A Savage Generation

by David Tallerman

  “Don’t lie to me,” Plan John says.

  Contreras whimpers. He tries to inspect his fingers, but Plan John’s foot, wrapped in the crisp leather of his ginormous shoe, is pinning his hand so completely as to hide it from view.

  “A woman,” Contreras sobs. “Hiding. A woman.”

  Plan John removes his foot. “Good,” he says. “That’s good. Keep cooperating, Tito. Where? Who’s behind this?”

  “The infirmary.” Contreras’s voice is like something broken and crudely pieced together. “She’s in the infirmary.”

  “Yes. Good. And who?”

  Finally, Ben manages to catch Contreras’s eyes. They are startlingly white, the pupils contracted to pinpricks. Johnson, Ben mouths. Doyle Johnson. He makes the words again and again, not even caring anymore if Plan John should turn and see. Johnson. Doyle. Johnson. Doyle….

  “Johnson,” Contreras whispers. “It’s Johnson.”

  * * *

  Kyle knows his dad has made mistakes. He knows his dad has done some bad things.

  You can do bad things and not be a bad person. That’s the truth. And doesn’t everybody get it wrong occasionally? His dad hasn’t had an easy time. Still, he’s done his best. And in the end, he turned his back on the mistakes, for Carlita and, Kyle hopes, for the sake of his son.

  His dad wouldn’t have chosen to work for Plan John. That hadn’t been his choice. If it had been, Ben would have turned the job down, for Carlita and for Kyle. Or maybe he’d have said yes, but only so that he could protect them better. Maybe he had a choice and he said yes and that was why.

  Maybe it was a choice that’s just gone really, really wrong.

  His dad isn’t a bad man. But he’s made mistakes, and sometimes he still makes mistakes, and this, this is one of them.

  Because Tito Contreras knows about Carlita. It had all come out on the first night. Tito had been asking too many questions, and too many of the wrong questions. There had been him and Kyle and Ben, together in the early hours of the morning, and Tito had been in a bad state, sick with grief. He knew enough to know that Nando had a cousin on his mother’s side that he was fond of, that her name was Carlita, and that Carlita was dating a man named Ben. Why would Ben be here and not Carlita? So Ben had let him in on the truth, and made him understand what that truth signified, and Kyle had done his best also, to force a degree of sense through Tito’s distraught exterior.

  Perhaps none of it means anything. Perhaps Plan John is talking to everyone, or he wants to discuss some inconsequential matter, a subject Kyle can’t even guess at. Only, he knows his dad, as well as anyone does, and he knows when his dad is scared. His dad had been scared just now. And it’s when he’s scared that he makes his worst mistakes.

  Kyle has been trying to work, or give the impression of working, since his dad and Tito left. He’d rather not have Singh interrogating him. He’s been digging the same patch of ground for a quarter of an hour, while the tension cramped his hands and made his thoughts race. In that quarter hour, he’s come to some conclusions.

  Maybe everything’s all right. But maybe it isn’t. The way his stomach flip-flops tells him it isn’t. And if his fears are grounded then there’s nothing he can do on his own. He’ll need help.

  He can get around Singh. Singh is basically okay. They’re losing the light anyway; they’ll have to stop soon.

  There’s one person who will help him, the person whose help he wants least. Because Kyle has never quite overcome his suspicion of Doyle Johnson, not since that first night. Still, it’s a fact that much of what makes Johnson tough to like makes him the one person who can, perhaps, be trusted. He’s not afraid of Plan John. He doesn’t appear to be afraid of anybody. He keeps on the outside, looking in, and doesn’t seem to care about any of it.

  Except, he cares about Carlita. Enough to have put his life on the line for her.

  So that when Johnson comes into view, hunching his shoulders against the wind that whips around the far end of the cellblock, Kyle doesn’t feel as if he’s making a decision. He crushes the blade of his spade into the hard earth, leaves it standing there, and starts toward Johnson almost without a thought.

