by Amy Cross
Now she wasn't being spared. A new name was called each morning, and this time it had been hers.
“Just keep your secrets,” she remembered Barbara telling her. That had been code, a way of begging her not to try buying freedom by snitching on the others.
She knew deep down that she'd never snitch. At least she still had that small rock of certainty.
“Move!” the guard hissed, shoving her hard in the small of her back.
“Please take a seat,” the Governor told her. “Miss Roper, please.”
The guard shoved her again, and Gemma took a couple of faltering steps toward the bloodied chair. She was still trying to think of a way out of this, some way to make the Governor change his plans, but she knew deep down that this man never changed his plans. His routine was well-known throughout the prison, and all the girls understood that the only chance they stood was to keep a low profile and not get their name called. There were ways of doing that, ways of not being noticed, but once your name had been called, that was the end. That was when your luck ran out.
“Move!” the guard said again, shoving her harder this time.
She almost tripped as she stepped forward, and now she was right next to the empty chair. She looked down at the patches of blood that had dried on its plastic sides, and then she looked at the wall behind, where more blood had been sprayed across the tiles. Some of the blood was red and fresh, just a day old, while some was much darker, having spent weeks and months drying. Turning, she saw more blood on the wall behind Monica, who was staring down at the drain. Thick trails of blood ran to the drain from both chairs, and small pieces of bone were caught in the metal grill.
“Sit!” the guard hissed.
She turned to him and opened her mouth, ready to beg for mercy.
“Sit!”
Grabbing her shoulders, he forced her down onto the chair. She immediately felt something damp starting to soak through her prison-issue pants, and she instinctively tried to get up again, only for the guard to hold her down and start tying her wrists to the restrainer. The wet sensation, she realized, was blood from the girl who'd died during the previous day's round of the game.
“Don't make my life difficult, girl,” the guard said quietly, pulling the cord tight until it dug into her flesh. “I don't like having to run after bitches who try to escape.”
She sat completely still, although after a moment she realized her body was trembling with fear. Her first thought now was to somehow get free of the restraint and then make a run for the door, but she knew full well that there was no way she'd be able to escape. Besides, she'd always known that she was going to die in the prison, and that one day her name would be called. Other people had called her fatalistic, but she felt she was just being honest. She'd never had a lick of luck in her entire life, but at least the misery would be over soon.
“I like to play a game,” the Governor explained, as he clicked the handgun shut. “I know you know what kind of game, but I want to make it clear that the game serves a deeper purpose. It's part of a very important experiment that I'm running. It's a way of gathering data.”
Staring straight ahead, Gemma saw that Monica was gripping the sides of her chair, preparing herself. It had been two days since Monica's name had been called, which meant that Monica had survived two rounds of the game and was now onto her third. Some people didn't even survive one round, but a fair few made it to two. Three was rare, though, and Gemma knew that Monica must have seen awful things by now, that she must have watched two other girls dying right in front of her. It had been Catherine whose name had been called yesterday, and who hadn't returned, which meant that the blood soaking through the bottom of Gemma's pants must be Catherine's.
Suddenly she heard the Governor's footsteps coming closer across the room.
“The game is called Fifty Fifty,” he explained as he approached. “It's a very simple game, involving a gun with three loaded chambers and three that are empty. The winner each day is the girl who doesn't get one of the chambers that contains a bullet. Think of it as an experiment that explores the idea of luck, the idea is to determined which variables are...” He held the gun up. “Well, you don't need to know the details. Just remember that you're lucky to even take part, and your contribution to this very valuable personal project of mine is -”
Suddenly Monica lunged from her chair, immediately slipping in the blood but scrambling toward the door, only for the guard to rush over and grab her arm. Slamming her back down into the chair, he held her down and retied her restraints, even as she started sobbing. It was as if the floodgates had broken, and her earlier calm had given way to a rush of panic. Gemma watched in stunned horror as the other girl slumped forward, weeping hysterically, only for the guard to pull her shoulders back.
“No slouching,” the Governor said calmly. “Win or lose today, Monica, you should try to retain good posture.”
With that, he aimed the handgun and Monica's head and pulled the trigger. The gun's mechanism replied with an empty click, and Monica's sobs immediately became louder.
The Governor turned and aimed at Gemma.
“Two empty chambers remaining,” he explained with a smile, “and three with bullets. One of you will die, one of you will live to play again tomorrow.”
He immediately pulled the trigger. Gemma flinched, but the gun's empty chamber simply clicked.
Smiling, the Governor turned and aimed at Monica again.
“No!” Monica screamed. “Please stop! Please -”
“One empty chamber remaining, and three with bullets.”
“Stop!” she shouted. “I'll do -”
Suddenly a gunshot filled the room. Gemma flinched and closed her eyes, but not before she'd seen one side of Monica's head blasted apart, with blood spraying against the wall. Leaning forward, Gemma squeezed her eyes tighter, until they hurt, but a moment later she felt the guard's hands on her shoulders, pulling her back and forcing her to sit up. She could hear a dripping sound, which she knew must be blood. A moment after that, she felt the guard's rough fingers forcing her eyes open, and finally she was forced to see Monica's bloodied corpse in the opposite chair, with blood now flowing freely down from her shattered head, soaking through the pale gray fabric of her prison-issue uniform.
