Chapter 15 (Aronade: age 16/ Mark: age 18 — Enforcement of the Law)
I am stiff and tired as I walk back towards the exit that Mark had shown me. I am grateful when I see the crowd thinning as I get further away from the center of town. I remember as I walk that I told the caretaker to leave me here. It probably wouldn’t have worked out if I had asked him to stay. And yet, the idea of having to walk all the way to the tram station is less than appealing to say the least.
I stop short. There is a figure standing next to the hole in the wall, which is my only known exit. I recognize him immediately.
“What are you doing here?” I challenge him.
Kurt pushes himself off from the wall and smirks.
“Same as you. Catching a show.”
“Do you know my brother?” I demand, eyes glowering.
He seems taken aback by the directness of my question but only for a moment.
“I may have met him once or twice.”
“You set him up, didn’t you?”
“Some setup?! The guy’s set for life!”
“But he almost died.”
Kurt looks off to the side.
“Is that why you left the gathering?” I continue. “You’re hiding from my brother? Surely what happened today wasn’t part of the plan.”
Kurt shoots up, and he casts a startled look onto me.
“What plan?” he manages, though his tone is unconvincing.
Now it is my turn to smirk. I begin to walk toward him … then past him. I have my answer, I conclude. Things make sense to me now. And yet, a surge of crippling guilt suddenly flows through me all the same. I try to shake it off and think about Kurt and the details of his probable machinations instead. I hope that will distract me as I walk on.
If Kurt knows my brother, and clearly he does, then he probably was involved in what happened at the decimation. He probably had something to do with my brother being there — participating in that twisted game. It seems likely that the seventh bullet being missing was not a fluke. My brother and Kurt had probably cheated to get that money. And the bullet had probably been removed from the tenth slot, so that my brother wouldn’t die. That means that the first man did take my brother’s place in death … And there it is again … the guilt.
But if they had had access to the gun to change the outcome, why did they leave only six bullets in the weapon? Had some mistake been made? Was the guy who volunteered to shoot my brother … was he in on it and just trying to cover his tracks? Or, did it show he wasn’t conspiring with Mitchell and Kurt?
And would Kurt have allowed Mitchell to be shot by the guard at that point? Would he have even had the power to stop it? And then there is the possibility that Kurt actually wanted the guard to shoot my brother, and that he is avoiding my brother because of that. Then again, there is also the possibility that my brother was never in any danger at all.
“Aronade.” I hear Kurt calling out after me.
I turn around distractedly as I had been deep in thought. I had made it through the hole in the wall, and now I see him climbing through it as well … following me. I wonder why he’s calling out to me. Has he somehow gotten himself stuck in there? I just stand there. Even if I could help him, why would I?
“What is it, Kurt?” I ask him with ice in my voice.
Kurt doesn’t answer but does manage to make it through the opening. Apparently, he wasn’t stuck at all; he was just seized with some sort of enthusiasm to catch up to me.
“What is it you want, Kurt?” I ask him again in a tired voice.
He stops where he is — about ten feet away. He straightens himself up and smirks at me. I find this display preposterous.
“You going back to school?” he asks me. “I could go with you.”
“That’s okay. I’m fine.” I dismiss him.
I turn back around.
“Aronade!”
“What?!” I shoot back over my shoulder without turning.
“Weren’t you surprised to see your brother there?” he chides.
I don’t know what his point is in following me, but I decide to ignore him and keep going. I make it to the tram station.
“Why are you following me?!” I turn toward him once I get there.
I could hear him following me the entire time. He has gotten much closer than I expected or am comfortable with. I try to spin around, but he grabs my arm. I attempt to shake his hand loose, but he holds fast.
“Let me go!” I snarl at him.
“I’m surprised you’re going to leave without seeing him.”
His eyes lift above my head, and I can hear the tram approaching from behind me.
“My brother?” I mutter while still trying to wrench my arm free.
He smirks as the tram pulls to a stop. He then releases my arm. I turn from him in disgust and begin to mount the tram. As the tram begins to pull away, I can hear Kurt shouting something at me. At first, I can’t make out what he is saying.
“Mark! I said Mark!!” he repeats.
He begins to walk beside the tram as it moves away. He cups his mouth in his hands in order to amplify his voice.
“Aren’t you going to see Mark? He’s at the police station!”
