by Jodie Kobe
I plop down onto a chair and wait. Denham sits down across from me and folds his hands on the table between us. Since I hate silence, I say, “Why here?”
Denham’s voice is a whisper when he says, “I know where you came from.”
I stare at him. “Um...what do you mean?” I look down at my hands in my lap, specifically at the tattoo.
“I mean,” he starts, “I know where you lived before you found us.”
“Where…?” I pause. “Where did I live, then, if you’re so smart?”
He doesn't react to my last sentence. His answer is calm. “A large facility underground. You were frozen before, and they brought you back to life.”
He says it like he’s positive about this. He says it like he’s lived through it himself.
I stay silent as I hold his gaze, my hands still clasped together on my lap.
Our staring contest is interrupted when an object wrapped in brown paper is dropped down onto our table. I look up to see the same employee we had talked to standing there, an innocent smile on his face.
“Your lunch, madam,” he says. He turns on his heels and heads back to his place behind the counter.
I mutter a late “Thanks” and scoop the object up, peeling the brown paper off. What greets me is an almost soggy grilled-cheese sandwich.
When I tear it in half, I almost offer one of the pieces to Denham. Then I remember he’s probably already eaten and there is no way he eats food like this. I imagine luxurious food.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Denham asks, referring to our interrupted conversation. He’s expecting me to cover it up, to tell him I’ve never been to an underground building.
To avoid answering, I stuff half of my sandwich into my mouth, suddenly remembering no one had paid for this. The sandwich disappears down my throat faster than I want it to so I’m faced with saying something to Denham.
“How exactly do you know this?” I ask. “Have you been there too?”
That’s the only explanation. He had been in the underground building once. How did he get to this town?
Denham doesn’t answer for a few seconds. He leans back in his chair.
It’s highly likely that he's been there.
His answer is “No.”
I scoff. “Yeah right.”
Denham crosses his arms. “No, it’s true. I’ve never been there. Have you maybe thought that there could be someone else who found us and told me everything about it?”
I take another bite of my sandwich. He has a good point actually. I guess I’m wrong. It’s not highly likely that he lived in that underground building once. “Who is it?”
Denham shakes his head. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Why?” My mouth is filled with bread and cheese so the word comes out as a mumble. “I won’t do anything to him...or her. I promise,” I add. Promises coming from me probably mean nothing to him. He doesn’t know me, and he might think I’m a spy, just like those guards outside the town think I am.
Denham flicks something off of his uniform’s sleeve but doesn’t look back up at me. He stares at his gloved hands. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
I'm expecting that answer. “How long ago was it?” If Denham is telling the truth, and there is someone who found this town the same way I had, then there might be a chance I know them. Maybe.
Denham scratches his chin, his gaze locked on the spot in middle of the table. “Uh...I believe it was five years ago.” He stops and seems to be thinking something over. Then he says, “He’s dead now. You can’t see him.”
I freeze. Dead? How did he die? And how exactly had he been able to walk in poisonous air? Fox, Rian, and I had to wear protective suits to be able to even set foot outside. I had fallen unconscious during the mission, of course. But how come I’m alive now?
“What year is this?” I ask. In my head, I’m repeating, Please let it be 2075, please let it be 2075, please let it be 2075. Because it was 2075 when I had stayed in that underground complex. There was no dust coating the air in that gray field like there was when I first set foot outside with Fox and Rian. Maybe years have passed since the last time I was alive.
Denham laughs. “Shouldn't you know? It's 2076.”
My mouth is partly open, so I shut it, smashing the brown paper wrapper into a ball. How far into 2076 are we?
“What’s the current date?” I say, shaking a little now. I have to know the date. I have to know how much time has passed.
“June 10th, 2076.”
I let out a weak laugh a few seconds after he says that. He’s joking, right? That can’t be. I couldn’t have been dead for half a year. How many times have I died in my lifetime? Twice? No. That’s too much. I think my head’s starting to spin. Goddammit, why is this so hard to grasp?
Just calm down, Vivian, I try to comfort myself. It doesn’t work. My head drops onto the table and I stay there, hands over my head.
Nobody talks for a while, not even the worker. He doesn’t come over here to see if I’m okay.
I continue to breathe in and breathe out, hating myself for freaking out like this.
Finally, someone speaks. “Do you need any water?” It’s Denham.
I shake my head to answer his question.
He asks another one. “Do you want anything else to eat?”
I shake my head again.
“Do you need anything else?”
I’m about to shake my head for the third time when I remember I do need something else. I need a place to stay.
My head feels heavy as I lift it up to look at Denham. He’s not sitting in the chair anymore. He’s on his feet. I didn't hear him stand up.
“Do you have an extra house around here somewhere?” I ask.
He fixes his coat collar as he says, “We do, but I’m not about to give it to you. You’d have to be a resident of this town in order to be able to have your own house...or your own job. But you’re not, so no. What we do have is a cell. The same cell you were placed in when you were found.” He moves on to fix his sleeves.
I slide lower in my chair, not sure how much freedom I'll be given if I do accept his offer. But what if this isn't even an offer?