  * * *

  Plan John makes him leave Contreras outside in the corridor. There’s no chance that he’ll run. Ben has never seen anyone look so broken. It isn’t, of course, the pain alone, though he doubts the pain is helping. But guilt is what has snapped Contreras’s spirit like a reed, guilt at his own weakness and what it has wrought.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, as Ben hauls him out and dumps him heftily against the wall.

  “You fucking should be,” Ben tells him.

  He has no time to feel bad for Contreras. He has no time to question his own role in events. He helped Plan John torture Contreras because he had to. And all Contreras needed to do was keep his mouth shut, to hold out a little longer. Contreras’s weakness has probably killed them both, not to mention Carlita.

  Carlita.

  Ben pushes the thought aside. No time for that either. “Stay here,” he orders Contreras, and goes back inside, closing the door behind him.

  Plan John is once more behind his desk. He is delicately mopping his brow with a handkerchief, a process he performs fastidiously and apparently takes some pleasure from. His eyes are half-closed, his fleshy lips pursed. He doesn’t look up at the sound of the door.

  Ben sits, not on the other side of the desk but in the metal chair near the doors to the balcony. He leans back to stare at the ceiling, hoping that this way Plan John won’t be able to see his face. But Plan John barely seems aware of his presence. The silence stretches.

  Then Plan John says, “A woman.”

  Unable to judge if Plan John is speaking to him or to himself, Ben chooses not to answer.

  “A woman,” Plan John repeats. “A real woman. I mean no respect to the good Doctor Aaronovich when I say that I’d rather be castrated than fuck her dry old bones.” Plan John chuckles softly. “Anyway, the doctor is valuable. Best to be circumspect with that one.”

  Plan John stands. He walks to the balcony doors and brushes the blinds aside, peering out through the gap he’s created.

  “It’s getting dark,” he says. “Here’s what you’re going to do. First, talk to Nguyen and tell him to shut off the outside lights. Then you’ll go to the infirmary. Speak to the doctor; explain the situation. Try not to ruffle her feathers too much. Find the woman and bring her to me.”

  The woman. Ben has to keep reminding himself that Plan John is talking about Carlita. He feels as if he’s been clumsily bisected into two people, two separate lives. He’s felt like that ever since he came to Funland. It’s even been okay. But now those dual lives are tumbling together, those two identities are being brought face to face, and he’s powerless to stop their collision.

  “Sure,” Ben manages. His throat is tight, exactly as though there are hands around it. “What about Contreras?”

  Plan John’s perplexity suggests he’s already forgotten the existence of Tito Contreras. “What about him?”

  “I mean,” Ben says, “should I let him go?”

  “Ah.” Plan John nods cumbersomely. “Yes, we’re all done with Mr. Contreras. Make certain he understands to keep his mouth shut, or the next time will be very much worse.”

  “I think he understands,” Ben says.

  “Yes. Good.” Plan John is looking at him, is actually considering him. “And you, Mr. Silensky?”

  Under the focus of those deep-set, purposeful eyes, Ben finds it hard not to squirm. Even concentrating is difficult. There have been two of him, and suddenly there’s only space for one. What will happen when they meet?

  “Me?” Ben asks.

  Plan John’s gaze holds him. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Ben says, “I do.”

  He stands, because it seem
s to be what Plan John expects. His walk, the motion of his arms, is entirely mechanical. It’s the walk of a man with something, everything, to hide. Ben can’t believe Plan John won’t notice. His fingers feel numb and bloated around the door handle, but he gets it open. He closes the door behind him, hears the lock click, and experiences no relief.

  Contreras is curled in the corridor, knees drawn up, his damaged hand propped carefully upon them. He can’t be fifty, but pain and shame and fear have piled two decades onto that, making an old man of him. There are tears in his eyes.

  “Get up,” Ben says. “We’re going.”

  Contreras looks at him in puzzlement.

  “Get up,” Ben repeats.

  Contreras struggles to his feet.

