Kristen Simmons - Article 5

“It seems like there should be more security for a jail.”

She shook her head. “This is a small detention center. Only holding cells. Temporary stays. It’s minimum security. The prison’s in Charlotte.”

Delilah was very matter-of-fact.

“Hope you have a tough stomach,” she said.

“Why?”

“Now it’s time for the real cleanup.”

I followed her to a storage room, which held supplies. Bleach. Gloves. Prisoner uniforms. Towels. Blankets. I thought she would grab one for the man in the cell, but she did not. Instead, she retrieved a deep laundry cart with a metal cover. Then we headed toward the third occupied room, the one holding the soldier who had just completed trial.

I looked at his clipboard. In large letters was written one word: COMPLETE.

There was a fleeting moment where I remembered a conversation between Rebecca and me at the reformatory. Sean had told her that he had heard the term complete used for the Article violators. That was when I’d naïvely thought my mother had been sent to rehab.

I knew when the door swung open why Delilah had asked me about my stomach.

The man before us was lying twisted on the narrow bed. His knees were stacked on the mattress while his shoulders faced the ceiling. His brown hair was still tangled, and a bruise still blackened his pasty cheek.

But he was now dead.

My mind conjured an image of the man who had starved in the square. How thin and fragile his body had looked. How I assumed he had fallen asleep, when really he had wasted away.

This was different. This man looked dead. Not peaceful. Not sleeping. But ashy and cold and tortured, as though his mind had been taken by death before his body was ready. I knew then why people close the eyes of the dead. Those lifeless globes tracked me like the eyes of the Mona Lisa.

I took a step back before my knees began knocking. Within seconds, my whole body was shaking. I couldn’t stop staring at the dead man. My brain morphed his face into Chase’s face. His dark, probing eyes gone dim. If caught, this would be his fate.

Even now, I didn’t want Chase to die. I hoped he was far away. That he’d run once he’d found me gone.

Delilah heaved the body into a seated position. I felt the bile scratch up my throat. Deliberately, I swallowed. She rolled the body sideways into the laundry cart, and it thudded against the metal base.

I felt ill. I forced my mind to focus. To magnetize some semblance of strength.

“You still upright?” Delilah asked as she pushed the cart down the hall, the opposite direction of the stairs.

She wasn’t looking at me, but I nodded, trailing behind her slightly. I watched my feet, one after another. It was the only thing I could focus on without vomiting.

“It helps if you don’t think of them as people.”

Yes. I imagined that would help.

At the end of the hallway was a freight elevator. It was black and greasy and had poor lighting. She pushed the cart inside, and I tried to tell myself that there wasn’t a body within it.

We got off at the bottom floor and exited through an unguarded door, which Delilah unlocked with the same key from around her neck. She pushed the cart down a narrow back alley until we reached a high fence with rolls of barbed wire cresting its ridge. There was a gate there, manned by two soldiers in a guard station. They saw the cart and let us pass without a second glance.

“I guess they know what we’re doing,” I observed.

“You gonna help?” Delilah asked as she began to labor. I slid beside her, checking my nausea, and grabbed one side of the slick metal handle. Together, we pushed the cart up a steep asphalt embankment lined by flat-topped hedges that curved around the back side of the station. I was sweating by the time we reached the top.

A single cement building, flat and square, came into view. It was surrounded by lovely drooping trees, a contrast to the black factory smoke puffing from the chimney. The air reeked of sulfur. The driveway arched into a teardrop before the entrance.

“Just over to that door there.” Delilah pointed. I helped her push the weighted cart to a side exit with a canvas shade awning. She rang a buzzer. Then, without waiting, she walked away.

“We just leave him—it—here?” I asked.

She nodded. “The crematorium.”

My stomach churned.

They took my mother somewhere like this. I was flooded with so much horror I could barely stumble behind her.

The sickness numbed, and I was able to follow Delilah weakly back to the highest crest of the hill. Here she paused. I tracked her gaze, feeling my feet stabilize under me for the first time since we had entered that third room.

Before us stretched the FBR base. The buildings all matched, gray and drab, some with stout additions, others slender. All variations on the same deathly theme. Little manicured lawns cropped up between them, and white walkways bounced from entrance to entrance. It reached on for miles, surrounded by the high steel fence that we had passed through below. In the distance I could see the river and the hospital where we’d left the car. The square would be nearby, as would the Wayland Inn, where the resistance plotted.

Oh, the information I could offer Wallace. The layout of the detention center. How many guards roamed the halls. The geography of the base. I’d doubted my use to the resistance before. I didn’t now.

I felt a flame flicker inside of me. A feeling, almost unrecognizable.

Hope.

What if I could find a way to tell Wallace? Even if I was doomed to die, the information I had might save others. Innocent people like my mother. It physically hurt to think that the information I now had might have helped someone save her.

I turned around and saw the remains of an abandoned town. Probably some residential offshoot of Knoxville. Twisting asphalt avenues were lined by crowded duplexes and condos. From the distance, their tiny yards did not look overgrown or weed eaten. The tagged walls and broken windows were too far away to see clearly.

An old sign posting fuel prices reached up atop the horizon, drawing my attention. A main street ran down the left side of my view; a straight line away from me.

“Is that all part of the base, too?” I asked.

“No. The base is just over there. This side of the city is evacuated. A Red Zone.”

I felt my brows draw together.

“Do you mean that we’re not currently on the base?”

“You’re a bright one,” she mocked.

Anxiety shimmered through me.

“How often do you come out here?” I asked.

“Every time I have to take out the trash.”

I grimaced at her analogy. “And you’ve never thought to just keep walking?”

“I think it all the time.”

“Why don’t you?”

She looked at me, her face tired.

“If there was anything for me out there, I’d be gone.”

She looked at me in judgment, sizing up my intentions. Apparently, my thoughts were as transparent as her eyes.

Beth was still out there. Rebecca was in danger. Wallace and the resistance could use me, and after my mother’s murder, how could I not help them? There were too many people like me who didn’t know just how lethal the MM was. Too many people dead, while their loved ones remained hopeful for a reunion.

I had to do something, no matter how small. Something. For my mother.

If I ran now, Delilah didn’t have to go more than ten feet to flag down the guard at the watch station. But Tucker had said I still had three days before my trial. If I could earn enough trust to make it outside on my own, I might be able to escape.

“You want a bullet in your back, don’t you?” She wasn’t looking for an answer.