It’s hard to sound calm and reasonable while at the same time trying to make yourself heard. Impossible, even. It did not escape my attention that one of the centurions, the one who yelled the loudest, was trembling and his finger was on the trigger. I felt like I was in a deadly game of Simon Says and bound to lose.
Another voice, high-pitched and young, joined me in shouting, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot her! She saved us!”
The little girl in the backseat of the car opened her door. Her voice alone was not enough but when she stepped out of the car, the officers all paused. They stopped shouting at me and began shouting at the child to stay away from me.
Then they shouted to each other. “Stand down! The kid is a Select!”
The guards advanced as one. The girl did not retreat. Instead, she threw her arms around me. That simple act probably saved my life.
I tried to keep my voice low, steady and reasonable as I addressed the men. “Two of yours are down.” I nodded toward the still form of the woman on the ground. “She was hit by a truck. Call a medic. This gun belongs to her. I used it to stop the prisoners from taking these people in the car as hostages.”
The CSS men converged on us, pulled the girl away and threw me to the ground. My left cheek ground into the pavement as a centurion knelt on my head. Another drove his knees into my back and twisted my arms behind me.
“Knife! She’s got a knife!” one of them yelled. He almost sounded enthused. When they handcuffed me, I was sure they would find the other blade attached to my forearm so I told them it was there. I meant to assuage their fears but instead they pressed me harder into the ground.
I did not fight back. However, as was standard protocol, they kept shouting, “Stop resisting!”
Mama once told me that failure to use that procedure started a riot at a protest in Kansas City. Introducing that lie into the arrest gave the officers permission to use more violence and tended to give onlookers pause.
Flattened and struggling to breathe under their weight, I saw two other guards turn their attention to the centurion who’d been stomped. They pointed their pistols at the prisoner in the striped jumpsuit who’d run to the fallen man’s aid.
The woman yelled, “He’s hurt! I’m a nurse!”
She raised both arms to show her bloody hands were empty. Apparently, she moved too quickly or too slowly or not earnestly enough or … something. One guard shot her twice in the chest. The other guard joined in. I’d heard of this before, too. Standard protocol: If one officer shoots, they all shoot. Failure to do so would get them in trouble with their superiors.
The nurse slumped to the ground with a thud and, in the sudden quiet, a collective moan of despair and disapproval rose from the prisoners who had elected to stay behind.
Someone still knelt on my head so I couldn’t look away. I could have squeezed my eyes tight to block it all out but I knew I should watch. I watched the nurse bleed to death. It didn’t take long. I’d seen death before, but not like this. The dead nurse wore the garb of an atheist yet she’d run to try to save her captor. She’d taken an oath that made her take action when a life was at stake.
I wondered if I should have ignored Sissy’s plea for help. My parents had given me a mission, too: Stay with Grammy and take care of her. I was under arrest by ungrateful CSS officers who seemed determined to misunderstand the situation. At that moment, staying out of Atlanta seemed a better choice.
I wished that I could share Grammy’s faith but I had a criminal secret. If the CSS could pry into my mind, they’d put me in a striped jumpsuit, too. As I wept for the murdered nurse, God’s grace seemed pretty thin on the ground.
“Don’t hurt her!” the little girl pleaded. “She didn’t do anything wrong. She helped us. She stopped the bad people from getting us!”
Imagine being so young and naive to think that my innocence mattered. That one fresh thought alone made me weep a little harder. Though adults couldn’t be trusted, the little girl was still innocent, achingly so.
The girl came into view and I got my first good look at her. She was blonde and blue-eyed and wore a frilly white dress. Her ballet slippers were pink. I’d seen pictures but I’d never seen such things in person. I guessed she was nine.
The CSS officer who’d been kneeling on me got off as the girl squatted to look me in the eyes. She smiled and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t let them hurt you anymore. My name is Eileen but everybody calls me Eye. What’s your name?”
That’s how I met the only angel I’ll ever believe in.
For a few seconds, I had a glimmer of hope. That light was extinguished as the guards pulled a black bag over my head.
Chapter Thirteen
The CSS agents tossed me into the back of a truck roughly. They seemed to hit every bump and take every corner fast. Sweat stung my eyes and my breath came fast as I was slammed into the walls of my mobile prison. With the handcuffs pulled tight and blind to my surroundings, it was nearly impossible to protect myself. By the time the vehicle finally stopped, I felt battered and bruised.
I lay there for a while, I’m not sure how long. I was beginning to suspect I’d been forgotten when they came for me.
At least two guards grabbed me. They said nothing. Someone with large rough hands searched me again but it seemed more like an opportunity to grope me. The hood stayed on my head. I remained silent so as not to provoke my captors.
Once that horror was complete, they marched me into a building. I was indoors so I doubted I’d been sent to a detention camp. Judging from the echoes of moans and shouts ringing off the walls, I was in some sort of holding facility. The prisoners were restless which suggested to me they were either new to jail or had been incarcerated so long they were past worrying about annoying the authorities.
