Kristen Simmons - Article 5

In the tiny cell, the narrow bed reached out from the wall and nearly collided with a metal toilet at its foot. There was barely enough room for the woman to remain standing in front of me without our knees touching.

“Where am I?” I asked her. My voice cracked. It had not been used in some time.

“Knoxville Detention Facility.”

So I had been captured after all.

It won’t be long until they kill me, too, I thought, in a completely detached way.

“Finish up, Miller.” She slapped the side of my bowl, and some sloshed onto a paper gown, like the kind people wear in hospitals. Somewhere along the line someone had taken my clothes.

“You know my name.” My haircut hadn’t disguised me in the end. Oh well.

She huffed. “Put the dress on. You can’t stay in that.”

With no notions of modesty, I stripped down to my undergarments and slid into the oversized Sisters of Salvation uniform, forgoing the handkerchief. My appearance now matched the clear-eyed woman.

“Now what?” I asked.

“You wait until someone comes and gets you.” She knocked twice on the door. It opened from the outside, and she slid out of view.

I stared at the wall across from me, my mind blank.

SOMETIMElater I heard keys jangle against the door, then a metallic squeal, and the barricade was removed, revealing a lean soldier with a broad chest. He had a slight face. Piercing green eyes. Golden hair slicked to one side. One large hand held a clipboard and a pen. His other arm was casted from the elbow down.

He had a gun holstered beside the nightstick on his hip. I wondered if he was here to shoot me, the way Chase’s commanding officer had shot my mother. I was surprised that I didn’t much care. At least this nightmare would be over.

There was a dreamlike quality about him. I felt like I recognized him from somewhere. Pieces began to pull together, one at a time.

“Your knuckles look like hell. What have you been doing, cage fighting?”

I glanced down, thinking that my hands actually looked pretty good. The scabs had peeled, leaving behind thin, white scars. Most of the darker bruising had faded. I wiggled my fingers. Just a dull ache.

“You have no idea who I am,” he said, stealing a look back toward the door.

I saw three discolored lines on his neck. Fingernail scratches. My scratches.

“Tucker Morris.”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. As if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

Silence.

“Aren’t you even curious why I’m here?”

“Does it matter? I’m sure I’ll be executed either way.” My voice was flat. Emotionless.

“That’s morbid.”

“Am I wrong?”

He smirked. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know who you mean,” I said with my jaw locked.

“Withholding information won’t help your case.”

“What will help my case?” I asked sourly.

“Being nice to me might.” There was a buoyancy in his tone. Almost as if he were flirting. I nearly gagged.

“I will not be nice to someone who participates in the murders of innocent people.” The words burned my tongue but did nothing to my dead heart.

“So he told you? I thought he’d chicken out. Just like he did with her.”

There was a flash of anger. I wanted to claw at him again, like I had when he’d taken my mother. But then the desire was gone. All that remained was bitterness.

“You’re a bastard, Tucker.”

“I should say the same.” He grinned at his own cleverness. “But watch your mouth. You can’t talk to a soldier that way.”

I scoffed. What was he going to do? Kill me? Get in line.

He hesitated. “Jennings already has abduction of a minor, assault with a deadly weapon, theft of federal property, and at least ten other petty charges tacked onto his AWOL. This isn’t someone you want to protect. He obviously wouldn’t return the favor.”

I hadn’t given him the chance to protect me—I’d left when he’d been guarding my door. By the time he realized I was gone, I’d probably already been thrown into this cell.

I wondered what my charges were. Something about running from the reformatory. Theft and assault. What else? Fraud for our non-government-approved marriage? For some reason, I found the tally mildly amusing. I didn’t even care if they pegged me as the sniper now.

“Why are you even here? I thought you were in a transport unit or something.”

“I made rank. I’m on a fast track. I’ll probably be an officer soon.”

“Congratulations.” I said. My tone didn’t faze him.

“Your trial’s been moved to the end of the week.”

“Damn. You couldn’t fit me in today, huh?”

“I bought you three more days to ponder your fate. I’d like to make sure you get the full experience of incarceration. That’s as a favor to our mutual friend.” His jaw twitched as he spoke.

Tucker was flat-out evil. He was even more despicable than Chase.

“I’m detailing you to cleanup until your sentencing.”

He opened my door and motioned for me to step outside into the hall. My legs were weak from days of not walking, and my head spun for a few seconds. I was surprised Tucker let me out without handcuffs.

The woman who had woken me earlier in the day was busying herself scrubbing floors. She had a sudsy bucket beside her and wore elbow-length rubber gloves.

“Delilah, this is Ember Miller,” said Tucker from the doorway.

She glanced up and then hoisted herself to her feet.

“Yes, sir.”

“She’ll help you until her trial.”

Delilah nodded submissively. Tucker pulled me aside before turning to go.

“I’ll be down the hall at that office. Come see me when she’s done with you.”

“I can’t wait.”

He chuckled as he walked away.

“Grab a brush. We’re scrubbing floors. And then it’s cleanup of another kind.” Delilah wasn’t much for small talk.

We went room by room, cleaning the floors, making the beds, scrubbing the toilets. Only two of the rooms were occupied, and those we did not enter immediately.

While I was working, a handcuffed man with sallow skin and bruises on one cheek slumped down the hall. He was accompanied by four guards, one of whom carried a silver briefcase. They pushed him roughly into an empty room. A few minutes later, all four guards disappeared the way they had come.

“Just gone to trial,” commented Delilah. I wondered morbidly what the outcome had been.

When we were finished, I followed Delilah downstairs to the cafeteria, where we picked up two trays of gray mush from a soldier wearing a hairnet. I watched as several soldiers were cleared in and out of the building’s main entrance by a guard behind a thick plate of glass. Every time the door opened, a spine-curdling buzz spiked my eardrums.

Back upstairs, Delilah used a key hanging on a thin metal chain around her neck to open the door.

The man inside was curled into a ball on the back side of his bed. He wore a canary yellow jumpsuit and rocked back and forth pitifully, muttering something to himself.

“Food,” Delilah said, laying the tray on the opposite side of his bed.

She shut the door, and marked the checkbox beside MEAL on the clipboard hanging from the handle.

In the next room, a man with olive skin leaned against the wall, biting his nails.

“You got a blanket or something?” he said quickly. “Oh. Hey there,” he added when he saw me. I stared back at him curiously.

“Food,” Delilah said again, leaving the tray on his bed.

A guard passed by, heading down the stairs.

“Where’s he going?” I asked Delilah.

“Rounds. They walk the halls every thirty minutes.”