Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  Greg squeezed his eyes shut.

  “No,” Ashlee said. “They have separate facilities for boys and girls. The only person I’m pretty sure on the location is Oliver.” She paused, blinking rapidly. “I’m guessing they sent him to JSP, I mean, the Joliet State Penitentiary. That’s where they usually send dissidents.”

  “Then what do we do?” Terrell asked.

  Go to Crystal Lake, Greg thought to himself. Or Rockford. Except if Carrie could be in half a dozen places and none were close to each other—or Shelton—it could take forever. Especially on foot.

  Braden stood in the candle-lit kitchen, studying a map with his dad, already making plans to get to Amber. And yet Greg had nothing on Carrie.

  Nothing!

  Ashlee’s voice cut through his thoughts. Greg hadn’t even heard the question she was answering.

  “Yes, but I have to warn you,” she said, “there is a long waiting list to visit people. Even once your name is on the list, it still takes weeks to get a visitation slot.”

  Weeks.

  As people kept discussing options in unproductive circles, Greg was finally able to solidify one thing in his mind. When there was a break in the conversation, he straightened.

  “For all we don’t know, there’s somethin’ we do. Jamansky was behind Oliver and Carrie’s arrests. He knows we’re here, he knows about our clan, so he’ll be comin’ for us next.” Greg paused. “It’s time to abandon Logan Pond.”

  The room fell silent.

  “And go where?” Ron Marino asked.

  “Ferris,” Greg said. He’d thought about trying that Sprucewood clan, but he knew so little about them that he didn’t dare risk it. Ferris was the only logical choice. “It’s been abandoned for years. Even the patrolmen know it’s empty. There’s plenty of room for everybody there. Plus, it puts us close enough to here that we can check back on things.” He turned to his grandpa. “What do you think?”

  His nodded in the dim candlelight. “All things considered, it’s probably for the best. Safety first. All in favor of leaving Logan Pond?”

  Slowly, every hand rose.

  “Alright,” his grandpa said with a sigh. “That will give us some peace of mind about everyone else while we work on getting Carrie and her siblings back. I suppose we need to decide if we evacuate now or in the morning?”

  “Now,” Greg said. “Definitely now.”

  “Right now?” Sasha said. “In the dark? But it’s the middle of the night. I can’t even find my way to Ferris in the full light of day. And what about the little boys?”

  “I know the way,” Terrell Dixon said. “I can lead out and get everyone there safely, including the little ones.”

  Several people were frowning, but no one objected outright.

  “Then let’s do it quickly and quietly,” Richard said. “Gather up your families and as much of your belongings as you can carry. Meet back here as soon as possible, as in under twenty minutes. We’ll leave then. Any items we can’t take tonight, we’ll come back for in the morning.”

  As people began filing out of the Trenton’s home, Richard approached Greg.

  “What do you think about your grandparents?” Richard asked.

  For the umpteenth time, Greg wished he’d checked the deed to his grandparents’ home. He had no idea if their citizenship had been revoked along with Carrie’s.

  “Even if they still own this home,” he said, “which isn’t a given anymore, who knows what could go wrong next? They need to be with everyone else, especially now that Grandma has gone to pieces again.” The second she had heard about her beloved Carrie’s arrest, she’d started wailing. She hadn’t stopped since. Even now, Greg could hear her in the back bedroom, crying over another loved one lost.

  Richard nodded. “I’ll tell CJ.”

  “Richard?” Greg called before he got very far.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you need my help tonight? I was hopin’ to head back into town and keep an eye out for Jamansky.”

  Richard immediately stiffened. “That’s not a good idea, Greg.”

  “Look, you’ve gotta help the clan, and I can’t sit around and move bags through the woods while Carrie rots on a prison floor. I’ve gotta do something. Jamansky knows where she is. I know he’s behind this, but…” He held up a hand before Richard could interrupt. “I won’t approach him. Not tonight. I just wanna see where he is, and what he’s up to. But I won’t do a thing without talkin’ to you first. You have my word.”

  “Fine. Do what you need to.” Richard took a step towards him, eyes beseeching. “But please, please control yourself. I already have more people to break out of prison than I can handle right now.”

