by Greg Dragon
I hear a rumble in the distance and the crowd pushes forward, anticipating the train’s arrival, anxious to get home. The train arrives and the doors open. It’s empty; apparently subchapter 6 has a lot more jobs than subchapter 14. By the time we push, jostle, and elbow our way onto the car, all the seats are taken. We fight our way to the wall and lean against it, trying to get some breathing space. No luck. The biggest man I’ve ever seen in my life stands right next to us and raises his gigantic arm so his sausage-like fingers can grasp the handrail. Out of his exposed armpit wafts the smell of dried sweat and too many days without a shower. He burps, letting out an even worse odor, one I can’t easily identify, but which reminds me of rotten onions.
It should be a terrible ride, but it isn’t. After all, I’m doing something for myself, making my own choices. For once in my life.
Chapter Nine
Adele
It has all been arranged. The greedy guard has been paid. Tawni has withdrawn all of the money from her account. We’ve broken three pieces of thin plastic off of a cheap food container that we stole from the cafeteria. We’re ready.
All we have to do is wait.
Sometimes in the Pen waiting is dangerous. Although a lot of the kids are wrongly convicted—screwed by the system, like me, I guess, and probably Tawni and Cole, too—there are plenty of bad kids in here as well. Real bad kids. Kids that’ll knock an old lady over on the road, steal her walker, and then break it down and sell the parts. Like the giant tattooed guys I’d been dealing with in the last couple of days.
There’s also a lot of violence in the Pen. Kids form gangs, fight over turf that doesn’t belong to anyone, try to control the cigarette and booze trade.
I am no stranger to violence.
I remember my first week in the Pen. I was scared, didn’t know anyone—which didn’t change much in six months—didn’t know what to expect. I was sitting in the Yard, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, working on my leave-me-the-hell-alone vibe, when I saw a fight break out. I’m still not sure what it was about—one guy looked at the other guy’s girlfriend maybe. Anyway, all of a sudden the punches started flying. And I don’t mean like a schoolyard fistfight, where one kid gets a bloody nose and it’s over. This was a no-holds-barred, savage, kick-him-when-he’s-down kind of fight. And neither guy would relent. They were both twice as big as me and had clearly fought before. By the end of it they were both covered in blood, staggering around like they were drunk, probably suffering from concussions, or worse. Eventually one of them went down for good, but that didn’t stop the other guy from stomping him into the ground until the guards finally came to break it up. I never saw either of the kids again. For all I know the guy on the ground is dead and the other guy is now an Enforcer for the Sun Dwellers. Bottom line: the Pen isn’t a friendly place.
Early on, I had a little trouble from one of the guys. I can promise you he wasn’t bothering me because of my brains. He wanted something else, something I wasn’t about to give him. His legs are still broken more than four months later.
No one messed with me after that—at least not until that day with Tawni. I’m not sure if it’s because of the message I sent with my fighting ability, or simply because my lack of hygiene makes me less and less attractive with each passing day, but whichever it is, I’m thankful for it.
I don’t have a problem with violence. I’ve grown up in a violent world, where miners are killed every day by cave-ins, and Sun Dweller Enforcers roam the streets cracking the knees of anyone unwilling to cooperate with them. My dad taught me to only use violence when provoked.
Today is one of those times.
I’m sitting in the Yard by myself. We’ve just finished going over the plans one final time and now Cole and Tawni are walking along the perimeter of the fence, doing what Cole likes to call “his zoo thing,” staring at any people passing by on the outside, growling and carrying on like a caged animal. I guess he does it for kicks.
I showered after breakfast for the first time in weeks. I did a way better job than usual, scrubbing all the nooks and crannies, even rubbing the bar of soap through my hair. The water was freezing, but I suffered through it. I smell good for the first time since entering the Pen. I want to be as clean when I leave as when I arrived. Call it a symbolic cleansing of sorts.