Kurt had started to run at this point. But when my eyes narrow, showing that I have registered what he has been saying to me, he stops suddenly and grins. The moving tram continues on, leaving Kurt in its dust. It is too late to jump off and go after Kurt, which was probably Kurt’s point in waiting to run alongside the tram.
I grip the metal pole near the tram door tightly. I know I will have to ask which stop is closest to the police station. I won’t be able to rest until I find out if Mark is there. I decide it has been too long since I’ve seen Mark. There is probably something wrong. With Kurt lurking about in Mison, it seems almost certain there is trouble. I am determined; I must find Mark!
“Excuse me.” I approach the tram driver.
He looks at me from the side briefly then returns his eyes to the front.
“Yes?” he finally responds with irritation in his voice.
“Where is the police station?”
The man shoots me a quick look of alarm. He then looks up at the mirror facing the crowd behind him. My eyes instinctively dart toward the back of the tram as well. No one appears to be listening in, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t, or that they weren’t just moments before.
“Which one?” he asks me in a low tone of voice.
The question surprises me, though it really shouldn’t, I suppose. There has to be more than one. Of course, I have no way of knowing for sure which one it is. And yet, the odds are that since Kurt is involved it has to be one nearby … on this route.
“The closest one.” I decide to say.
“Have a seat.” he tells me. “We’ve already passed it. You’ll have to go around again.”
I look at him questioningly.
“How long ago did we pass it?” I wonder to myself.
I suspect the tram driver’s behavior and his questions had been a way to deter me from going to the station for some reason. It certainly hadn’t been helpful to me to have him drive past the place. Maybe there isn’t even more than one station on this route. His question had seemed odd at the time actually … still, I have no intention of giving up if that’s indeed what he’s hoping. I take a seat and wait.
I watch the other passengers exit at various stops along the way. The ones who had been on board the tram when I had spoken to the tram driver seem curious about me. They cast looks in my direction as they depart. Their faces contort in various odd ways. Some look as though they are trying to smile — but they fail. I am glad to see the last one of these passengers disembark. Now it is time to circle back around.
I would have been tempted to get off and walk to the station if I knew where it was. I don’t trust the tram driver. He keeps looking back at me in his driver’s mirror. I wonder if he’ll even tell me when we get to the stop for the police station this time around. I decide to request that he do so.
“Let me know when we’re at the right stop.” I call forward. “Please.”
At first, I wonder if he heard me as he doesn’t show any sign of acknowledgment initially. Finally, he nods. Still, I look up and over at him every time we reach a stop and people get off and on. I get antsy as time passes.
“Is …” I start after we pass by the gates of Mison.
“This next one.” the driver states in a tone so low I can barely hear him. But I did hear him, and I jump up from my seat and place myself at the door of the tram. I can feel my heart pound as I await my opportunity to step off.
I can see the driver’s eyes looking back at me as he slows us down. I make eye contact with him as we roll to a stop. He is staring at me intently.
I look toward the exit again and step off. I have to do a little maneuvering to avoid those people pressing to get on. It doesn’t occur to me until I step off that the tram driver could have lied to me about this being the right stop. But then, he might have to explain to the police why he would have lied to me in order to keep me from going to the police station. Why would he put himself at risk like that?
Still, I probably should have asked the tram driver where exactly the police station is located, for I don’t see it. I look around me, but I can see no official building.
But then I see him — a man in uniform. He is walking toward me. At first I think to ask the man where the station is. But as he approaches me, the hard look in his eyes causes me to hesitate.
I stop short and look at him funny.
I manage to say, “Hello.”
He grins. He seems to find my reaction to him amusing. How would I have reacted under “normal” circumstances? I doubt I would have frozen midstride. But these truly aren’t normal circumstances. In this society, this tall, blonde boy — powerful-looking in his tailored uniform — has all the power. My power is only equal to my ability to pass myself off as “normal” and to appear to be one of the masses. There are still too many of us to go at directly. They still have to pick us off in small numbers when they find us on the outside of the herd. Yet, they get further and further toward the center of that herd with each passing day.
“Hello.” I state again — this time with a renewed confidence that comes from a jolt of anger inside of me. Now he seems to be the one taken aback.
“Nice weather we’re having … finally.” I add, trying to mask any rudeness I may have conveyed.