  “Come on.” Ben leads the way down the stairs and through the passages beyond. Most of the striplights have been ripped out to save the generator, leaving milky funnels of illumination that make the surrounding darkness thicken. He walks until he has no doubt that they’re out of Plan John’s earshot and then keeps going, because there’s no knowing what Plan John can or can’t do. Only when there are two sets of doors between them and Plan John’s office does Ben pause. Contreras, who’s been staring at the ground as he shuffles along, almost bumps into him. He’s cradling his hand and his eyes are glazed.

  “Contreras,” Ben growls. “Are you with me?”

  Contreras looks up. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “Carlita. I’m sorry.”

  Ben wants to hit him. The urge is nearly overwhelming, and the fact that it’s wholly unreasonable barely makes it easier to restrain. “That doesn’t matter now,” he says. “I need you to get Foster for me. Tell him it’s urgent, that it’s life and death. Do you understand? I’ll meet him….” Ben considers. “I’ll meet him at the north end of the admin block, in fifteen minutes. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” Contreras says. “I’ll get it done.”

  “Okay. Then you need to go talk to Nguyen and tell him to kill the outside lights. Make sure he knows the order came from Plan John.”

  “I understand,” Contreras says.

  Does he? But Ben has so little time, and no choice except to trust him. It feels like the wrong call, even as he’s making it. Ben has never been a quick thinker, and everything’s coming apart, so damn fast, faster than he can begin to keep up with. He’s making decisions with no idea if they’re the right ones, putting his faith in men like Contreras and Foster. He should be coming up with something better, something that might get him through this night in one piece – yet Ben knows he won’t.

  He’s fucked up. He will keep fucking up. This, he sees with awful clarity, is how it has always been. And now, as a part of his mind screams at him to pause and think, he will go and get Carlita for Plan John.

  * * *

  Doyle can’t say what dragged his feet toward the farm, except that he had to go somewhere and there were so few places he could go. He’d been willing to brave the cellblock if that was what it took, but to do so involved any number of risks, not least that his presence was bound to hint at his suspicions.

  His plan, in so much as he’d had one, had been to talk to Singh. Doyle had had a notion of volunteering to work the farm and maybe getting some insight out of Singh that way. From what he’s observed of the man, he might be Funland’s least intimidating inmate: quiet, withdrawn, glad of the role he’s been given. It’s hard to imagine him being in deep with Foster. Then again, he’s in charge of one of Funland’s most valued resources, so it’s just as hard to believe he wouldn’t have been approached.

  Whatever Doyle had been pondering, it changes when he sees Kyle Silensky. It isn’t that the boy is scared, though he is; it’s more than that. Even from a distance, there’s much going on in his face: thoughts twitching past like a film sped up, doubts and conflicts colliding.

  Kyle spies Johnson before Singh does. And only when Kyle calls out, “Hey Johnson,” does Singh turn. His expression is judiciously impassive.

  “Listen,” Kyle says to Singh as Doyle draws close, “is it okay if I finish up? I need to speak with Johnson.” There’s an unmistakable tremor in his voice, one that Singh must surely hear.

  But all he does is contemplate the darkening sky, edged into premature dusk by bands of cloud. “Get going,” he agrees. If he thinks it’s strange that Kyle Silensky should want to talk to Doyle Johnson, that Doyle Johnson should want to talk to anyone at all, the sentiment doesn’t reach those two words.

  Doyle lets the Silensky boy lead. He’s heading toward the well house, the shapeless concrete edifice that supplies their fresh water. It crosses Doyle’s mind that he could be walking into a trap. But if someone intends to hurt him, there are easier ways than this.

  When they’re out of earshot, Kyle slows. “My dad was here,” he says. “He made Contreras go with him.”

  “To Howard?” Doyle asks, knowing the answer.

  Kyle frowns at the unfamiliar name. “Yeah. To Plan John.”

  “Hell.” Doyle feels suddenly cold, colder than the evening chill can warrant. This isn’t at all what he’d been expecting, and yet is perfectly attuned to the ramping pain inside his cranium, like a key turning in a lock.