No one, besides Tawni and Cole (and a few obnoxious girls in the bathroom), have spoken to me in months, but now a gang guy saunters up, staring at me the whole way. It’s the guy who approached me before, when I first met Tawni, when I first saw Tristan. The tatted-up gang leader with the big muscles and the small brain.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says, in the exact same way he did before. Like I said, no brains. My dad used to say the definition of stupidity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Or maybe that’s the definition of crazy. Either way, it sprang to mind when the guy spoke.
“Like I told you before, leave me alone,” I say.
“Not gonna happen,” he says. “Not this time. You see, you’re looking even better today, and there’s something I want. And when I want something, I get it.” I’m trying to act tough, but inside I’m trembling, scared shitless, but I learned a long time ago that inside the Pen you can’t show your fear. The others thrive on it, smell it, gravitate toward it, like bats to blood.
I could run from him, try to hide, perhaps avoid him for the rest of the day until we escape, but that’s not how I was raised.
My father taught me to fight.
I stand up, finally making eye contact with him. His dark eyes are vicious and uncaring.
“You ready to play,” he says, licking his lips, eyeing me from top to bottom and back up again. I don’t wait for him to make the first move, which is another thing my father taught me. Especially not when your opponent is bigger than you.
I kick him hard and below the belt. Then I follow it up with a roundhouse kick to his head, which has dropped to waist level as he clutches his groin, groaning in agony.
I hear a yell, which likely comes from one of his mates, who are surely watching the exchange with interest, getting a good laugh up until the point I’d kicked him. Then I hear shoes pounding on the barren rock. Coming toward me. But I’m not worried about the footsteps, because strangely enough the Pen has a code of sorts. With the exception of multiple gang member brawls, fighting is limited to those involved in the fight. There is no jumping in, no ganging up. You can watch, but not intervene. The code won’t protect me the following day or the next week, when, had I been staying in the Pen, I would most definitely have to fight the rest of the gang members in succession, but I’m relying on it now.
“Get up, boss,” I hear one of them say. I almost smile. Verbal encouragement is permitted. The guy he refers to as boss is a tough guy, and he would get up despite the brutality of the wounds I’ve already inflicted on him, but I’m not about to let him, not about to underestimate him like he has me.
So as soon as he pushes up to his knees I kick him in the face again. He spins away from me, lifting slightly off the ground before crashing onto his back. I think his skull bounces off the rock because blood starts seeping from the back of his head where I didn’t kick him. This time he isn’t getting back up.
And then Cole and Tawni are at my side, grabbing a shoulder each, backing me away from the semi-circle of gawkers who have formed to watch the painfully lopsided fight. It is over before it ever really starts. A fast fight is a good fight, my father always used to remind me during my training.
Tawni takes my hand and pulls me over to my stoop. I close my eyes, dip my head into my hands, start trembling. My whole body is shaking, like a virulent flu has attacked my insides all of a sudden, giving me a bad case of the shakes. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the rush of adrenaline that comes with extreme violence. I’m no kind of adrenaline junkie, am not addicted to it, don’t crave it. Although I’m prepared to engage in violence when I’m forced to, I don’t particula
rly like confrontation. Unfortunately, confrontation seems to like me quite a lot.
The last time I fought in the Yard—when I victimized that guy’s legs and sent a message to the rest of the inmates—I’d cried afterwards, in my cell, alone. I’d never wished more to have my parents with me, to comfort me like a child, to hold me and tell me everything was going to be okay.
This time, however, I have Tawni. I’m not crying this time, but I’m distraught, exhausted, both mentally and physically. She wraps an arm around me, pulls me close, holds me. Normally it would be a bad idea to show such weakness in front of the rest of the “guests,” but I don’t care. We’re leaving and I’ll never look back.
My thoughts are interrupted by Cole. “How’d you do that?” he says.
“Preemptive strike,” I say simply, my voice muffled through my hands.
“No. I mean, where’d you learn to fight like that?” he persists.
“I told you I know how to fight.”
“But where’d you learn it?”
“My father taught me,” I say, opening my hands and raising my head. Tawni is still holding me, and where it had felt good a second earlier, it now feels weird, I think because it’s such a public place and Cole is watching. I give her an awkward look and she seems to get the message, withdrawing her arms.