  “Understood.” Greg needed to be helping Carrie, not making things worse.

  With that settled, Richard turned and made his way over to CJ. Greg overheard him discussing the best way to tell May that, after losing Carrie and her siblings, she also had to abandon her home of thirty years.

  Greg looked around his grandparents’ front room, barely visible in the flickering candlelight. Sixteen hours ago, his life had been nearly perfect. He and Carrie had eaten breakfast, laughed, held hands, and discussed trading with other clans. The future had been bright with possibility. And now…

  He refused to finish that thought.

  “Greg,” Ashlee Lyon said, approaching him. “I have a quick question.”

  “You can come with us to Ferris,” he said tiredly. “We’ll find a place for you.”

  “Oh, I know. I mean, thank you. That’s not what I meant. I, um…” Her eyes avoided looking at him directly. “Do you know who all still needs shots? With Amber gone, I thought I better take over giving people their medicine.”

  He looked at her blankly. Amber had been giving people shots twice a day. Amber was gone.

  “Right. Uh…” He rubbed his burning eyes, struggling to think. “My grandparents, Richard, Terrell Dixon, and Braden. Then there’s Rhonda Watson, Kristina Ziegler, and…” He stopped, knowing he was forgetting somebody. Eight people needed shots. He’d only listed seven. So he ran through them again.

  The second he figured out the eighth person, his whole body went cold.

  Ashlee noticed the change. “What?

  “Carrie,” he said.

  Carrie had been on the medicine for three days. Only three.

  He looked up. “How long are they supposed to get shots?”

  “Five days,” Ashlee said. “How long did Carrie…?”

  “Three.”

  “Only three?” She caught herself and said, “I mean, maybe three is enough. It might be.”

  Greg’s mind raced. Carrie’s illness could return with a vengeance. Would they treat people in the prisons? Not a chance. The whole reason President Rigsby created this virus was to wipe out those who had sided against him. Illegals. Rebels. The very people overcrowding the prisons.

  Three days.

  Six doses instead of ten.

  His legs gave out. He sank down to the floor, fingers pulling out his hair.

  “I’ll do the other shots,” Ashlee said quietly. “I’m sorry, Greg.”

  A few minutes later, somebody different approached. Braden. Greg forced himself back up to his feet, but he had no energy to duck out of the way. He didn’t even want to. Braden was the only person holding him responsible for this—which he should. Greg had hidden Carrie from Jamansky. Jamansky got the last laugh now.

  Greg stood directly in front of Braden where he was fully available for the next hit. But Braden looked contrite. He ran a hand over his tousled hair.

  “Greg,” Braden said. “Hey, look. I…I’m sorry about before.”

  Greg’s jaw throbbed in an even, steady rhythm. “Don’t be. I would’ve punched myself if I knew how. In fact, feel free to do it again.”

  “It’s just that…I just can’t imagine what it’s like for them. But that was no reason to take it out on you.”

  Unable to tolerate any more visions
of Carrie or her siblings, Greg put a hand on Braden’s shoulder. “Tell you what. You figure out how to get Amber and Zach back so I can focus all my energy on Carrie. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Greg took a deep, painful breath. “Alrighty. I’ll come over to Ferris first thing in the morning. We’ll discuss options then.”

  Braden gave him a strange look. “Where are you going?”

  “Back into town. There’s somebody I need to see.”

  * * * * *

  “Are you feeling any better this morning, hon?”

  Carrie nodded at the woman with a few missing teeth—Donnelle, if she remembered right. Carrie’s neck and back felt cranked from sleeping propped against a cement wall, her arms were stiff from the patrolman wrenching them behind her back, and her wrists felt cut and swollen. But with the new morning came clear thinking. And with clear thinking came a rush of reality. If this was her new reality, she had to do something about it.

  Breakfast came in the form of mushy oatmeal delivered right to their cell. Carrie couldn’t make herself eat. With her rolling stomach, she’d never be able to keep it down. So she offered it to the oldest-looking cellmate who, for some reason, kept wanting to stroke her hair. The woman—the others called her Crazy Marge—quickly ate both helpings of oatmeal with her dirty hands.

