“That’s what the last guy said who was sittin’ in that chair.”
His face hardens. “What the fuck did you say?”
“He was a big fella, too, just like you. In fact, I think that’s his gun you’re holdin’. I know ’cause I used it to shoot your two friends over there.” My eyes cut to the red stain on the cement next to him.
His jaw snaps shut, and his eyes narrow in hatred. “You tellin’ me you killed Skeeter and Lawn Boy?” His voice sounds like a dangerous combination of rage and grief, so I soften my tone.
“Only ’cause they fired first. Like I said, I don’t wanna hurt anybody. But you got what I need in there, and I ain’t leavin’ without it.”
The tattooed testosterone machine’s nostrils flare as he considers my proposition. Then, he stands up and swings the Uzi toward me, biceps flexing as he squeezes the handle in anger. I close my eyes and hold my breath, but the br-r-r-r-r-ap never comes.
“Two hundred,” he finally says with a frustrated growl. “For Skeeter and Lawn Boy.”
I nod solemnly. “Two hundred.”
When the behemoth turns and passes through the sliding tarp door, I exhale in relief and dig a wad of cash out of my back pocket with a shaking hand. It’s everything I had hidden in my sock drawer. Figured I’d better keep it on me now that my house has been overrun by Renshaws.
With knocking knees, I walk over to the blue Toyota and tuck all my twenties under the passenger windshield wiper. Then, I retreat to the F-150 a few parking spaces away.
Visions of an ambush flood my mind while I wait. I picture the guard running out with five, ten, fifteen thugs on his heels, all of them blasting the parking lot with semiautomatic weapons until the dumb girl in the baggy hoodie is just another red stain on the cement.
Maybe that’s the real reason I came here.
Maybe I want them to kill me.
But they don’t. What feels like hours later, the tarp door slides open again, revealing guard number two holding four plastic grocery bags and looking none too pleased about it.
He makes murderous eye contact with me as he lumbers toward the blue sedan. Then, he drops the bags on the hood and snatches the cash out from under the wiper blade. Counting it twice, the leathery redneck spits on the ground in my direction. Then, he turns and walks back to his station.
I wait until he’s back in his lawn chair and as far away from me as he’s going to get before I approach the car. He watches me walk with a predatory stare but doesn’t make a move as I inspect the bags. It’s all here—the vitamins, the soup, the fruits and veggies. This time, I can’t keep my tears at bay as an overwhelming mixture of pride and disbelief swells in my chest.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice cracking as I give the ogre a small, sincere smile.
“Fuck you,” he replies, dropping his eyes back down to the phone in his lap.
Wes
Three hundred fifty-four.
No matter how many times I count the gray cinder blocks lining my six-by-six cell, it always comes out to three hundred and fifty-fucking-four.
It’s so small I can’t even lie down on the cot without bending my knees, which is exactly what I’m doing as I stare at the ceiling with my pillow pressed against my ears, trying to block out the sobs of the guy in the holding cell next to me.
Sad bastard kept me up all night. I’d felt bad for him at first, but now, I wish somebody would come put him out of his misery. I don’t know how much more of this shit I can take.
His guttural wails finally die down—thank God—but before I can roll over and try to get some shut-eye, the fucker decides he wants to chat.
“Hey, neighbor? You doing okay?” He sniffles, blowing his nose on God knows what.
Ugh. Do we really have to do this?
“Yep,” I deadpan.
“I’m sorryyyyy.” His voice breaks on the last syllable, and the tears start up again. “I’m trying to be quiet … I really am.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“It’s cool,” I mutter without an ounce of sincerity. I’m not exactly long on compassion right about now.
“I’m Doug.” He sniffle-snorts like a rusty trumpet.
“Wes.”
“Hi, Wes. What are you in for?”
Oh my God.
I roll my eyes. This guy sounds like a pocket-protector-wearing Trekkie with a comb-over and a degree in Norse mythology. He must have heard that line in a prison movie on Netflix.
“Antibiotics.” Accepting that I’m never going to sleep again, I sit up and stretch my legs out in front of me. It’s weird to see them wrapped in an orange jumpsuit. I wore the same Hawaiian shirt and pair of jeans ever since the fires broke out in Charleston. All I got out of town with were the clothes on my back and my buddy’s dirt bike.
Now, I don’t even have those.
“Antibiotics? Wow. That’s all it takes, huh?”
“Guess so. What about you?” I ask, suddenly curious about what this cubicle-dweller could have possibly done to land himself here.
“I … I stole an incubator from the hospital for m-m-my premature son.” He starts weeping again, and I immediately regret asking the fucking question. “My wife and I, we …”
“Hey, man. You don’t have to—” I interrupt, trying to spare myself a fucking sob story, but Doug just keeps on going.
“We’d been trying to have a baby for years. We did everything—spent our life savings on medical procedures—but nothing worked.” He clears his throat, trying to pull his shit together, and continues, “When the nightmares began, we were almost relieved. There was no point in trying if the world was going to end, you know? But as soon as we gave up, that’s when it happened. My wife finally got pregnant … but the baby wasn’t due until June.”
Fuck. I shake my head, staring at the floor now instead of the ceiling. I think I liked it better when he was crying.
“My wife, she … she lost it. The nightmares, the hormones, the fact that she was growing a child she’d never get to hold—it took its toll. You know how the announcement said that the April 23 hoax was designed to increase the global stress levels until the weakest members of society self-destructed?”
“Yeah,” I rasp.
“My wife was weak, Wes.”
Was. Past tense.
“Doug … fuck, man … I’m—”
“She … she made herself go into labor. I don’t know how she did it, but on April 20, I found her in a bathtub full of blood … holding our s-s-son.”
The sobbing starts again, and I can’t help but think about Rain. I think about the night I found her on the verge of death with a stomach full of pills. I think about the hours I spent with my fingers down her throat, saving her life. I think about her panic attacks and trauma triggers and the days she spent holed up in an abandoned mall because she was too scared to go outside without me. Then, I think about the baby she might be growing, and I realize that my girl and Doug’s girl have a lot in fucking common.
Maybe too much.
“I’m sorry for yer loss,” a third voice mumbles, pulling me away from my spiraling thoughts.
I look up to find Officer Hoyt standing outside our cells, holding a pair of ankle shackles and staring at the floor.