With tears in her eyes, Gemma stared at what was left of Monica's head.
“Fascinating,” the Governor muttered, heading over to the desk in the corner and making a note in his ledger .”That's the seventh-first time that the game has been decided on the third shot. Close to the median, although I need more data before my statistical references are reliable. Miss Roper, you'll be pleased to learn that of the girls who survive their first round of the game, almost forty-five per cent go on to survive the second as well.” He smiled at her. “Doesn't that give you some hope for the future? Maybe you'll be one of the lucky ones. You're free to go for now, but I shall see you tomorrow bright and early for another round.”
As she felt the guard untying her wrists, Gemma watched the Governor. He was muttering to himself, already entering details of the day's contest into his notes.
***
“Man, Monica was due for release next month,” Barbara muttered as she followed Gemma along the corridor a short while later. “I wonder what they'll tell her family. I guess no-one can really do anything. When people come into a place like this, no-one really expects them to come out again, do they? The days are long gone when anyone gave a damn about people like us.”
Staring straight ahead as she walked, Gemma couldn't stop replaying the moment over and over. She was certain that just as the gun had fired, she'd seen a flash of relief in Monica's eyes, as if for a split second the other girl had realized her time in the game was up. Deep down, she was starting to think that Monica had been the lucky one, that at least her misery was over.
“Hey,” Barbara continued, grabbing Gemma's arm and pulling her to one side, “he didn't say anything about the bathroom on B-deck, did he?�
�
Gemma hesitated, but the image of Monica's bloodied corpse quickly filled her thoughts again.
“Stay with me!” Barbara hissed, clicking her fingers in front of Gemma's face. “Focus! This is important! Did the Governor say anything that made you think he knows about the tunnel?”
Gemma shook her head.
“And you wouldn't go telling him, would you?” Barbara asked. “That's what me and the others were worrying about earlier, that maybe you'd try to buy your way out of that psychopath's experiment by offering information.”
“Of course not,” Gemma replied, her face twitching slightly as she thought of Monica's final moments.
“It wouldn't work, you know,” Barbara continued, with a hint of desperation in her voice. “You'd just be betraying the rest of us and undoing what we've been building for months!”
“I know,” Gemma whispered, staring blankly at the wall, trying but failing to stop thinking of the expression in Monica's eyes as the gun had fired.
“Oh girl,” Barbara muttered, patting her on the shoulder, “you're not thinking straight. Don't worry, maybe you'll get lucky. Maybe you'll survive tomorrow and make it to the third day.”
With that, she made her way to the bathroom, whistling as she walked. Left alone in the corridor, Gemma stayed completely still, simply staring at the wall and replaying Monica's death over and over in her mind. There had been a hint of relief in the girl's eyes, she was sure of it, and she wondered whether she too might get to that point. She was also starting to think that at the very final moment, Monica had opened her mouth, as if she was about to say something before the bullet blasted her head apart.
Still lost in thought, Gemma began absent-mindedly fiddling with the hem of her prison jacket. She was still wearing the same clothes from earlier, with blood having soaked into the back of her pants. Finally, as if from nowhere, she burst into tears and dropped to the floor, sobbing violently as she buried her face in her hands.
Day Two
The gun fired suddenly, breaking the silence of the room. Gemma closed her eyes, but again it was too late. She'd seen Catherine's head explode with the force of the blast, and now she heard the sound of blood spraying across the wall, followed by a faint bumping sound.
“Second shot,” the Governor muttered calmly. “Statistically speaking, Miss Evans should really have lasted a little longer, but there are always outliers. Congratulations Miss Roper, you have survived your second round of the experiment.”
Gemma felt the guard pulling her shoulders back, and a moment later her eyes were forced open. She flinched as she saw that Catherine's body had slumped back in the opposite chair. Whereas one side of Monica's head had been blasted away, Catherine had lost the top of hers, with her wide, staring eyes left intact. She'd been pleading for her life, begging the Governor to show mercy right up until the moment when he'd pulled the trigger.
“I have to tell you, Miss Roper,” the Governor continued, making his way to the desk and setting the gun down before taking a moment to write in his ledger, “that not a lot of girls last past their third round in the game. Then again, as Miss Evans proved today, there can be outliers, and sometimes that can work in your favor. Twelve and a half per cent of girls actually make it to the fourth round. The record is six, but that was truly exceptional. Still, your luck might hold out. I always tell the girls, never give up hope. Sometimes you just hit a lucky streak. Well, maybe luck's the wrong word, but...”
Staring at Catherine's body, Gemma was barely listening to the Governor's words. With tears in her eyes, she was watching as blood slowly oozed down the girl's neck, soaking into the fabric of her uniform.