Cole’s looking at me with those strong eyes of his. Clearly he’s perplexed by me, like I’m a puzzle. But I’m not really. It’s simple: my father was taught how to fight by his father, my grandfather, and he taught me. Growing up, he never let me rest on the fact that I’m a girl. Not in the world we live in. He said everyone will need to know how to fight eventually given what’s coming. I’m not sure what he meant by that.
I was a good student and loved our training sessions together. From hand-to-hand combat to shooting slingshots, to fighting with a staff, I relished every new lesson. He was hard on me, but I didn’t mind. I just knew I wanted to spend time with him and it was as good a way as any to do it. I remember the day he told me I was ready. I didn’t understand. He said he’d taught me everything I needed to know. I didn’t feel ready.
My father is not a violent man. He told me never to use my training except to defend myself or others. “Never be the initiator, never the aggressor.” Including my most recent fight in the Pen, I’ve only fought three times in my life, outside of training. I haven’t lost yet, unless you include the skirmish with the man-giant that Cole pulled me out of. But I don’t, that was hardly fair.
Although I had a good teacher in my father, he said I have a natural talent for fighting. I would tell him I got it from him, but he always countered that I inherited my talent from my mom. I never understood that. My mom is the least violent person I know. With the exception of the night she was taken, I’ve never seen her so much as lift a foot to squash a bug. When I asked her about it, she just shook her head and said, “Your father has a big mouth sometimes, Adele. He’s the fighter, not me.” I never really believed her, but that’s all she’d say.
Cole looks like he’s about to ask another question about my fighting, but I wave him off with a hand. “I’d really rather not talk about it right now,” I say. I’m glad when he doesn’t push it any further.
To his credit, he doesn’t so much as mention fighting the rest of the afternoon, or the evening for that matter. The last day in the Pen seems to sprout wings and fly away. I think it’s because I can’t wait to get out of this dump.
Night falls. Not that it makes things look any different. Outside the Pen it’s still the dull gray that it always is. Inside the Pen it’s still fluorescent white, painfully bright in most areas. Tawni and I walk to our cells for what I hope will be the last time. After a quick and knowing sideways glance, we push through our respective doors. As I close the steel barrier, I insert the plastic square between the bolt and its hole.
Ten minutes later the speaker announces lights out and I hear the lock click. It sounds different than most nights—not the hollow click announcing my nightly imprisonment, but a duller thwap! that confirms the plastic has done its job.
The waiting is painful—each fifteen-minute interval drags on until I’m straining to hear the clap of the guard’s footsteps on the gray-painted stone floor. By the third guard, it feels like an hour has passed since the last guard clipped past my cell. That’s when I start worrying.
At first it is just a nagging voice in my head that says something isn’t right. But soon it becomes a shout that says that the guard’s patrol pattern has been altered, that someone knows about our attempted breakout, that even now they’re handcuffing the wayward guard who took our money. Perhaps it’s already past midnight. Perhaps the fence is still charged and ready to shock us into oblivion when we touch it. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
I try to think about my family to take my mind off of my nerves. I desperately want to see them again. For the past few months I’ve done my best to forget them, letting their smiles fade from my memory like a hunting bat drifting into the gloom. Elsey, with her contagious optimism and proper way of speaking. My mom, with the heart of a lion and an abundance of compassion. My dad, the fighter, quick to smile, slow to anger. My rock, my hero.
The fourth guard comes. Eleven o’clock—if the patrol pattern hasn’t changed. My mind is relentless, and soon my heart joins in the fun, hammering in my chest, striving to pound its way through my bones and skin. But I’m handling it. Barely.
Until my lungs decide to join the party.
My breaths start coming in ragged heaves, short and choppy, until I’m gasping for breath. It’s like my whole body—all its parts, internal organs, and nerve endings—decide to mutiny at the exact same time.
That’s when I lose count. I can’t remember if the last guard I heard was the fourth or the fifth. I’m thinking fifth, but I can’t be sure. When the seventh—or is it the sixth?—guard goes by, I know I have to play it conservatively. This is one time I can’t be late.