Denham smiles like he has just won a prize. “Back to the cell then.” He pulls me to my feet and walks me straight out of the restaurant.
“W-wait, wait,” I stutter out. “Are you going to leave my cell door open, or am I going to be a prisoner there?”
Denham laughs. “Let’s see. You’ve never lived here, you don’t have an ID, and you’re a complete stranger.” His voice turns sarcastic. “I wonder if we should let you go.”
I tug on the arm he’s holding. “You can’t—I’m not a criminal!” My voice comes out fast and high-pitched. “Please…I’ll get an ID. I’ll become a citizen. Just give me time—”
Denham cuts me off. “Rules are rules. You’re here illegally.”
I stop fighting him and let him drag me outside the restaurant. There’s already a jeep waiting.
“Why did you even get me out of the cell in the first place?”
Denham pushes me into the jeep. The driver of the vehicle is the same one as last time. Denham says, “I wanted to see who this new girl with the strange mark on her hand is. I wanted to see if she is a threat or not. She's not.” He doesn’t get into the vehicle. He throws me a salute as the driver pulls the car forward. I can't yell anything back at Denham because the car pulls around a corner and we’re on the road again.
I’ll be stuck in a cell. But for how long?
CHAPTER 4
V I V I A N
My knees are pulled up to my chest.
I'm in the corner of a cell. The clothes that have been given to me keep me warm. However, I still can't help but shiver. It's either because of the environment I'm surrounded by, or the thought that I'm never getting out of here.
Some of the prisoners’ whispers fill the cells, but their voices don't drown out the faint drip, drip, drip in the
room. I don't go around searching for the source of the sound because I know I won't be able to locate it.
There’s a kid, somewhere around the age of ten, in the cell adjacent to mine. He's rearranging the bags in his cell silently, and I find myself watching him.
He realizes my eyes are on him, but he continues working without pausing. I decide to leave him alone and crawl over to the two bags in my own cell. My attempt at flipping one over doesn't go so well, but now I know they're heavy. It's likely that they are filled with sand.
I struggle to drag the large bag of sand to my desired corner of the cell. But when I finally reach the spot, I sit down, the bag right underneath me.
“How long have you been in here?” I ask the kid still rearranging his bags.
The boy shrugs. “One week.”
He came here a week ago, and what had I been doing? Too busy being dead?
“How often do you get fed?” I ask, waving my hand around to indicate to everyone in the room.
The boy waves his own hand around. “Look around. What do you see?”
I turn my head, eyes settling on as many people that are in my view. They look full and healthy, despite the dirt caked around their clothes and skin.
I want to ask the boy the reason why he’s here, but I figure that question is too personal. I wouldn’t even be comfortable sharing my own reason.
I leave the kid be and start picking absently at the worn-out sleeve of my sweatshirt. My eyes skim over the cracks on my cell’s concrete floor. Sitting here with my mind filled with fear causes my thoughts to drift to Rian. What might he be doing? Painfully, I start wondering if he is responsible for throwing me out. Does he know I’m alive? Is he alive?
I turn my head back to the kid, wanting to ask him if anyone ever broke out of these cells. But before I even get the first word out, the door to the large room is thrown open. Three guards walk in, pulling a woman behind them by her arm. Everyone has their eyes on her now. She tries tugging her arm out of their grasp, grimacing. One of the guards pushes her forward, and she gasps with surprise as she falls to her knees. She picks herself up the second after she falls.
The guards pause in front of my cell, exchange a glance with each other, and decide I’ll be sharing my cell with the woman. In a few seconds, she’s tossed into my cell. As soon as the guards leave the large room, the silence that has been hanging in the air ends.
“Two prisoners in one day,” a voice calls out. “You two know each other?”
I take a look at the woman, which now I see looks closer to being a teenage girl than an adult. She finds her own corner of the cell and pulls her knees up to her chest. Her black hair has been cut short to her shoulders, and she wears mostly gray. She does not look familiar, so I shake my head. “I don’t know her.”
“And I don’t know you,” the girl says. Her voice is deeper than normal but not by much. It’s steady and loud enough to be heard. There is no fear on her face either.
“Then why are you here?” the same voice in the room asks.
A smirk appears on the girl’s face, but only briefly. She keeps quiet and stands up to walk over to the far wall of the cell. She presses her palms against the concrete and pauses.
A few snickers echo around the room. “What are you doing now?” an annoyed voice asks. “Escaping?”
The girl smiles a little and taps the wall. “No, of course not.” She lets out a sigh and slumps back down onto the floor, her back against the wall. The smile doesn’t leave her face, and some lady in tight clothing in the cell next to ours notices. She crawls over to the bars separating both of our cells. “What are you smiling about?” she asks the girl.
No answer comes out of her. She looks down at her shoes and her smile drops.
The lady moves back to her usual position and the room is silent for a while until...
Tap, tap, tap.
My gaze shifts to the girl and her face lights up at the sudden sound. It's coming from the other side of the wall, outside.
The girl jumps to her feet, turning to the wall to tap on it. She doesn't call anything out, only taps. If she's trying to send someone a signal, I don't think it's loud enough to be heard.