  So this is what Silensky had meant the day before. This is what had got him so worked up. If Plan John has chosen to question Contreras, there can only be one reason, because there’s just one thing Contreras knows that isn’t common knowledge. Doyle doesn’t pause to wonder what Plan John has already found out, or suspects. If his conjectures led him to Contreras then there’s every chance they’ve led him to Carlita.

  “Johnson, don’t hurt my dad,” Kyle pleads.

  “It might not come to that.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  Dishonesty has never come easily to Doyle. “What do you want me to say? I’m not looking to see anyone get hurt here.”

  Except that isn’t the truth either. He’s prepared to see Plan John hurt, if that’s what it takes. And if protecting Carlita means harming Silensky, he’s ready to do that too. Doyle is, in fact, shocked by how ready he is, how willing.

  “I’ll do my best to keep your dad safe,” Doyle says, and is surprised by how effortlessly the lie comes this time.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It’s maddening; there’s so little for her to do. Back before, Aaronovich would have counted herself lucky to have a mere two dozen patients. Now it’s only a frustration, to feel useless when everyone should be needed.

  With no worthwhile business to occupy her time, with her office tidied beyond the fantasies of any obsessive-compulsive, Aaronovich worries. And there’s so much to worry about. Mostly, she troubles herself over the woman living beneath her, if that existence can justifiably be described as living. Sometimes she thinks about the sickness, trying to make sense of it, trying to rationalize, as so many others have strived and failed to do. Or maybe they’ve succeeded. Maybe somewhere people are working productively, perhaps there are cures or antidotes being developed at this very moment. Aaronovich’s specialist knowledge of such matters is as limited as her resources; there’s nothing she could have done. Yet that doesn’t still her curiosity. The Sickers are out there, so close that there are days when she imagines she can feel them, exerting a pressure like the gathering of storm clouds.

  Today, though, has been a day of numbing, centerless anxiety, and she’s glad to hear the rattle of the outer office door. It’s a perverse position for a physician to find herself in, to be eager for injuries and disease, but these are not by any means good men, and if their discomfort offers her a modicum of professional satisfaction, she can’t feel entirely guilty.

  However, Aaronovich is halfway to her feet when the door to her office slams open, in disregard of the ‘PRIVATE’ sign on its opposite side, and that intrusion is her first signal that something is badly wrong here. If it hadn’t been, Ben Silensky’s face
would leave no doubt.

  “I need to see Carlita,” he says.

  “Have you cleared this with Johnson?”

  “Have I cleared with Johnson that I can see my fucking girlfriend?”

  “Yes,” Aaronovich says. “Have you?” Then she recognizes the truth. It’s all there in his eyes. “Oh god.”

  Silensky is still trying to hide it, though he must have realized by now that she understands. For an answer, he scowls at her.

  “It’s Plan John, isn’t it?” Aaronovich asks. “I’m not opening that door.” She hopes there’s no hesitation in her voice. Certainly she feels none.

  “Don’t make me hurt you,” Silensky says.

  “You know,” she tells him, “I despise that phrase. If you mean to hurt me, I’m sure you’ll do it, but I definitely won’t be making you.”

  Silensky heaves a sigh and sags, as though he’s beginning to deflate. “Look,” he says, “she’s my girlfriend. Do you think I want anything to happen to her? If I go back to Plan John without her, then he’ll have me killed and send someone else.”

  “Can you guarantee me that woman down there won’t be mistreated?”

  Silensky slumps farther, more fight draining out of him. “I guarantee I’ll do whatever I can. Jesus…of course I will! But every moment we fuck around here is just making things worse.”

  Silensky has no knack for hiding his emotions. The truth of what he says, or at least his belief in it, is written across his face. It’s astonishing, really, that he’s managed to keep Carlita’s existence from Plan John all this time.

  But Aaronovich has no desire to consider Plan John. Of everybody in Funland, she has perhaps seen the man at his best. Howard has always been polite to her. Even when he’s threatened, even when he’s controlled, he’s never been less than polite – and she’s heard enough, and has enough sense, to know that he’s not polite to everyone. Were it not abundantly clear that no one could reach the unique position he occupies without getting their hands copiously bloody, the man wears his misdeeds like old clothes.