“Yeah.” he says, looking around absentmindedly.
I take this opportunity to walk on. There’s no point in drawing out this awkward moment. I can’t afford to be asked any questions.
I let the man walk past me without saying another word. He doesn’t stop or turn around; he doesn’t even look at me again. And yet, I am none too eager to follow him … but still, I figure I must. It’s the quickest way to find the police station. So, slowly I force myself to trail him … for Mark’s sake. I am just hoping that this isn’t some sort of setup by Kurt.
I trail the man at what I think is a reasonable distance. Fortunately, he doesn’t turn back around and see me. Just to be on the safe side, however, I do try to keep a couple of passersby between the two of us.
Eventually, the man heads into a large, marble building, which is several stories high. It looks like an apartment building to me. I begin to fear my pursuit of this man has been in vain. But then I see a couple of more men in uniform coming out of the same building. What are the odds of that?
It occurs to me that this building may have been converted into a police station. I gather myself together. There’s only one way to find out. I decide to head inside and see if I can find someone I feel comfortable asking.
The front room of the building has tall ceilings and white marble floors. There are quite a few people milling about this space, but, because it is such a large space, it doesn’t feel crowded. There are mostly men around, but there are also some women as well. The men are all in uniform. Only one of the women is wearing a uniform; the rest are wearing business attire. Everyone appears to be busy, and no one seems to notice me. However, I dare not go into the elevator without asking for permission first. I figure that could be a dreadful mistake. Besides, I figure that if Mark has been arrested for some reason, I will more than likely need permission to see him, and they’re unlikely to grant that permission if they catch me sneaking in. It strikes me odd all of a sudden that Mark could possibly be being held here. It would have to be some kind of mistake … assuming it’s even true.
I decide to approach the least intimidating of the women — one of the women in business attire who is lurking behind the reception desk.
Talking to her doesn’t turn out to be a big deal … or at least it doesn’t appear to be. Actually, I am a bit unnerved by her lack of reaction to my asking her where any detainees are kept. She simply points me toward the elevators and gives me a floor number … as though it’s the most natural thing ever. I look at her funny … but only for a moment. Then, I’m on my way; I have somewhere to be.
“I really don’t belong here.” I hear a woman pleading when I reach the designated basement floor. Her eyes are rather frenzied. Her hands nervously twitch at her sides. Then, with a shaking left hand she pulls back her hair from her face. “I really don’t know why I’m here.” she stammers, her voice filled with agitation.
“Yeah, yeah. I hear that a lot.” the officer handling her case declares.
The man, who appears to be in his early twenties, then looks up at me. He is sitting behind a desk in front of the woman. At first, when he looks at me with interest, I figured I must have been staring at then. But then suddenly, he winks at me as though we are a party to the same inside joke. I find this disturbing. I shift uncomfortably. Then, I realize that I am still wearing my school uniform. His gesture may be flirting, for all I know. But I am certain of one thing: he is trying to convey a camaraderie between the two of us. In his mind, the two of us are the same. We are the elites — the woman is an inferior. She barely counts. Or, perhaps, she doesn’t count at all. Does he find interactions like this one with the woman as unnerving as I do? Is he looking to me to give him reassurance that he is doing nothing wrong? I look down, feeling impotent. I won’t give him confirmation or approval, but I have to admit for a brief second I am tempted to. Given where I am and that I’m here looking for Mark, I can’t afford to draw the ire of this man. I simply don’t have the power to … if he only knew how little power I actually have.
“And who are you, fraulein?” he asks me, purposefully turning his attention away from the woman.
I approach the desk.
“I’m Liesel Frankfort.” I announce, trying to sound confident.
“And why are you here?” he asks me in a sickeningly saccharine tone.
“I’m looking for someone. His name is Mark Grayson …”
The man then abruptly cuts me off with a wave of his hand. I turn around to see what he is pointing at. It appears I am to sit on a nearby wooden bench.
“Liesel Frankfort?” I hear a voice behind me call out in a sterile tone sometime later.
I flinch involuntarily. The voice is coming from an old wooden door with a frosted window. The door creaks when it moves, but I was too distracted to notice it when it first opened. I only notice it now. I am grateful for the window at least. I figure it will be harder for them to abuse me since people can hear and possibly see it happen. But then, I think, what people? People like me who avert their eyes and pretend they don’t see? People who have no power? Even that one guy who took my name is clearly not intimidated by me … and to such an extent that he felt comfortable enough to flirt with me. No, I will get no help from that quarter. People can’t help me … even if they wanted to.
