watch his nostrils flare as he smells of my hair, like a dog sniffing a human's hand. After a moment of consideration, he turns and starts shuffling away. Just like that, he loses interest and begins examining the rest of the box, trailing his dirty hands along the glass, leaving grease and dirt behind.

  “Found him tangled in the razor wire outside,” Paula says.

  Jesus...

  I move around the room, keeping my eyes on his back until Paula's face is next to mine.

  “Why isn't he... you know, trying to dismember me?”

  She's watching him just as closely as I am now, all the while scribbling notes onto her clipboard without looking. “We think they track blood, like a predator.”

  Makes sense.

  But... oh.

  Ooooh.

  “So I smell like him?” I scrunch my nose at the thought. “Good to know.”

  “Well, no, not to us,” she explains. “But to him you probably do. You don't smell like prey. You smell like... nothing. He couldn't care less about you because you're-”

  “Just like him. Yeah, I know. I got it.”

  Everyone watches as the man pushes against the glass, puzzled at first, but then he begins to grow annoyed. Paula, quick as always, waves for one of the guards.

  “You've had your fun,” she says. “Now get him out.”

  I watch, completely captivated, as they throw in a ball of raw hamburger meat and he shuffles back into his tiny box. Once he's inside, the guards close the door, lock him up tight, and wheel him away.

  “Oh sure, you feed him,” I quip.

  I don't care how barbaric that feeding was, I can't deny the fact that I salivated when the meatball hit the floor.

  “They'll bring your tray this evening,” Paula assures me as she caps her pen. “Until then, rest up. You've got a big day tomorrow.”

  I don't have to ask what that means. It's written all over her face. It's in her smile, her gleaming eyes, her raised brows.

  “I'm getting out?”

  “Yes, ma'am,” she says, positively radiating with joy. “No more glass boxes for you. You're a free woman.”

  “Ugh, thank God,” I groan. “I think I'm starting to lose my mind in here.”

  “Another reason I pushed for you to be released,” she says solemnly. “The longer you're in isolation, the more susceptible you are to things like dementia, irrational outbursts, and uncontrollable cravings.”

  “Good thing I'm getting out then,” I say. “No one wants the dead girl to go crazy!”

  Even though it's a joke, Paula doesn't smile. She just shakes her head.

  “No, Maya, that's the last thing we all want.” One finger taps against the glass as she offers me a tiny wave. “See you in the morning.”

  She leaves, along with everyone else, and my temporary home is plunged into silence. A silence I hate. But I wait for the last of them to leave so I can gather myself in preparation for what tomorrow brings. But the door closes... and one person remains.

  One person stares.

  “What?” I ask, a speck of self-consciousness dropping into my gut. “Don't you have somewhere to be?”

  Cain's hands remain shoved in his pockets as he approaches. His eyes are free of judgment, free of pity. He looks serene. Which is the last thing he should be, especially here, especially now, in this world we live in.

  “Problem, Cain?” I ask, hoping he understands just how little I want him here.

  He shakes his head. “Nope. No problem here.”

  We stare at each other for a long time and I expect him to say something else, to start a conversation, to ask me a question. Anything, really. But he doesn't. So when I've tired of our silent standoff, I make my way back to my concrete bed and take a seat. He mirrors me, carrying a metal folding chair to the edge of the room where he sits in the shadows, inches outside the illumination of the lights above us.

  I do my best to ignore him. If he want
s a front row seat to the freak show, that's fine with me.

  He's welcome to it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I've zoned out for what feels like hours. Not actual sleep, just my mind wandering off in all directions, unable or unwilling to focus on any one thing. My ears register a noise as a woman walks through the door holding a tray and I rise to meet her.

  I'm not actually hungry, not really, but the need to chew on something is still there. It's in the back of my mind, urging me to find sustenance, even though my stomach could really care less if it's full.

  “It's about time,” I say, laying the irritation on thick. “I'm starving.”

  I meet her at the door and grab the tray when she slides it through the hatch. When I lift the lid, I gag and jerk it as far away from my face as I can manage.

  It's a steak.

  A raw steak.

  That's it.

  Sitting beside the offending piece of meat is a clear plastic bottle with a metal cap and a straw. I lay the tray down and read the label.

  Turning back to the door, I raise an eyebrow at the woman in scrubs.

  “Are you kidding? Please tell me this is a joke.”

  She shakes her head and points to the 'food'.

  “The blood from the steak will curb your hunger,” she says blandly.

  “Oh, I assure you it will not, because I'm not eating that.”

  “Suit yourself,” she says, shrugging as if she couldn't care less. Which, in reality, I guess she can't. “But just so you know, the formaldehyde will slow the rot.”

  Before I have time to explode on her, she walks away and closes the door behind her, leaving me alone with the bloody steak, the bottle of freaking formaldehyde, and a stupid bendy straw.

  “Unbelievable.”

  Dropping the tray to the ground, I kick it until it thuds against the far wall. There's no way I'm eating that. I'm not an animal. At least, I don't think I am.

  As long as I'm still thinking, then I have the power to keep myself in check. Eating that is the last thing I'll do before my heart stops beating.

  Laying down, I let my mind wander again. I might as well, I don't have anything better to do. Eyes closed, I venture back to a day when I felt happy. Back when I still had my eyes on a future, on good things to come. Back before I qualified for a death certificate...