So I block out all my kooky, mutinying body parts and start counting. I put every last ounce of concentration and brain power into keeping count, maintaining a steady rhythm, treating the act of counting like it’s the most complicated math problem.
Right on six hundred, I pull my door open and step into the dim hallway. Ten seconds pass and Tawni still hasn’t emerged. I think I must be too early. It’s probably eleven-forty and the next guard will be coming soon—the guard that should have triggered my counting. But then I have a very bad thought. What if I’m too late? What if I missed two guards passing and it’s really twelve-ten now? What if Cole and Tawni waited for me, and when I didn’t come, carried on the plan without me?
Tawni’s door creaks open, and, like a shadow, she emerges. I take a deep breath and approach her. “You count slow!” I hiss.
She raises her wrist, displaying the digital numbers on a wristwatch. 11:55. “Sorry, I forgot I had this,” she whispers. “I guess you got excited and counted too fast.”
I don’t know why the twelve o’clock guard chooses to come down the hall at that moment. It’s possible he’s just bored, choosing to start his circuitous route through the complex a few minutes early to pass the time. Or perhaps Tawni’s watch is slow, as well as my counting. Maybe he’s right on-time. Whatever the case, all of a sudden he’s here and we have nowhere to hide.
When he sees us standing in front of our cells, he stops, looking confused. He rubs his eyes, as if he thinks the shadows are playing tricks on him.
We run.
It doesn’t take him long to realize we’re real. He opens fire on us with the big gun he’s hefting. Yeah, he actually shoots at the backs of two defenseless teenage girls who are inside a secure facility, presumably for the petty crime of breaking curfew. I don’t know where the Pen hires these psychos from, but I make a mental note to write a letter to the government about them. The same government that abducted my parents. Yeah right, like they’re going to listen to me.
At first I don’t realize what’s happ
ening. As I flee, I feel a weird rush of air burst past one of my ears, and then see a spark to my right when something glances off the wall. It isn’t until we reach the end of the hall and I see the bullet holes that I know for sure that we’re being shot at.
Somehow we manage to get down that first hall without getting shot, but we aren’t even close to being out of the mines yet. We start to turn right, to take the fastest route to the Yard, but are forced to veer left when we see three more guards charging toward us. A few more bullets whiz past, shot by the original guard. I hope he hits the other guards by mistake.
The three new guards are yelling to the other guard to “Stop freaking shooting!” which gives me hope that perhaps they aren’t all so trigger happy. With a parade of slapping feet behind us, we take the long way around to the Yard.
As we round the next bend, the sweat is dripping into my face and I have to use the sleeve of my gray prisoner’s tunic to wipe it away. I try to stay with Tawni, but her legs are longer than mine and her long graceful strides soon edge her several paces ahead. Just as she passes a corridor on her right, a guard steps out, facing me. He’s holding a thick black nightstick and looks ready to use it.
I leap, aiming a high kick at his face and hoping he’ll get the worst of whatever collision is about to occur. I catch him high, just above his left eye, but not before he’s able to take a half swing with his club. Thank God he doesn’t have time to wind up the entire way. CRACK! I feel the rod slam into my ribs, sending shivers of pain through my stomach and into my chest.
There’s a cringe-worthy crunch! as I land on top of him, one foot on his head and the other on his chest. I think I might’ve broken his sternum. Somehow I manage to keep my footing and stumble off of him, using my momentum to continue moving forward.
Tawni hears the commotion and stops, waiting for me to catch up. I try to yell, “Keep running!” but it comes out as a wheeze—I’m having trouble getting air into my lungs after the hit from the nightstick. I wave Tawni on with my hand and she gets the message. She turns and continues running, but at a slower pace, until I’m able to get alongside her. We run abreast at my slower pace, cutting through the back entrance to the cafeteria, past the benches and long tables, and out the front entrance. Each step sends shockwaves through me, and my stomach heaves, threatening to toss up whatever gunk I ate for dinner.
