THERE ARE TOO many rows of tables to count. Too many bald heads bobbing up and down, slurping at the thin soup in front of them.
My heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I saw the women piling into the building. I had thought that Sky being a child would have made her stand out. Now, I don’t know whether to worry that I didn’t see her or be glad. I hope she is here. Safe. Hidden in plain sight. But I can’t pull away from the nagging feeling that something bad has happened to her.
This feeling will never go away; it is the worst part of this prison for me, though I would be a captive to these thoughts no matter where Skylar was. Stuck here in prison with her out there in the Containment Zone by herself would be just as maddening. I’ve wondered if it is better that she is here. At some point, I will be able to establish contact with her, surely.
I can’t succumb to the belief that either of us will die here. If I die, she dies. If she dies, I don’t have much of a reason to try and escape.
The cure?
The cure is good for only one thing as far as I am concerned: keeping Skylar alive. If she’s scratched or bitten by one of those greyskins, the cure would keep her alive, and she wouldn’t have to turn into one of them. The rest of the world can turn into them for all I care. I may have had ambitious thoughts of getting the cure to the rest of the world, but I see that the rest of the world is full of people running scared for their lives and other people trying to dominate. Does the world deserve to be saved? It has done little for my family or me.
So, what about the people who are simply trying to survive? What about those like my daughter and my wife who wanted to live in relative peace? Do they deserve the cure?
They do. But even if I were able to escape this prison, I would have to travel 400 miles or so just to reach the vials of precious liquid. Then I would have to escape the Containment Zone. Then, I would have to try and mass produce the medicine and distribute it to every living person I could.
It’s pointless to even think about. The governmental authority would take control of it as quickly as possible. If they didn’t succeed, then raiders would try to steal it. I would be killed. Skylar would be killed. Then the cure would never be given to ordinary people; it would be hoarded for those in power.
Of course, this wasn't what was running through my head when I discovered it. First, I thought about saving my family. Then, I thought about saving the world. Now, the world will continue its descent into hell and probably never recover.
The conditions were right for me to discover the cure, yet the timing was all wrong. We needed this cure forty years ago when I was just a child. Now, I’m afraid it’s too late.
The line in front of the bar in the mess hall moves at a snail’s pace. I’ve given up hope of trying to spot Skylar on the other side, partly because I don’t want to be seen searching for someone in the women’s part of the room. Someone might start asking questions.
Still no sign of my cellmate yet. Rusty, was his name? The guard painted a picture of someone I wouldn’t want to share a prison with, much less a small cell. I’m not worried about me, though. The worst he could do is hurt me, and I can manage the pain. I suppose he could kill me. As far as I’m concerned, that is not the worst outcome, but for Skylar, it could potentially be fatal for her, so I suppose the worst he could do is kill me.
All my energy has to be focused on getting Skylar and myself out of here, but I have to be patient. I’m good at being patient. You can’t discover a cure for the deadliest virus known to man without being patient. However, I’m on a deadline I didn’t have before. One wrong move in this prison and someone will kill me, and, according to Warden Black, we are all going to die here, it’s just a matter of time.
Time is my enemy. Still, an escape from a place like this seems less complicated than the meticulous study of a virus to find a cure. It’s the same kind of process. Identify the virus’ weak points. Exploit those weak points. Learn what you can and can’t do with the virus. Learn how it responds, how it doesn’t respond. Continuously test.
Test, test, test.
Testing will be the most challenging part of learning how to escape the prison. You can’t very well test the weak points of a three-layered prison fence in broad daylight without being shot. And like finding a cure for a virus, finding the weak points in a prison aren’t obvious.
Any problem in life can be solved with sound reasoning and patience. Considering this is only the first day, patience may be more difficult to maintain.
When it’s my turn to grab a tray and set it in front of the man to give me a ladle of soup, I am met with a dull stare almost as if the man’s brain had been left in his cell before he started his shift in kitchen duty. He doesn’t even look when he pours the soup half into the bowl, half onto the tray. It’s almost all broth with a tiny piece of carrot floating in the middle of the bowl. He grabs a piece of bread and splashes it into the bowl. Looking at the prisoners next to me, it seems my server only gave me half a portion.
I can’t say anything. Or I won’t. I know it will change soon enough, but I don’t have much of an appetite despite not eating for the past few days.
I turn from the man and scan the tables in front of me, looking for a free spot, preferably away from any of the other prisoners. There is an empty table a few rows down, and I make my way toward it. I’m hoping that with a shaved head and a uniform the same as everyone else, no one will really notice that I’m new.
I set the tray down and refuse to look up at prisoners filing by. I bring the bowl to my lips and sip the broth. There are hardly any calories in the soup. Barely any nutrients at all. I try sopping up some of the soup on the tray with the stale bread and stop when I hear a voice in front of me.
“Well, well, well,” the man says. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a newcomer.”
I keep my eyes fixed on the tray in front of me. Once the bread is sufficiently soaked, I bring it to my mouth and chew softly.
“Think he’s deaf?”
This time I look up and see two men standing over me. I try not to look surprised when I notice they are identical twins.
“No, I don’t think he’s deaf, Alex,” says the one on the right.
Alex nods his agreement but doesn’t say anything.
The man on the right points to his head. “The dried blood gives you away,” he says.
I look down, wanting to shake my head at my heedlessness. Of course I don’t blend in. A newly shaven head with dried blood all over it would stick out in a crowd. Maybe they were more gentle on Skylar.
“You’re welcome to have a seat,” I tell the men, motioning to the spot in front of me.
The man on the right grins and Alex maintains his scowled expression. “You hear that Alex? He says we can sit here. Our own seat!”
“I didn’t realize there were assigned seats,” I tell him. My pulse quickens. I don’t know if I have committed the sin of taking someone’s seat or if these two are just looking for trouble.
They don’t have trays. They’ve probably already eaten. If that’s the case, then they just spotted me and thought they would have some fun with a new prisoner.
“There are about twenty other new prisoners here looking for seats,” I tell them. “Why is it you’ve picked me?”
The man on the right shakes his head. “We didn’t pick you,” he says. “You picked us. You see, this table falls under our jurisdiction, don’t it Alex?”
Alex nods again.
“I don’t think you’ve got a permit to sit in our jurisdiction.”
“How do I go about getting one of those?” I ask, returning to my soup.
Looking away was my biggest mistake. Before I can react, Alex reaches for my tray and swings it back, throwing my bowl to the floor with a crash. He then brings the tray around with a quick swing that lands against the side of my face before I can even stand up.
My legs catch on the bench beneath me, and I’m on my back on the floor. Alex straddles me before I can roll away and continuously bashes the side of my face with the tray. I try to reach up to stop the blows, but Alex’s brother kicks me in the ribs every time I raise an arm. Being taken by surprise like this disables me from offering any defense.
All I can do is force my brain to concentrate on the pain receptors in my body and turn them off. Theoretically, this will give me enough energy to fight back without thinking about pain. There’s a catch. I may be able to stop the pain, but I can’t stop the perfectly placed blow that knocks me out cold.
My vision goes black. I hear and see nothing.