by Keri Lake
I wonder if they’ve shaved my head, too, since I can’t feel anything.
Swallowing past the lump that won’t shrink at the back of my throat, I raise my head off the pillow, watch her lift my wrist and set some cold piece of metal there that’s attached to a necklace, of sorts, which she sticks into her ears.
“What’s Commissary?”
“Shhhh.” She stares off for a moment, the slight nod of her head seeming to keep track of something while she holds the metal to my wrist, then she pops the necklace out of her ears. “First floor. You’ll eat some stew and get thirty minutes in the yard. Feeling should return soon. You’ll probably have some nausea, but the broth will help.” She sounds like my mother when we got sick, spouting off her nursing terms so matter-of-fact.
There’s a sense of panic brewing in my chest at the information this woman isn’t providing, though. “My sister? Where is my sister?”
“You’ll meet her in the Commissary, and then you’ll be assigned to your bunks.”
At that, I push up as much as I can, lifting half my body up off the bed, before a hand sets against my chest. “Nuh-uh. Five minutes. You try to move now, and you’ll be trippin’ all over yourself.”
“I want to see my sister.”
“And you will.” The way her brow raises also reminds me of my mother, when she refused to negotiate with me. “In five minutes.”
On a huff of frustration, I fall back onto the pillows, the irritation growing faster than my sense of touch. “What is this place?”
“What’s it look like?” She lifts a board with an attached paper and a pen, scribbling something I can’t see.
“I’m old enough to know looks can be deceiving.”
She rolls her eyes and snorts a laugh. “Smart girl.” Setting the board back down on the table beside me, she sets to straightening my sheets around me. “It’s a research facility. We’re here to find a cure for the Dredge.”
“And what role do my sister and I play in that?”
“Look, kid, I’m just the nurse who makes sure you wake up. I don’t have all the answers.” She spins to leave, and whether by will, or a small measure of strength, I’m able to reach out and grab her wrist, stopping her.
“Please. Help us get out of here. We don’t belong here.”
Prying my fingers from her arm, she shakes her head. “Baby, you think any of us belong here? It’s better than dying out there.” She jerks her head as if freedom is so close, just over my shoulder, when I know it isn’t. It’s beyond the walls and the guards, and if I make it past those, I’d have the Ragers to contend with.
“At least I have choices out there. And freedom.”
“If that’s what you think, you ain’t been on your own long enough.” With a pat to my arm, she smiles. “Five minutes, and you are free to go to the Commissary.”
“You said that five minutes ago.”
“Give it another five.”
Sickness churns in my stomach while I hold out a bowl, watching a too-frail girl, whose head is also shaved, ladle broth with some beans. It splashes over the edge, wetting the slice of bread beside it. Perhaps this is the first time I’m not hungry enough to eat, or the overwhelming smell, like sewage, has soured my appetite.
“Dysentery’s a bitch,” the serving girl says from behind the counter, wearing the same yellow uniform as my own. “You’ll get used to it.”
Perhaps my disgust is more obvious than I thought.
“Cali! Cali!” The familiar sound of my sister tamps down the urge to vomit all over the only meal I’m probably getting today, and I turn to see her waving at me from a table, where she sits with two other girls that look to be her age. Leave it to Bryani to make friends in this place.
The sight of her shaved head draws my hand to my own bald skin, and it takes some effort not to break down in tears as I hobble over to her and take a seat on the only open spot at the table. I notice she’s already eaten most of her food. “Here,” I say, pushing my tray toward her. “I’m not that hungry yet.”
“I’m okay.” She pushes it back. “You don’t have to keep giving me your rations.”
“You need it more than I do.”
“I’ll eat it!” One of the two girls at the table, a scrawny-looking thing with sunken eyes reaches out for my tray, but I yank it out of her reach.
“No. I’ll eat it.”
“This is eight-eight-two and eight-twenty-nine.” Bryani runs her fingers over the back of her neck, where I catch something black there. “I can’t remember mine.”