  Within a few minutes of breakfast, a guard stood by their cell door. He held out seven wet rags. Carrie’s cellmates took the rags into various corners of the small cell and started washing up. With only four corners and seven women, that left her and two other “young’uns” with nothing but wall for privacy.

  Carrie used the cool rag to wipe her salt-dried tears while the others did a more thorough cleaning, unzipping their orange suits freely as if their pride and dignity had been stolen along with everything else.

  “We get clean uniforms on Mondays,” Donnelle explained from her corner. “Thursday is shower day, and there’s no air conditioning in the buildings, so morning washings are heaven sent.”

  Carrie couldn’t bring herself to nod, but her other cellmates jumped in, discussing which cell block housed the stinkiest women. Block 12, apparently.

  A few minutes later, the guard returned and pounded his nightstick against the bars with loud clanks, signaling the end of the “baths.” Each woman handed back their rags and lined up at the door. Carrie did, too, even though she didn’t know why they were lining up.

  “Time to work,” Donnelle said. At Carrie’s surprised look, she continued, “We sew lousy clothes for lousy people who stoop to the lousy government. It’s great fun,” she added with a grin.

  The woman was as crazy as her teeth.

  Carrie nearly asked if they would train her how to sew but decided it didn’t matter.

  The guard unlocked their cell, and Carrie followed the line past several other cells identical to her own. She was surprised to be up on a second floor of wall-to-wall cells. She hadn’t remembered coming up stairs yesterday. The guard led them outside into the bright sunshine, and across to another building.

  As she followed, she wondered what Amber and Zach were doing. Would they be given an education, or would they be in work camps like she was? In pain like she was? Terrified like she was, dying a little more with each step?

  And what about Greg?

  Before the questions could overwhelm her, she told herself that, no matter what they were up against, Greg would be fine, and Amber and Zach would watch out for each other. Amber had watched over Zach while Carrie was in the hospital. She would have to do it again.

  Donnelle snagged Carrie’s arm, pulling her back a step. “We’re in the material preparation room for the month of July. I’ll get you a spot by me, okay?”

  Donnelle seemed to have seniority of some kind, because when she asked the guard to have Carrie work alongside her, the guard agreed. Carrie was grateful. In a dark, warehouse-like building, Donnelle showed her what to do. Standing at long tables, Donnelle handed her a white pencil, then she pointed out three spots in the fabric Carrie needed to mark before passing it to the next person—Ariella—who folded the fabrics in a certain way. Marking. Passing. Marking. Passing. Somehow Carrie’s fingers figured out what to do without any use of her brain, like they had detached themselves and were working independently. The material was blue, thick, and rough like Carrie’s orange, tent-like uniform. Maybe someone in some blue card municipality would be excited to get a new uniform.

  Donnelle talked nonstop while they worked. Sometimes Carrie answered—or at least she meant to. It didn’t seem to bother Donnelle when she didn’t.

  “Did you grow up in Illinois?” Donnelle asked.

  Carrie nodded.

  “Not me. I grew up in the South.” Donnelle slid a pile of material to Ariella. “You ever been to South Carolina, Carrie?”

  It wasn’t even the same state as Greg’s, but it was close enough to knock the air from her lungs.

  Donnelle went on anyway, chatting about moving to Illinois, meeting her husband, a lengthy divorce, and winding up as a waitress working double shifts. Carrie tried to listen. She really did. But her thoughts always seemed to circle back to everyone and everything she’d lost.

  “You married, Carrie?”

  She shook her head.

  Though I could have been, she thought. When Greg had proposed months ago, she had been floored. “It’s for business purposes only,” he had said. “A sheet of paper, nothin’ more. A way to get you legal.” He would just tack her onto the family, pay her taxes, and call it a day. Even though it could have gotten her a flower shop and made money for the clan, the whole idea of a fake marriage had offended her. He’d hated her back then—or so she thought. Maybe if she had been less emotional about it, a little more practical like he always was, she could be married to Greg even now.

  Donnelle lowered the blue material. “Why, Carrie, you’re smiling?”

