Fox Wilde - Variant Exchange - A Punk Rock Spy Fiction Novel

“Eating time is over! Stand up! Face the wall! Hands on head! Legs spread! Head at ninety-degree angle! Eyes…”

She complied, and soon enough her cell door slammed open. A man with heavy boots stomped in, pushing and shoving against her as he removed her food. Once her food was gone, the cell door slammed closed, followed by the baton clanging against it for long seconds. This was followed by more instructions.

“ Second c ontemplation position! Sit two inches from wall! Knees against chest! Arms at side! Head at 45-degrees angle facing up! Eyes forward!”

Of all the positions, this was the second-worst. It is unimaginably hard to keep your knees pressed against your chest without your arms wrapped around them. After a few minutes, your stomach burns, your thighs begin to tremble, and you just feel awful. It was still better than the third contemplation position, wherein she would be forced to kneel half-way with her arms bent forward, as if sitting in an invisible chair. That one was terrible.

“ No shaking! No sounds! You are here to consider your crimes against the State; not feel sorry for yourself!” These instructions were followed by more seconds of the baton clanging against her cell door.

Despite spending much of her days sitting in these contemplation positions, the never-ending state of sheer panic prevented much actual thought at all. For first few days (or what she assumed were days), any thoughts were divided between immense discomfort, fear, and trying to figure out how she could get out of this situation. It had consumed her. “ Maybe if I just … ” was the ever-present thought. “ Maybe if I just … what? What in the world could I do?! But I have to do something … anything!” Yet after a week’s worth of complete and abject futility, the second series of ‘days’ were divided between desperately trying to think about what the guards said she was supposed to be thinking about and trying to wish herself back into two weeks ago.

Every now and again, however, Lena felt brave. When she did, she would allow herself the indulgence of regret or worry, thinking about Hans and her poor mother. What terrible fate must have befallen her mother?! Surely the State knew of her poor mental health; but if they hadn’t (or just didn’t care), how would her mother react to a bunch of angry Secret Policemen charging into her house? By now, every inch of her mother’s apartment would be bugged. This meant that they had to have encountered her somehow. Lena felt terrible—if her poor mother had experienced a heart attack or been put under State care, well… the implications were all Lena’s fault.

When Lena’s thoughts drifted to Hans, however, she didn’t know how she felt. Intuitively, she felt that this was all his fault. After all, he was the one who had been reporting on her and her precious scene. Then again, so had everyone, apparently. Hans had been the only one to feel even mildly bad about that and try to make it right.

“Oh god…” Lena thought, “My bandmates…” She had spent so much time with them. She had slept in the same rooms with them, snuck out after curfew with them, shared her most intimate secrets with them. She would have never guessed that they would betray her like this.

But Hans had attempted to get her away from it all. Of course, she would have never gone with him. He had betrayed her worse than anyone! Why in the world would she have taken his hand? But what if she had?! She might not be here. Worse than even that, she considered the state of his precious face with those batons smashing into him again and again. He deserved to be punished for betraying her, but not that —no one deserved such a beating. Perhaps worst of all, Lena realized that if she had taken his hand, he would never have been beaten in such a fashion.

The more Lena thought about it all, the more her mind soured, turning gloomier than it had previously been. She would have cried, but then she would get the fire hose. She knew this from experience. Instead, she chided herself for allowing her mind to wander, and set back to the task at hand—focusing on how badly her legs were shaking in the second contemplation position.

“Clang clang clang clang clang clang…”

As painful as it was it was, Lena had almost fallen asleep in the second contemplation position when the clanging started again. “God, I hate that so much…” she almost thought. Yet she was too scared to really think it—somehow, in some way, they would know she was thinking it and she would be punished. “God, could they really get inside my mind like that? ” she wondered. And even though she knew that wasn’t technically possible, well, it was best to not risk it. These walls had eyes and ears, and those ears were supernaturally maligned against her.

“ It is time for your interrogation!” the voice yelled. “Stand up! Face the back wall! Eyes forward! Hands behind head! Interlace fingers! Spread legs! Lean forward at the waist…” the orders droned on for an entire minute, but Lena had stopped paying attention after the word ‘interrogation’. She had heard horrible stories of the things that the Stasi did during the interrogations. Up until this point she had retained a small, futile hope that it was something she would never have to undergo—now here it was. Yes, outside this prison, the Stasi ruled the public with an iron fist; but inside the prison, well, they answered to absolutely no one.

Her world went dark, as a bag was placed over her head and cinched around her neck. The pressure of vertigo hit her immediately as unseen fists flew towards her face. Imaginary batons inched nearer and nearer to her while hands threatened to grasp her anywhere and everywhere, and she ducked down to avoid a surprise ledge or ceiling from hammering her brow. Whatever her eyes couldn’t perceive, her fear and imagination made up for them—Perhaps a more realistic fear was running into a wall, she realized as she began to be half-walked/half-dragged out of her cell. It was more realistic perhaps, but this place bred an amount of paranoia so extreme she could have expected anything.

She tried the best she could to trace her steps. Perhaps if she paid close enough attention, she would be able to get a bearing somehow. At least, she could figure out the length of time it took to get from wherever she had been to wherever it was that she was going. Yet, as she walked straight forward for—what, five minutes?—and then turned around and around—what… three times?—only to head in what she could swear was the exact opposite direction for—two minutes? maybe?—she realized that keeping track of her route was as futile as trying to sleep in the second side-sleep position.

Screams of pain echoed throughout the halls. These were punctuated by raucous laughter and the ever-present clang, clang, clang on cell doors. “The poor bastard is probably getting the fire hose…” Lena thought sorrowfully. She knew what that felt like, and screaming was most certainly warranted.

Finally, after several more twists, turns, spins and back-tracks, she heard what sounded like a wooden door opening in front of her. Stepping (what she assumed was) through, she felt a mild change of pressure and echo as she walked forward. “ America can’t you see … its political slavery!” the hit song by The Dead Weights played softly from an unseen radio in an equally unseen corner of the room.

“You can leave her here, Sergeant.” a brusque male voice spoke in a commanding tone. “I’m sure young Lena and I shall be fast friends. Won’t we, Lena?”