Shay Savage: Otherwise Unharmed

Really, I just didn’t care to have anyone coming over and fussing at me about it.

I spit to try to get the grains of sand off my lips, but it doesn’t work. It never does, but it gives me something to do—something to strive for to stop the mind-numbing lack of interaction with anyone or anything. Time is meaningless, and the only connection I have had with anyone in what feels like days is the sound of footsteps in the compound where I’m kept in a deep, sand-filled hole.

I’m convinced it’s for the sake of convenience. When I die, they only have to fill it back up again.

Unfamiliar sounds, then gunshots and the whirring blades of a helicopter fill my ears. I assume my mind is playing tricks on me as I think I hear voices in English, but then a few minutes later there is a voice close to me.

“Lieutenant? Sir? Are you a Marine Corps Lieutenant?”

“What do you have there, Smith?”

“I dunno, sir, but he’s wearing fatigues, or at least what’s left of them.”

“He’s got tags. You’re right—he’s USMC.”

I feel a hand on the skin of my neck. Shuffling sounds above me become louder, and I try to turn my head enough to see. I want to call out, even if I’m calling out to my own imagination. It sounds real enough, and I don’t mind the fantasy. It beats eating sand. I don’t have enough of a voice to respond, though.

“Lieutenant? Lieutenant?”

“Lieutenant?”

My eyes flickered to the sound out of reflex, and I found Mark Duncan staring into them.

“Can you talk to me?”

I swallowed and wet my lips before I looked back down to the cuff around my wrist. The metal had warmed against my skin but didn’t feel quite right. It should have been those plastic zip-ties or maybe rope, not handcuffs. There was still the feel of sand in the back of my throat, and I coughed to try to get rid of it. It didn’t help. It never did.

“Can we get him out of the restraints?”

“No, sir. That wouldn’t be a good idea at all.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

There was an unfriendly guffaw from the guard as he mumbled under his breath.

“You got no idea who you’re dealing with, do ya?”

“What does that mean?”

My eyes traveled from Mark to the guard at the end of the bed. He was the unit supervisor, and though I didn’t remember his name, I did remember him making sure the cuffs were nice and tight as he restrained me. We locked gazes for a moment, and I stared at him with an intense, silent warning until he looked away.

Even if I didn’t give a shit about what happened to me now, I wasn’t going to let Rinaldo’s name into the conversation. There was some pride in me and also some loyalty, even if it was a fucked up version of allegiance.

“Sorry, sir,” the supervisor said to Mark, “but I can’t release him without orders from the warden.”

A deep sigh came from Mark as he pulled up a rolling chair close to the edge of the bed.

“Evan?”

I closed my eyes and tried to cross my arms in front of my chest, but of course, the handcuffs stopped me. A shudder passed through my body, and my breathing increased along with the pounding of my heart. I could taste and feel sand in my throat.

It’s not real.

Real or not, it sent me back into the desert.

“Lieutenant Evan Nathanial Arden, service number zero-four-seven-two-”

My teeth clench together to keep myself from screaming. I can’t see what the bearded man is using to whip the back of my neck down to my ass, but it stings like a motherfucker. I’m surprisingly glad I went through all the torture resistance training back in the spring.

“Did I ask you for your numbers?” The man in front of me—the leader of the group—kicks sand into my face, and I don’t manage to close my eyes in time.

I try to shake my head to get rid of some of the grains, but it doesn’t work. My eyes burn, and I can’t stop the desperate grunt that escapes my throat.

“You don’t like the sand here?” the leader asks. “You should get used to it!”

I still can’t open my eyes enough to see, but I feel rough hands on the back of my neck, and my face is shoved into the grains of sand in front of my knees. He twists and turns my head as I try to hold my breath.

With my hands balled into fists, I opened my eyes and looked to Mark in desperation. I couldn’t seem to actually say anything as my lungs screamed for oxygen. I was practically panting, but it wasn’t enough air. All I could feel going into my chest were grains of sand.

He put his hand on my forearm, but I jumped back away. The handcuffs bit into the skin of my wrist, and I gasped out loud. My body tensed—frozen in one spot as additional memories flooded through my brain.

“I’m going to get those off of you,” Mark said. “Just hang in there a little while longer, okay?”

I tried to nod but had no idea if I was successful or not.

Mark went on to argue with the unit leader about the handcuffs and to ask why I hadn’t been moved to a cell yet. I only half paid attention to the conversation. I certainly wanted to be out of the cuffs, but I wasn’t so sure moving from one part of the prison to another was going to make any kind of significant difference. It wasn’t like I was going to be able to sleep any better on a different cot.

“He’s still supposed to be on suicide watch.”

“I don’t think he’s a threat to himself.”

“You didn’t think he’d blow up a park either.”

“I can’t treat him if he’s nonresponsive, and he’s going to be that way as long as you have him restrained. Didn’t you read my notes?”

“Yeah, yeah, I saw them. Shell-shocked.”

“A little outdated on your terminology but essentially correct.”

Sometimes all you really needed was a little happy coincidence, and right at that time, about a dozen people entered the medical center—four guards and a bunch of inmates all holding their stomachs. It didn’t take long for the nurses to assess the situation and start moving the food-poisoned prisoners to the various cots around me. A few minutes later, as Mark continued to argue, another batch was brought in.

“We’re going to need all the beds we can get,” the nurse told him.

He let out a long sigh, glared at Mark and then at me.

“Solitary.”

“I’ll take it.” Mark nodded vigorously.

Hands grabbed my arms, and I was hauled out of the medical unit and into a hallway. An elevator door opened, and my pair of escorts shoved me inside with Mark following. When the doors opened again, we walked out into the common area of one of the cell units.

The area was carpeted and painted with warm earth tones. Several inmates sat around small, round tables in cheap plastic chairs and played cards while a few others stood around a bumper pool table. A couple of them looked up as I was led up a short flight of stairs and paraded along the curved railing that overlooked the recreation room.

Along the walkway were several numbered doors without windows in them. I was brought to the last door which contained a small window at eye level and a slotted opening in the center. The guard unlocked the door to take me inside.

The narrow cell was obviously designed for single occupancy. I could have walked the length between the door and the tall, narrow window overlooking downtown Chicago in about four steps. A metal-framed bed in the center took up most of the floor space. The legs of the bed were bolted to the floor, and I could see four loops that could be used for restraining straps on the sides. Aside from the obligatory toilet and sink, there was only a small writing desk with a single, thin drawer under the tabletop, a stool, and a locker shoved up against the foot of the bed to complete the room.