The prisoners in the room are interested in what's happening. They start turning toward the girl, wondering aloud “What the hell she's doing.”
The three taps repeat from the outside, louder this time. The girl looks almost excited. She focuses on tapping the wall with her hands, and when three more taps sound from the outside, she sits back down, the excitement gone as fast as it had appeared.
“What was that about?” someone asks.
“Nothing” is all the girl says.
~~~
The day is tedious and long. I barely talk to the girl and she barely talks to me. However, a few people attempt to get a word or two out of her about what she had been doing. As expected, she doesn’t budge.
Two officers in dark blue uniforms come, pushing a cart in front of them. When they stop at my cell, I see they’re carrying food. Two one-inch thick cardboard boxes slide through the bars of each cell. The girl snatches hers before I can get to mine. She tears through the box and pauses, forehead creasing as she examines the inside of her box.
Curious what’s inside my own box, I pull it toward me and open it slowly. The girl is already eating something, but I don’t get to see what it is. I reach into the box at my feet and pull out a spherical object wrapped in silver paper. A little too late, I realize steam wafts from the object. A hot stinging sensation travels up my hand and I drop the thing, giving a startled yelp.
The girl laughs. “It’s a potato, if you didn’t know.”
Carefully pulling the silver paper away from the object the girl calls a potato, I nod. “I know it’s a potato.” That’s a complete lie.
Once the paper is peeled off, I see that it is, in fact, a small potato. I’m about to use my hands to split it in half when I notice a white plastic knife inside the open box. It’ll be a good weapon, I think, glancing over at the girl. She eyes the plastic knife in my hand. I’m not sure if she’s thinking the same thing, or she just thinks I’m going to stab her. The thought of stabbing triggers a memory, but I push it away and focus running the knife through the food instead.
“You want to share that?” the girl suddenly asks.
I look up at her and narrow my eyes. Doesn't she have her own food?
She moves closer. “Please? I’m starving.”
An image of her pouncing on me flashes through my mind. “You have your own food,” I point out, continuing to search through my box. There's an apple, a plastic fork, a sheet of blank paper, and a red, plastic cylindrical container.
I watch the girl out of the corner of my eye. “Don’t you have your own potato?”
She shakes her head and tips her box sideways so I can see everything in it. She’s right. Inside, there is the same plastic cube I have, a banana, and something wrapped in clear, plastic packaging. She uses her index finger and thumb to grab the corner of the plastic, raising it from the box so I can see it better. “Peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” she says. “I’m allergic.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so the only sound that comes out of my mouth is “Uh.”
“Trade you?” she asks, waving the sandwich at me. “You’re not allergic either, are you?”
I shake my head. At least I don’t think I am. The memory of my past life is vague. Only a fuzzy memory of my family hangs around.
“What would happen if you ate it?” I ask. I’m mostly asking for the sake of my safety. If I eat it and I am allergic, what would happen to me?
The girl looks at me like I’m crazy. “Uh...I’ll suffocate. Maybe die.” She emphasizes the last word with a wave of her hand. Swinging the sandwich at me again, she repeats, “Trade you?”
She can trade with anybody in this room. Maybe the kid next to my cell; maybe the lady on the other side of my cell. But no, she chooses to trade with me.
A frustrated sigh comes from the back of my throat. Very reluctantly, I use a finger to push the steaming potato her way. Her face brightens and she tosses the sandwich into my face. Then, holding her hand out, she says, “Knife, please.”
I scoff. I’m generous enough to give her my potato, but there is no way I’m going to give her the knife.
She scoffs back mockingly, and I curl my fingers into fists and grit my teeth. She gives me one finally glance before moving over to the farthest corner of the cell. She eats it with her fingers, not at all bothered by the hot food.
I decide to leave her alone and focus on tearing open the sandwich bag. A heavy soggy sandwich slides out and I’m reminded of the grilled cheese one I ate several hours ago. I tear a piece off to see what’s instead. It appears to have some sort of a sticky, light brown and purple substance inside. I take a reluctant bite and chew, surprised by the taste but also watching out for any signs of allergies. Nothing.
The girl is still eating her potato, but she’s looking at me.
“You like it?” she asks as if I'm a child that has just been handed a lollipop.
I nod once and drop the plastic knife into my sweatshirt pockets. “What else do you do here?” I ask, directing the question to anyone in the room. Nobody wants to answer it except that kid next to my cell. He’s buried himself in the heavy sandbags but pops his head out to answer me.
“I’ve only been here for a week so I don’t know everything we do,” he says. “But I heard they bring us outside three times a week.”
I nod absently and look down at the rest of the contents in the box by my side. The apple and the red can are left. I point to the girl’s box. “Want to trade something else?” I ask her.
She finishes her potato and lifts her banana in the air. “This thing for what?”
I show her the apple.
She shrugs and tosses me the banana. I hand her the apple.
A voice from the room calls out, “Oh, you’re trading now, eh?”
Nobody comments.
After a few minutes, the only thing I have left in my box is the red can. I ask the kid buried in the sandbags what’s inside, but he just says, “Find out for yourself.”
“How do I open it?” I ask.
He repeats the same thing.