Batting her hand away, I notice the red, inflamed skin where a number has been inked, and I touch the back of my neck, picking up some clear gelatinous goo on the tip of my finger.
“What did they do?” I ask, gathering more of the goo, which I wipe on the uniform I was given back in the recovery room.
“It’s your number. Everyone has one.” The one called eight-eight-two turns just enough for me to catch part of the number tattooed beneath her hairline.
“Kinda itches a little.” Bryani chuckles, pretending to scratch at it. “I didn’t feel it when I first woke up, but now it burns.”
“It goes away,” the girl responds. “You need to memorize it. At least the last three numbers for when they call you over the speaker.”
“Call us?” Frowning, I pull apart a piece of bread and shove it into my mouth. It’s bland and salty, but soaks up some of the acids burbling in my stomach. “For what?”
“Your bunk assignment. Experiments. Whatever they need you for.” The girl looks past us and nudges her friend. “C’mon. Let’s go outside for a few minutes.”
“You just want to see the boys,” her friend beside her argues.
“Do not!”
“Do, too!”
“What boys?” I turn around, peering through the window to where a small yard is sectioned off by fence, barbed wire, guards, and Ragers. Virtually impossible to escape.
“The older boys are next to us.” Eight-twenty-nine gathers up her bowl, as well as her friend’s and Bryani’s bowls, and stacks them neatly. “Have you ever seen a penis before?” she asks Bryani, and I reach in front of the girl, interrupting her stare, and snap my fingers.
“Hey, she doesn’t need to see any of that. Neither do you.”
The girl shrugs. “Not my fault they show us, sometimes.” She pushes up from the table, and as though there’s some unspoken understanding between them, Bryani grabs her tray and follows after them, leaving me alone.
“Hey!” I scarf down some of the broth for my stomach’s sake, and shove a piece of bread into my mouth, before discarding my tray and dishes into a basin set beside the door. Pushing through the door, I follow the young girls out to the yard, nabbing Bryani’s arm.
“You don’t need to go with them!” I chide her, and the way her eyes skate to the side tells me she’s embarrassed.
Wrenching her arm out of my grasp, she tightens her lips in anger. “You’re not my mom! You can’t tell me what to do!”
“You’re right! I’m not! But she wouldn’t want you acting that way, either!”
“She isn’t here!”
“Because she’s dead!”
“She’s dead because of you!”
The bite of her words slices into my heart, and it takes every ounce of effort not to tear up at her words. Sometimes, I forget that Bryani is young. She doesn’t understand the heartbreak of simple words. They fly off her tongue with little to no remorse, because no one has ever spoken to her that way. I could never bring myself to hurt her.
I stand dumbfounded for a minute, watching her storm off with the other girls, toward the fence. Beyond the barrier, groups of boys in blue uniforms, my age and older, form groups. Some stand around talking. Others smoke. Some stand at the fence, calling out to the girls.
A guard shuffles the boys off, setting my stomach at ease, and I wait, observing my sister with her newfound friends. They park themselves beneath a tree at the corner of the yard
, sitting in a circle, clapping their hands in play.
As I glance around the yard, I note that all of the girls look the same, a sea of bald heads and yellow uniforms, making it nearly impossible to distinguish one from the other. Even Bryani doesn’t stick out from them as easily as I hoped. I’ve never seen so many girls and women in one place before. It’s as if they gathered up every last one in the world and brought them here. The question is, what for?
To keep my observations from looking too obvious, I make my way across the yard, noting where everything is, scanning for holes in the fences, objects lying about that can be used as a step for climbing. Or weapons against the guards. Not a single means of escape in this place.
Opposite my sister, I back myself against the fence, from where I can watch her.
I wish I could be that innocent. So young and naïve. Blind to the dangers I can see through this false shroud. What bliss it would be to pretend that this is the kind of place where friends are made and life is better than outside the walls. Judging by the haggard appearance of so many of these girls, though, I get a sense that isn’t the case.
“Check it out. We got a newbie!”