I stand up slowly, trying to look as dignified as I can. I figure the more presentable I can look, the better the reflection it will have on Mark. Maybe if they believe that I am an elite, they won’t view him as an “inferior.” The man inside the room is a bespectacled, round man with a comb over. He eyes me with impatient curiosity. He wonders why I am here; I can tell. But despite his seeming interest in the reason for my presence, he’s clearly not glad that I am here.
As I walk through the old door and into the little room, he asks me in a rather stiff voice, “And what brings you here?”
I can tell by his tone that he doesn’t believe that I should have come. I should know my place, and it isn’t here. My interference isn’t appreciated. I flatten out my skirt with my hands after I sit down on the chair the man pointed out to me. I clear my throat.
“I’ve come to visit a …” I catch myself before I say the word prisoner. “… someone here.” My voice sounds weak to me. That won’t do.
The man eyes me with skepticism as he sits in the chair opposite me. He then leans back in his chair and openly scrutinizes me.
“Do you know what this place is?” he suddenly asks me while gesturing with his arms in a sweeping motion.
“It is a police station.” I utter in a barely audible voice.
His left hand comes down upon the old table, and he begins drumming the wood with his fingers. My eyes fix on the wood that he’s striking; his fingers trace the wood’s rivets. I have to wonder how many foreheads have been smashed against that wood. There is a peculiar stain near the edge of the table in front of me …
“So it is.” he says, leaning back again. “Where are your parents?”
“Dead.” I state.
“Then who … is responsible for you?”
I want to say “I am,” but I figure that would be too clever.
“Onkel Frankfort.” I respond.
I am hoping he won’t ask me for the Instructor’s supposed first name because I don’t know it. In fact, I am convinced that Frankfort is an alias. The Instructor has connections I’m sure, but I can’t use them — not for this situation. I want the Instructor to know as little as possible about Mark. It doesn’t appear as though this man recognizes the name Frankfort anyway. That is probably for the best. It’s doubtful that the Instructor’s interference could do anything but hurt Mark.
The man reaches into his breast pocket then and pulls out a little memo pad. He then flips it over to an empty page.
“Onkel Frankfort.” he repeats, apparently writing the words down. I sense the man is trying to intimidate me — make me afraid that he’s starting a file on me. But I am too concerned about Mark to worry about myself at this point. Though, the thought does occur to me that maybe I should be concerned. Still, the defiant part of my nature wants to ask him if he needs help spelling that. But I know better than to aggravate this man; I need his help to get to Mark.
The man eyes me suddenly. He seems to be assessing me — assessing my reaction. I just stare at him. He closes his notebook and puts it back into his pocket.
“What’s the name of the one you want to see?” he asks me.
I hold my breath for a moment. Now I am nervous. Mistakenly or not, I don’t believe the man will hurt me. But Mark is a different story. Though, I don’t even think I would need to give him an excuse to hurt Mark … And hesitating — especially for too long — could prove disastrous.
“Mark Grayson.” I force the words out. Fortunately, I somehow make my voice sound confident as I speak this time.
“Wait here.” he speaks gruffly.
The man stands abruptly. He then walks to the door and slams it. I am left alone in the room waiting to see whether my venture to this place will prove to be one of the biggest mistakes of my life.
It is nerve-wracking sitting in the room waiting. As the time ticks by, I find myself fighting the urge to fidget.
“No,” I tell myself “Someone could be watching.”
If someone is watching, I wonder who it could be. Would it be that guy who just left or that flirtatious guy from before? No matter. Whether they are trying to get some incriminating evidence against me or just trying to intimidate me, I will give them nothing. I fix my gaze straight ahead. I make my face as expressionless as possible. Let them get bored staring at a girl with a blank wall for a face! I doubt they have that sort of patience!
It doesn’t take much time after I had determined not to show a reaction that I can hear the doorknob begin to turn. My gaze shifts toward the door expectantly … automatically. I am really not prepared for what I see next. Not since I first beheld Mark have I seen him in such a distressing state. In fact, it takes a moment for me to wrap my mind around the fact that it really is him.