  Carrie reached up to feel her face. She was smiling. Even more amazing, she was almost on the verge of laughter. And suddenly she understood how people could laugh under such circumstances. Laughter was just one small tweak from hysteria.

  “You have a lovely smile, Carrie. Real beautiful.” Donnelle nudged her. “You obviously have someone special to make you smile like that. Tell me about him.”

  “Greg.” That was all Carrie could manage. Not that he was from the South, too, or that he had a smile a hundred times better than her own. She couldn’t describe his uncanny ability to blurt out the truth, or how he spent his days trying to solve the world’s problems. All she could get out was his name. Even then, Donnelle was nearly dancing, pleased Carrie had said that much.

  A prison guard slammed his nightstick down on the table, making Carrie flinch.

  “Work!” he yelled.

  Heart racing, Carrie picked up the next piece of blue and spread it flat on the table to mark her three spots. Sweat trickled down her neck, making her wish they would open a window or something to create a breeze in the hot room.

  As the guard moved off, Donnelle leaned close and whispered excitedly, “Greg. That’s wonderful. But y’all aren’t married?”

  Carrie shook her head, but once again found herself smiling as she pictured Greg pacing back and forth in front of her, words spilling out of him as he excitedly told her about his flower shop idea.

  Greg.

  That one word, the same one that made her smile before, pushed her over the edge. With one small tweak, she was falling, drowning in the hysteria of it all. He would never grab her hand again or tell her how beautiful she was. He would never hold her close and assure her that things would work out. He couldn’t even take care of Amber and Zach, like she knew he would, because they were gone, too.

  And Greg would be angry, so angry when he found out she’d been arrested. And that scared her, too. Another person lost. Another one stolen from him. How many new walls would he build around his shattered heart? Would life ever stop beating him down?

  Hot tears slipped down her
cheeks. The material in front of her blurred into a giant smear of blue.

  She would never know if Amber or Zach, or Greg and May, or anyone at all lived, died, breathed, or found a way to move on without her.

  She knew nothing.

  She would always know nothing.

  They stopped briefly for lunch. Lunch looked less appetizing than breakfast, and Carrie passed once again. Her stomach felt like it had been left behind in Shelton, so she offered her food to Crazy Marge who eagerly snatched it up.

  Donnelle continued talking nonstop through the endless hours of work. School, old jobs, her aunt in Kentucky, and the three teeth she’d lost since incarceration. She reminded Carrie of a younger version of May, only more talkative, if possible. Donnelle hardly took a breath as she rolled from one subject to the next.

  Carrie’s fingers started to ache from the long hours. She could feel hot blisters forming on her fingertips, but she kept marking piece after piece.

  The only breaks they received were for counts, when the guards lined them up long enough to confirm the number of inmates. That was it.

  After the last head count, Carrie noticed Donnelle taking short breaks to rub her head or neck.

  “Are you…?” Carrie paused, checking for a guard. She lowered her voice. “Are you okay?”

  Donnelle dropped her hand. “I’m fine. Just startin’ a headache because it’s so blasted hot in here, and I didn’t sleep real well last night.”

  A headache. Carrie’s illness had started as a headache, too. Then again, lots of people got headaches. It meant nothing. But the way Donnelle rubbed the back of her neck, the pinch between her brows.

  “Have other women here…had headaches lately?” Carrie asked. “Bad ones?

  Donnelle stopped working. “Yeah. Why?”

  Carrie couldn’t hold her gaze. She studied the small piece of chalk in her hands. What could she say? “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “You know somethin’, don’t you?”

  Carrie grabbed the next piece of blue and spread it flat. “What do you know?”

  Donnelle let it all out in a rush. How, the previous Friday, a woman on the line, Ravia, started complaining of a headache. Next day, she had a fever and chills, could hardly stand up straight to work. The guards kept yelling at her to keep up. When she started to cry, they just shouted louder. The next day, Ravia wasn’t there. She had disappeared, but others started the exact same thing. Headache, fever, fatigue, and then they would disappear. Donnelle kept her voice low. With Carrie’s hearing struggles, she had to lean close to make out anything.