The unfamiliar voice from behind draws me out of my musings, and I turn to see a stocky girl standing behind me. Scattered freckles complement the pale tone of her skin. Narrow, beady eyes, set too close, don’t seem to be all that friendly.
“What’s your number, Newbie?”
Shrugging, I turn to blow her off, noticing my sister isn’t sitting under the tree anymore.
“Hey! Don’t ignore me, bitch.” A shove from behind nearly knocks me to the ground, and I scowl back at her.
“Back off.”
She looks beyond me, cupping her hands at either side of her mouth. “Eh! Sixty-five! I got a newb!”
Following the path of her stare has my gaze landing on one of the older kids in the yard next door. He breaks from his group, subtly tossing a cigarette aside, as he makes his way toward the fence. Bright green eyes and tawny skin with a strong jaw, he looks to be eighteen, or nineteen, maybe. Handsome, but the glint in his eyes is pure trouble.
“Yeah? Let’s see her.”
“Get up,” Freckles commands.
“Piss off.” I don’t curse as a general rule, unless someone pushes me over the edge, but after today, I’m already halfway to the bottom of the cliff.
Grabbing a handful of my uniform, she yanks hard, drawing me to my feet. My muscles, still too weak from whatever drug I’ve been given, are of little use in fighting her. Bent forward, all I can do is scratch at her arms while she drags me along the fence, nearly tugging my shirt to my breasts, where the boy stands.
“Stop! Stop it!”
She guides me around the tree, and at the first sound of clicking and growls, my guts feel like they’re about to expel what little I’ve eaten.
I scream, but my pitch is no match for the collective growls that grow more excitable. The girls around me laugh as Freckles tugs me closer, close enough I can feel small spasms of pain as the monsters scratch their nails over my skin.
“You have a choice, girl. Let the Ragers flay you right here, or touch my friend’s junk.”
Nails digging into her skin, I scratch at her hand, and she releases me.
“Ouch! Bitch!”
I tumble backward, and an arm wraps around my neck, holding me against the fence, as Freckles slaps and scratches at my face. Screams bleat from my chest. Cruel laughter in my ear heightens my frustration, and I manage to draw back a fist. With every ounce of power left in me, I slam it into Freckles’s face, knocking her head to the side.
For a second, she looks stunned, but her eyes turn cold and murderous.
“C’mon, Lee. You gonna let her hit you like that?!” The boy grips tighter from behind, squeezing the air from my windpipe.
As Freckles lunges forward, the boy’s arm falls away, and I twist, dodging her punch, and see another boy has knocked my attacker to the ground, this one slightly bigger. Maybe slightly older. Certainly stronger. Punch after punch smashes the kid’s face on sprays of blood, and even Freckles has abandoned her wrath, looking on in shock as her friend is pummeled. The other boy manages to flip his attacker over, and the two of them roll on the dirt, drawing a crowd of boys around them.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” the boys chant.
The guards appear out of nowhere, black uniforms in a sea of blue, and I zero in on the boy who helped me. The one who didn’t hesitate to help me. One with silvery gray eyes and golden-bronze skin whom it takes two guards to drag away. A second boy jumps in his place, punching and kicking the one who attacked me. The one on the ground kicks the feet out from under the boy, and just like the first two, they’re rolling across the dirt.
Four more guards drag the two boys off, and Freckles shakes her head beside me.
“Oh, no, oh, God, no.”
Turning toward her and back to the boys, I look on in confusion. The dread in her voice rides thick on her words, as if she just witnessed something more horrible than watching her friend get roughed up by both boys. “What’s going to happen to them?”
“I don’t know.” A tear spills down her cheek, which she quickly wipes away like she doesn’t want me to see. “They never come back when they’re dragged away.”