I jump from my seat.
“Sit down.” the bespectacled man barks at me.
He walks in behind Mark and another man, who had manhandled Mark into the room. I grudgingly do as I am ordered, but I can’t stop myself from glaring at the bespectacled man with a mixture of anger and disgust.
The bespectacled man then laughs at me; that isn’t the reaction I want from him.
“My name is Dienst.” the bespectacled man boasts. “Remember it.”
Had they beaten Mark because of me? I am horrified at that thought.
“No.” I quickly conclude to myself. Some of his injuries appear to be too old to have been made recently.
It shouldn’t matter to me so much that I’m not to blame — at least not entirely to blame. I shouldn’t feel too much relief that I didn’t cause his pain. I should be too consumed by the fact he is in pain to worry about any guilt that I may feel. But I’m relieved nonetheless.
I look upon Mark with wide, aching eyes as they lead him past me and plant him in a chair by my side. At first, he just sort of slumps there … but he doesn’t crumble. He manages to rally himself. Shortly thereafter, I can see his face concentrating. He manages to straighten up his posture. I can’t help but think he might be making such effort partly for my benefit. Though doubtless he wants to impress upon his captors that he is still defying them.
Mark’s situation reminds me of the time he was left out in the cold while he was soaking wet. Then, he had managed to hang in there until I could get to him. Still, that seems like such a long time ago now.
Mark is pretty close to me, I think, looking over at him. If I made the effort to reach out my hand and he did the same, our fingers would be able to touch. And yet, we are far enough away from each other that we could be spotted. And I don’t even want to imagine what the results of that would be.
Suddenly, Mark looks over at me. I can feel myself begin to flush under his gaze. No, that won’t do. I can’t let the men see how much I care for Mark … even though it’s probably pretty obvious already. So, I look away.
“So, this girl came to see you.” Dienst states while sitting back down in his chair. “Do you know her?”
Mark looks over at me again. Mark had turned briefly toward the man when the man had spoken to him. Mark hesitates … but only for a moment. He probably thinks, as I do, that this is more than likely a trick question.
“Yes.” he responds.
“She seems quite worried about you …” Dienst begins.
As though one couldn’t tell by looking at Mark that there is good reason for my concern.
“I suppose you’re the reason for that.” the man needles.
Then strangely, Dienst sits there in silence as though waiting for some sort of response. Mark’s eyes shift skeptically.
“What does that mean?” Mark utters.
Almost as though on cue, the second man makes a motion as though he’s about to strike Mark. But then Dienst calls him off at the last possible second.
“Now we can’t have such things done in front of the young lady.” Dienst prattles on with complete insincerity.
It occurs to me that this whole show is for my benefit, only it doesn’t have the desired effect. It reminds me so much of the scenarios from years past — only those scenes were better acted. Still, I know better than to give into instinct and laugh out loud. This is a serious situation even if these two men are buffoons.
I take a glance at Mark. I’m trying to decide how to proceed. I have more clout in this system than Mark does … but only if I can maintain the façade that I am one of them. But then, my being here at all for Mark would tell them that I am an outsider in their system. They don’t know who my “onkel” is. That must worry them a little; he could be somebody. They also can’t prevail upon him to get me to leave since he isn’t here. I haven’t backed down yet. They want me to, but I haven’t. The question is how much do they want to keep a hold of Mark? Is there any chance they’ll just let me take him out of here? I decide to pray.
I close my eyes in order to block Dienst’s face from my mind — to get some relief from it. Being there with my eyes closed is sort of like sleeping, and I am able to distance myself from what is going on around me. Then, I hear a banging noise — the sound of a fist on the table, and my eyes open. But I don’t flinch; I am eerily calm. I just stare at Dienst, who’s clearly trying to intimidate me, with skepticism.
He looks back at me in disbelief.
“So, when can I pick him up?” I find myself asking.
“What?!” he demands.
“When will you be done with him? With the interrogation, I mean.”
The man’s eyebrows lower. He looks at the second man in disbelief.
“I can come back in the evening. My onkel can bring me around to fetch him. I’m assuming he’ll still be able to walk then.” My tone is flat.
Something strikes Dienst as funny, and he begins to laugh out loud.
“So, he’s going to go back with you?”
“Sure.” I say.
“And who is he to you?”