Someone shoved me from behind and a metal door slammed. Carefully, moving slowly, I determined my surroundings by edging into things. A table stood in the middle of the room, two chairs on one side and one chair on the other.
An interrogation room, I thought.
I strained to hear something but could only detect the sound of my hot breaths within the hood. By the deadness in the room, I suspected it was soundproofed.
Bad news. Not an interrogation room. I’m in a place where prisoners are made to shout things others aren’t meant to hear. They torture people here.
I pulled the chair out from the table with my foot and sat down. I listened for another few minutes to make sure no one else was in the room. It was a good bet a camera’s eye was on me but I was alone for the moment. Only then did I allow the tears to flow. I tried not to sob or let a single moan escape in case the CSS was listening.
I’d heard stories of places like this from refugees traveling through Campbellford. CSS would leave people alone with their fear for a while to soften them up. They’d deny the relief of a trip to the bathroom until all their questions were answered.
Refugees said the CSS used fire hoses on prisoners who lost bowel or bladder control. Sometimes they’d blast cold water to make you scream and pee yourself just to blame you for making a mess.
One traveler, a woman from Louisville who’d come by Grammy’s gate, said the torture technique had a name: pressure washing. “The water comes at you hard, near enough to skin you. Then they leave you in wet clothes and turn up the cold air in the room. If you complain about that, they cut off all your clothes and laugh at you. Maybe more than laugh. Hard to say what’s the worst of it,” she added. “I guess it’s all the worst of it. There are no good parts.”
Protocol strikes again, I thought. How many casual cruelties went unexamined because “that’s the way it’s done”?
I heard the heavy steel door open on creaking hinges and quickly slam shut. Listening carefully, I could tell it was a large man. His footsteps and his breathing were heavy. He circled me twice and I heard a subtle clicking sound.
After another moment, he stood behind me. The clicking continued and several nightmarish possibili
ties raced through my mind. I doubted it was a pen. Was it a switchblade? I didn’t think so but why stand behind me that long? Was he building up his nerve before delivering a beating to soften me up for interrogation?
I hunched in my seat, squeezed my eyes tight and braced for the first blow, keeping my mouth closed and my jaw set, hoping I wouldn’t lose any teeth.
The hood was whipped off my head and I blinked at the sudden bright light. The oldest centurion I’d ever seen limped around to the side of the table so I could see him. He held a remote control in his hand. He pointed to the wall opposite me. It was a freeze-frame of surveillance from Gate 27. The picture showed me picking up the gun.
He advanced the recording frame by frame until I was shown pointing the pistol at the prisoner with the pickax. “That you?”
Of course, it was. I nodded.
“Speak up for the record, girl.”
“Yes. I am Kismet Beatriz and that is a picture of me rescuing that kid.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”
“Seemed like?”
“The way you guys are treating me, I’m not so sure anymore.”
“Who put you up to it?”
“No one.”
“So you just happened to be in the right place at the right time?”
“Seems like wrong place, wrong time to me.”
“You say things seem like this and seem like that. I don’t like weasel words when I ask a question.”
“I can only tell you what I know and I don’t know anything.”
“You claim no advance knowledge of the kidnapping attempt?”
“I’m not claiming it. I’m saying it. That much, I do know.”
“And what reward do you expect for this selfless act of heroism?”
“Nothing,” I said. “And I didn’t feel brave. I just felt like I had to — ”
“Because you had to save the little girl and her nanny?”
I took a deep breath. “It’s apparent you don’t believe me so let’s look at it from your cynical point of view — ”
He corrected me, “Skeptical. I’m skeptical.”
“Fine. I was already standing there. If the kidnapping happened and I did nothing, I’d be in trouble for that, right?”
“We have to investigate subjects. When it comes to cases involving the Select, we take our questions and your answers very seriously, Miss Beatriz — ”
I didn’t like the extra emphasis he put on my last name. It sounded like an accusation, as if he was trying to make my name sound like a bad word.
“If I did nothing, I’d be in this chair and you’d still be treating me like shit, right?”
“Where crimes against the Select are involved, we accept no so-called witnesses at face value.”
“Little wonder you have so few witnesses when bad things happen.”
“Insolence won’t get you far, Miss.”
“Maybe not … but heroism sure hasn’t helped much, either.”
“I’ll ask again: You expect no reward from the Select Few?”
“All I want is to get out of here.”
“So you swear you’re not a social climber?”
“I wouldn’t know how.”
The old centurion stared at me for a few awkward seconds before giving a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. He stepped behind me. I expected to get hit and for the questioning to continue. Instead, he yanked the black hood down over my head again.
I heard one more click and then his heavy footsteps, the opening and slamming of the steel door. Alone again, I waited.
Blind and bound, I was at the mercy of Citizen Security and Safety. They were not known for their mercy.
My hope was dwindling but I finally had my answer for the refugee from Louisville. The worst things about being a prisoner were not all equal. Skin can heal. Wounds may close. The humiliation of the arrest would stay with me. It was powerlessness that made me weep, though. Helplessness was the worst of it.