Chapter 10
Present day
* * *
When chores were assigned a while back, I resigned myself to work in the kitchen, in hopes of seeing my sister. Everyone passes through at some point, but it’s been years since I last caught a glimpse of her here. Perhaps she comes in on a different shift. Maybe the girls in obstetrics eat together. I imagine that, sometimes: Bryani and the friends she’s made here, eating together. Laughing and telling stories, as carefree as any day out in the desert. Hard as I try, it’s becoming more difficult to imagine her face, the details I once committed to memory slowly dissolving into scraps of forgotten thoughts. If not for Medusa’s occasional updates, I’d never even know she was alive in this place.
I wipe down the stainless steel counters, preparing the kitchen for the next group. The perks of working back here are getting an extra piece of bread after shift, and water whenever I want. I’m not one to pass on the extras, because I’ve learned, after four years, that what I don’t take, someone else will, but today, I’m not in the mood. I’ve got another meeting with the Iron Giant, followed by a delightful wrap up with Doctor Ericsson that has officially soured my appetite.
I swipe the bread into the oversized stainless steel sink, still a quarter full of suds from washing dishes, and reach down to pull the plug. A sharp prick hits the tip of my finger, and I draw back on a curse, examining the slice up the side of it. Blood slides down wet skin, falling out of a sizable gash that, by the depth when I pull it apart, probably needs stitches.
Suction from the drain draws my attention toward a knife left behind by one of the Legion cooks. We’re not supposed to have access to such potential weapons. The cooks prepare the food, well before we come in to serve it, and never once have they been so careless as to leave a knife behind. The sight of it stirs flashes of memory, and I pause in hopes of immersing myself in these strange dream-like images.
“Cali! Cali!” Bryani calls out to me.
I turn to see her lying on a gurney beside me. The sterile scent of bleach and chemicals fills my lungs, but it fails to stamp out the pungent odor of death. I reach out a hand connected to tubes. The room spins too fast. A man looms over me. In his hand is a scalpel, one so shiny, I can see balls of light from the oversized lamp above me reflected in the steel. An exhausted cry bleeds out of my chest.
It almost seems like another person, but the details are so vivid. I look down at the cut on my finger, which has begun to drip blood that pools in the basin, staining the white frothy bubbles of dish water. I lift the knife and tuck it into my apron, glancing around to make sure none of the other two kitchen workers noticed, and I stick my finger beneath the running water to ri
nse the gash. From the shelf beside me, I grab a clean, dry rag and wrap it around the wound, squeezing hard to staunch the blood.
Should someone find the weapon, they’ll use it to remove something on me--something benign, like a finger. I’ve seen it happen once. A girl once swiped a scalpel from surgery, and Medusa ordered one of the soldiers to use that very knife to cut off her thumb. Still, the knife is a gift, and in a place like Calico, one doesn’t ignore such simple generosities of fate.
A deep burn penetrates my flesh where the wound has begun it’s healing process. Can’t see much of it in the darkness, but I’ve done a fine job of picking at it the last twenty minutes, while parked against the wall in Valdys’s cell.
Another day of silence.
I’ve grown used to it, though. He doesn’t bother me. I don’t bother him. No one gets knocked onto their back and viciously raped.
The wound is a distraction that I managed to hide from Medusa on the way down here, though the Alphas we passed along the way seemed more excitable than usual. As though they could smell the blood and open flesh.
The knife, I hid inside a hole in my mattress back at the room. Perhaps I’ll never use it.
It’s nice knowing it’s there, though.
The door clicks open, earlier than last time, unless the distraction of my wound is that effective in making me think it’s earlier.
Medusa’s hands are clasped, her chin high, eyes brimming with all kinds of frustration. “Come with me.” Behind her, Legion soldiers enter the room, passing me, as I push to my feet.
Growls and scuffling echo inside the cell, and I watch as they prod the shadow in the corner.
“Quickly now.” Medusa’s voice is less patient this time, and I slide along the wall, keeping my eyes on the soldiers, who wrangle with the blackness of the room. Like trying to rope a shadow.
Once out of the cell, I follow Medusa toward a door at the opposite side of the corridor, and the two of us wait there, as Legion guide Valdys by chains out of his room.