“A friend.” I reply without hesitation.
“And your onkel knows about him?”
Now I hesitate. Dienst laughs again.
“So you’re bluffing.” he accuses. “You’re slumming behind your onkel’s back!”
I redden in anger.
“Hardly.” I respond. “I am perfectly willing to bring my onkel here if I have to. I just don’t want to have to.”
Dienst eyes me with amusement. Then suddenly, he yawns.
“Fine.” he says. “I’ve got a whole floor of people I have to interrogate tonight. I think we’re pretty much done with this one. None are really worth my time today. It’s just the principle of the thing — the message it sends to those we really want.”
He yawns again.
“It’s not worth my time to try to keep a hold of him. I was just curious as to why someone like you would want him. Now that I know that you’re just a little fool, you can leave …” He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “Oh, but don’t come back — even if he does …” he warns. “Or your onkel will be the least of your problems.”
I wait to stand. I figure it would be better to be chastised for remaining seated and lingering in the room than to offend Dienst by being too forward. I am afraid to move actually — afraid that this man will retract his offer to let Mark go. I am even afraid to look him directly in the eye. And yet, I can feel him staring at me, even though my eyes are focused just below his chin.
Eventually, my eyes dart to the motion of his fingers as they drum upon the wood of the table. Finally, I look up at him once I conclude that my looking at him is probably what he is waiting for me to do.
He laughs again.
“Oh, there is one more thing …” he trails off.
He leaves me waiting for the sentence to end for quite a while.
“I certainly hope you and your onkel have access to a doctor. You’re going to need one.”
With that, he abruptly stands with a flourish. I look over at Mark with alarm and notice for the first time how distinctly labored his breathing appears. But I don’t have the opportunity to ask Mark how he is. For at that moment, the second man comes forward and swiftly lifts up Mark by his collar. He half carries Mark, who seems to be struggling to stand, towards the door to the waiting room. I follow mutely behind, trying to keep the sense of deepening shock at bay.
I am glad when we manage to step across the threshold of the main gate of the building. It is raining now. I can feel the wind —the rush of freedom smack me in the face. But then, it sends a chill through me. It is one of those moments where you can sense something miserable could happen suddenly, and you brace yourself waiting to see if it will occur. It is a turning point. You can almost visualize a separate scenario setting forth in the other direction. But fortunately, that other way doesn’t happen
I allow myself to breathe again when I see Mark being flung forward toward the street. Mark remains standing, though unsteadily. He stands defiantly in front of the second man and me. I walk past the second man. As I start to walk toward Mark, I can hear the second man’s footsteps recede behind me.
Then suddenly, Mark falters, and he collapses. I scream. Unfortunately, Mark’s efforts to keep his pride in front of the second man have failed. I hear the man laugh behind me. I brace myself without turning around. I’m afraid the second man will come toward us … but he doesn’t. Then, I hear the metal gates behind me clang shut, leaving me alone with the unmoving form that is Mark. I run to Mark, though I am still unsure what I will do once I get to him.
“Mark!” I whisper but with emotion. “Mark!!”
Mark suddenly opens his eyes. He rouses so quickly that I wonder whether he hadn’t faked his collapse to maybe get the second man to leave with some satisfaction … so that he would leave us alone. But one look at the stark paleness of Mark’s face tells me that the seriousness of his condition is real.
I look around me — unsure of what to do. Who could I possibly turn to for help? I don’t want to go to the Instructor if I can avoid it.
“Can you help me up?” Mark asks me.
I look at him doubtfully. How can I help him? I am much smaller than he is. But then I realize he is letting me know he wants me to stay there with him and not seek out help from anyone else. I know right away not getting help is a risk. And yet, apparently it is a risk that Mark is willing to take.
I go to Mark and place his arm around my shoulder. I attempt to try to help him to stand.
“How bad off are you?” I whisper to him.
He laughs in a halting and ironic way but says nothing. Chances are he doesn’t know. It could go either way at this point. We will have to wait and see.
“Is there some place I can take you?” I ask him.
He laughs again … probably because it is clear I won’t be able to take him anywhere solely by my own efforts. By now I am sick of his laughing at my questions. Still, just moments later, I feel guilty for feeling that way, for then I realize that it’s probably the only way he can communicate at this point.
“We have to go somewhere.” I point out. “We can’t stay here.”