Exhaustion seeped into my marrow but I could not sleep. Time passed but not enough that I could grow bored of my dread.
Chapter Fourteen
The cuffs were so tight my hands tingled. Then they went numb. I wanted to scream but I held back. This was my time to wait, listen and learn. For the risk I was taking, there would be no acknowledgment unless my mission was a total success.
My respect for people in uniform had been ingrained in me. The way CSS manhandled me and abused their power, that feeling drained away. To keep us scared, CSS methods were brutal. In their hearts, they must have known they were weak and afraid.
The door opened and shut and two people entered. Someone circled, stalking me on heavy heels. The chair opposite me was pulled back, its metal feet scraping on the concrete floor. I had nothing to tell them about the escaped prisoners that could be of use. I wondered if there was a drain in the floor. Maybe this was the room where they used the fire hose. Would they take their time working up to that? The interrogation would escalate quickly if I disappointed them and that seemed inevitable.
A guard yanked the hood from my head. I winced as a bright light shone in my eyes. He put his mouth so close to my ear, I could smell the synth beer and fake meat on his hot breath. “Behave.”
He made for the exit and, as he opened the door, someone screamed. There were no words, just anguish. Whether the pain was mental or physical, I couldn’t be sure. As the door closed, we were plunged once more into silence.
The light in my face clicked off and I found the person across the table was a middle-aged woman. The shoulders of her pinstripe suit were padded. Her hair was piled high in a gravity-defying hairstyle. She was pretty but the look on her face was severe. It was her lips that drew my gaze. Rather than drawing lipstick across them, she’d painted a dot in the middle. I’d seen that color on a discarded soda can once: blood orange.
“Kismet Beatriz.” She spoke my name in a British accent. Ordinarily, that might have been pleasant. However, in her mouth, my name obviously tasted sour. “My name is Evelyn Rossi. You had quite an adventure this morning, didn’t you?”
I said nothing. Instead, I memorized her face. If I ever got out of here, I wanted to be sure to know the face of my enemies.
“I’ve seen the surveillance recording of what happened at Gate 27, Kismet. I also watched the video of you speaking to the man who drove the truck that took the escaped prisoners away.”
“Then you know I did nothing wrong. I barely spoke to him.”
“I’m referring to the surveillance camera at the shelter. You stood in line at the soup kitchen for quite some time. He seemed very friendly to you. You spoke to a couple, as well. The authorities are still searching for those two. This could go very well for you if you answer correctly. It will go even better if you omit any lies you are contemplating.”
“The boy in the line tried to pick me up. I wasn’t interested. We just passed the time. I don’t even remember what that couple talked about. They were just somebody at the shelter, that’s all.”
Evelyn indicated a camera high up on a far wall. “Your answers are still being recorded. They want to know the name of the man in line, the one who drove the getaway vehicle.”
Picasso, I thought. What have you gotten me into?
I guessed that the shelter had video surveillance but, with all the crowds at the shelter, it seemed unlikely they possessed audio. “He never told me his name.”
“Really?”
“I don’t recall that he did. You know how it is. A stranger tells you his name and unless you are interested and commit it to memory, the name flies away a second later. Don’t you have his identity from the bio-scan?”
“Bio-scans can be faked.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s happened before.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
My ignorance seemed to satisfy her. “Let’s talk about you. The happenings at Gate 27 were interesti
ng. Your actions left me wondering about your motivations.”
I shrugged. What reply could I offer that might satisfy her? Judging from my treatment thus far, the CSS had decided I was guilty of something.
“You didn’t know the boy in line was part of an escape plan?”
“If I’d known I would have gotten off the truck and done my sanitation duty somewhere else. I didn’t want to be within miles of all that.”
“The guards will recover from their wounds,” Evelyn said. It seemed the dead nurse who tried to help was of no consequence. “The truck was found abandoned a few streets away.”
“As far as I can guess, the guy I spoke to — the guy who spoke to me — might have acted on impulse.”
“Doubtful. The vest he wore from the shelter was found in an alley. Someone was waiting with bolt cutters.” She pointed at the green vest I still wore. “It’s the devil getting out of those things without an authorized guard.”
“This is my first time in one of these vests. It’s not my color.”
“Don’t try to be funny,” Evelyn warned. “This is not a time for jokes, especially lame ones. It’s bad form. I absolutely abhor bad form.”
“Noted, ma’am.”
“What are you, eighteen?
“Twenty.”
“And new to the city, I understand.”
“Last night was my first in Atlanta.”
“You found trouble quickly.”
“Trouble found me.”
“When you were arrested, you had two combat knives on you.”
“I’m a woman traveling alone. I should be armed to the teeth.”
“But you picked up a CSS officer’s weapon.”
“I wasn’t looking to make it a fair fight, ma’am.”
She allowed herself a small smile but that faded quickly. “You expect me to believe that you somehow stumbled into the middle of a prison break on your first day here?”
“There’s trouble all over, isn’t there? It’s easy to step in manure in a field fertilized with it.”
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