***
“It's too calm out there,” the Governor said a few minutes later, sitting with his back to his desk while his secretary combed his hair. “Only fourteen and a half per cent of them are conversing with one another. It's usually between twenty-five and thirty per cent. Why are so many of them sitting alone today?”
Staring out the window, he watched as the girls spent time in the yard. Some were sitting alone, some were talking, some were taking the chance to jog around the perimeter. Some were simply sitting cross-legged on the ground and staring at the barbed wire at the top of the walls, as if they dreamed of climbing up and making a break for freedom.
On the other side of those walls, of course, the vast desert spread for hundreds of miles in every direction, with a sweltering sun baking the land. The Governor squinted as he looked to the east, and he was just about able to make out a faint dot on the landscape, a couple of miles away. That ant-like dot, he reminded himself with a faint smile, was the body of the last girl who'd tried to escape the prison. He'd left her corpse out there to rot in the heat as a reminder to himself that no matter how secure the prison might seem, some of the girls could be surprisingly ingenious.
Still, no-one had ever escaped his prison, not really. One or two might get over the wall, but they never made it far. And they never would.
“It wouldn't surprise me if they're planning something,” he continued, as Amanda attended his his parting. “Eighty-one per cent of the girls in this prison exhibit behavior that indicates thoughts of escape. On top of that, it's now fifty-two days since the last time someone made a serious effort to break out of the prison, whereas there's usually a gap of only forty days between attempts. There are too many statistical outliers for it all to be a coincidence. By my calculations, there's a ninety-eight per cent chance that someone somewhere in this prison is working on an escape plan at this very moment.”
“Would you like me to trim your mustache today?” Amanda asked.
“Do you think it needs doing?”
“I...” She hesitated for a moment. “I'll do it.”
“Very well.”
While Amanda fetched a pair of scissors from the grooming kit, the Governor watched a group of women making their way across the yard.
“Are you aware,” he said with a frown, “that eighty-four per cent of all escape attempts at this prison utilize the sewer system in some manner?”
“I think you mentioned that once,” she replied, unable to stifle a faint sigh. After checking that the scissors were sharp enough by running the blade against the palm of her hand, she made her way back over to him.
“Of the remaining sixteen per cent,” he continued, “there's a fifty-fifty split between the catering service and simple attempts to scale the wall. Although those wall climbers are really just suicidal, in my opinion. They can't possibly hope to make it across the desert. They go out there to die.”
“That's awful,” she muttered, as she leaned close to his face and began to trim the hairs around his left nostril. She'd learned long ago to sound interested, even as the governor's words went in one ear and out the other. She had no mind for statistics.
“Ninety-five per cent of the girls have exhibited suicidal tendencies since their arrival at the prison,” he continued, watching as two prisoners talked in the yard. “I was able to get some data from the transfer service, which indicates that only eight-one per cent show the same tendencies at the moving stations, which in turn suggests that upon arrival at this prison they tend to lose hope. If there were some way to model that reduction in hope, I think I could gain a better insight into the way their personalities are altered by their surroundings. Then again, I should probably stick to one project at a time, eh?”
“Probably.”
Lost in thought for a moment, he stared at the scene, while Amanda continued to trim his mustache.
“Complete statistical modeling of the entire prison,” the Governor continued after a moment. “That's the goal, you know, and I truly believe that I'll get there eventually. As I gather more and more data about the girls' behavior, I'm starting to see real patterns.”
“Fascinating,” she muttered.
“Eventually I'll be able to predict their every move,” he added, still staring at the yard while his tie hung, half undone, around his neck. “I
magine the ability to statistically model every aspect of human behavior. To know what they're going to do, before they even know it themselves. To get into the deep and complex rules that make us think and feel the way we do. You might see me as merely the governor of a back-water little prison, Amanda, but one day I shall be recognized as a pioneer. You're very lucky to witness my rise through the ranks.”
“Uh-huh,” she replied, taking a step back and squinting as she tried to determine whether or not his mustache was straight. “A little more off the left, I think.”
He paused for a moment, before turning to her. “Golf cart.”
She hesitated. “I beg your pardon?”
He got to his feet. “We need a golf cart!”
***
“What do you see?” the Governor asked excitedly as he clambered out of the golf cart and hurried across the desert. Stopping next to the dead girl, he watched as ants continued to swarm all over her body. “Amanda, come here!” he continued. “Tell me what you see!”
“No way am I coming over there,” she replied, scrunching her nose as she saw the corpse. “Do we really need to be out here?”
“Get over here,” he continued, “and bring a parasol, for God's sake. Do you want me to burn?”
Sighing, Amanda grabbed the white parasol from the back of the golf cart and then climbed out, making her way over to where the Governor had already crouched down so he could get a better look at the corpse. Wincing, Amanda slowed her pace and then opened the umbrella, holding it up so that it cast shade over the back of the Governor's neck. Even after just a minute or two in direct sunlight, his flesh had begun to redden.