I hear him swallow.
“Straight ahead.” he puts forth.
I somehow manage to muster strength I didn’t know I had. Though, in reality, I’m not sure how helpful I actually am. I am not only too short to be of much use to him, but my pulling at him might be doing him more harm than good. And yet, I can feel a surge of adrenaline within me — the need to get him up and out of there as quickly as possible. I haven’t been this decisive in a long time. It is nice not to be plagued by self-doubt for once. I had forgotten what it was like to be this sure of myself.
If my actions are annoying and awkward in Mark’s view, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he is patient with me. At times I can sense him studying me silently with his eyes. The only words he utters are to tell me which way we need to go.
Mark directs me toward the underground tunnel system. We get to the underground tunnels by way of some partially destroyed buildings above, which lead to stairs that go underground. The whole area is dimly lit with warm yellow lanterns.
We walk down many passages underground. They don’t appear to be very well made. They have either fallen apart or were never well-constructed to begin with. I can’t tell which it is. Apparently, these alleyways are places where people routinely congregate covertly.
I am wondering why anyone would choose to place a ghetto system on top of this maze of tunnels if they wanted to keep the population contained. Then again, maybe the tunnels don’t go underneath Mison.
I am glad to get out of the rain. And yet, it is the atmosphere surrounding those people I am most happy to escape from. I feel I can at last breathe with just Mark here. Usually, the stench of oppression is so bad these days that I can hardly catch my breath. What does Mark think? Does he feel the same? I am eager to ask him … and yet I don’t. I guess I’m afraid to. He doesn’t appear to be in a hurry to speak. I can hear him breathe out in a halting way. Is it from the pain or are his lungs damaged? Who can tell?
“Stop here.” Mark remarks in his usual definitive way.
I stand befuddled in front of what appears to be a solid brick wall. My eyes narrow; then I look toward Mark.
“There’s a latch hidden under one of the overhangs of the brick.” he explains. I nod. It reminds me of something the Instructor would do.
“I suggested it after what we went through that last day …” he trails off.
Something about the reference to that day strikes me. I reach mutely forward to grab at the latch he had suggested. It isn’t rocket science; and yet, I am amazed to see the wall seamlessly slide back all the same.
“This is familiar.” I voice as I stare into the dark space in front of me.
“There should be a light switch on the wall.” he directs me.
I find it eventually, but I have to let go of Mark in order to do so.
The light reveals a large storage space, which is filled to the brim with supplies of all kinds. It is so filled, in fact, it is practically suffocating.
“Am I supposed to help you on my own?” I ask him.
“I’ve had training.” he tells me.
I look at him blankly for a moment, but then I realize he expects to tell me what to do, and I’m supposed to do it. I am unsure if I am up for that, but what else is there to do? Going for help elsewhere will probably just land us back in the interrogation room again.
He gasps slightly, and I can tell he is in pain. I decide I will try to do this on my own. The first thing I do is find a spot for him on the ground, but there isn’t a lot of room.
“There aren’t a lot of medical supplies here yet.” Mark admits. “We haven’t gotten around to acquiring them.”
“We?” I wonder about the word, but I don’t ask him. This isn’t the time.
“This place isn’t going to work long term …” I point out. “It’s too small and damp.”
Mark doesn’t argue the point with me. Perhaps, he’s too tired to. I will have to think of somewhere else I can take him. I can only think of one place.
While I work on Mark’s wounds, I tell him about Mitchell and the decimation.
“Still, he’s the only family I have left …” I mention. “And I can’t help but feel I am a poor substitute for him.” I concede. “He has the potential to do something with his life; I’m trapped with the Instructor. Even so, Mitchell appears to be choosing to go along with Kurt’s schemes rather than do anything positive with himself.”
Mark scoffs.
“You obviously can’t see this issue clearly.” Mark concludes.
I am disturbed and consider what he said.
“Listen, I don’t think it’s your fault at all. Mitchell is not the only one who thinks making fast money is a priority. It seems like an epidemic around here.”
Once I am done tending to Mark’s wounds as best I can with what limited supplies I have on hand, I sit pensively on a mat I have laid out on the cold ground. I occasionally cast my eyes over at Mark just to be sure he’s still alive. He is. I brace myself for a long night.
Copyright © Jennifer Alice Chandler 2020
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