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Reagan cried until her eyes burned and she was gasping through sniffles. It didn’t change anything, but she felt cleansed in an odd way. As she let focus spill back into her senses, she realized the walls weren’t as smooth and barren as she originally thought. There was a square in one corner of the ceiling that reflected light back at her. She stood and wandered to it. It looked like glass and was maybe six inches square. A camera? She couldn’t tell. The light in the room kept her from seeing what lay on the other side, but camera seemed like as reasonable a guess as anything.
What else did she miss when she arrived? She searched the room again—not that it took long. There was a patch in the wall across from the bed. A rectangle about two feet wide. She tapped it with her knuckles, and a hollow, metal sound greeted her. She knocked the wall outside the square to confirm. Yup. Concrete.
There was another rectangle on the same wall as the large one, almost as wide but only about six inches tall and just above her waist level.
Is this Hare’s doing? His response to her decision not to roll over and wait for life to pass her by? He obviously enjoyed the mind fuck. Was this another one of his games?
“Hello.” Her call rang in her ears.
Nothing.
She wasn’t going to scream herself hoarse this time. If they could hear her, they already had. She turned to the glass in the ceiling. If it was a camera, and there was a mic in the room, they were watching and listening. If not, no one would know she was about to bargain with an empty room.
“Anyone there?” Reagan asked the piece of glass. “If this is something Jabberwock ordered”—a shudder of betrayal shook her body, and she forced it down—“I’m willing to admit I was unreasonable. I’m happy to talk this out with whomever you want to send in, like a rational adult.”
Minutes ticked away. Nothing.
“Hello?” She let frustration bleed into her voice.
The sound of a motor filled the room, and the larger square on the wall slid open. The screen beneath flickered to life, and she jumped at the abrupt volume of the news program it played.
“Hey. Can I get the sound cranked down? Maybe change the channel to some Big Brother?” She couldn’t help a dry smile at her joke. If no one else was here to be amused at how clever she was, she’d do it.
The news rolled on without change. It was an old clip she’d seen several times, because it was about the CEO of a tech company who died under suspicious circumstances. Rumors said Jabberwock had him killed.
The segment reached its conclusion, and she waited, curious for what came next. The sound died, and a photo flashed on the screen. She squinted for a moment. Oh God. It was a photo of a gunshot exit wound, detailed and up close. Bile rose in her throat, and she choked it back down. The next image was another angle, wider, of a crime scene. The surroundings were the CEO’s home, the room where his body had been found.
Unlike other photos Reagan had seen, his body was still in these. The next was another up-close photo, and so was the fourth. She heaved and forced her gaze from the screen.
Jabberwock rarely pulled the trigger himself, because he stayed hidden, but that didn’t mean he was any more innocent in this or other crimes. Then again, given that he masqueraded as one of his own generals, he might be doing as much killing as anyone.
Having been shot at after Wayne’s funeral, she thought she understood how serious this was. But with each new reality shoved in her face, another layer of security was stripped from her. Hare—Jabberwock—the man she’d let lead her around for almost a week and never really hesitated to fuck, was responsible for these things. These brutal, horrific things. Did Alex look like that when he died?
Was that what she was meant to understand? Did Hare toss her in here to drive his point home? Was he this off his rocker? The question didn’t taste right, and she laughed at herself. She was defining how bad bad was? Painting gray areas between ordering people killed and tossing her in a cell to teach her a lesson?
The photos of the CEO faded, and another news story started. The volume was as loud as before, jarring her and drawing her gaze.
It was a clip she’d seen before, but the first time, she watched it with subtitles. It was in Spanish, about a coup in Venezuela. This time a news anchor screamed at her in a language she didn’t speak. As the story came to an end, another video started; a shaky, handheld shot. She recognized the clip from YouTube. It was about the same revolt.
Again, still photos with no sound followed. Rows of bodies lined up on the street, some covered with sheets and others exposed. The wounds were worse than the CEO’s. Burns. Splintered limbs. So much death and pain.
She squeezed her eyes shut and looked away. “I get it,” she shouted. “You’re a big badass who makes corporations and countries rise and fall. You can’t be fucked with. I get it,” she repeated.
The volume kicked on again, and she pressed her hands to her ears, to block out the sound. Her stomach growled. What time was it? She didn’t eat much yesterday. Was starving her part of whatever this was?
The news continued in the background, but she kept her gaze focused on the door. With her ears plugged, she heard the shifts in volume from blaring to nothing but blocked out most of the details.
After about two dozen blinks between loud and quiet, she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. The smaller opening in the wall was open—it was like a passthrough from another room. Inside sat two bottles of water, and a foil packet.
Don’t listen. She dropped her fingers from her ears and crossed the room to examine the goods.
The water was in sealed bottles. She cracked one and downed half of it in a swig. The room-temperature liquid hit her empty stomach with a thud, and she forced herself to pause, rather than getting sick.
She fought back a smile when she examined the large packet had written on the top, in large black letters, Meal, Ready-to-Eat. Alex always brought MRE’s when he took her camping. It meant the food was probably safe and mostly edible, and she could make it last if she needed. She tore into the packet, and picked out the fruit. She wanted to eat the entree, but she’d save that.
She took her time. Focusing on eating made it easier to drown out the TV, and let her slide into some of the happier memories about Alex—the things he used to drill into her head when he’d do things like take her camping. For instance, to never eat the food or drink the water unless it’s prepackaged. Back then, she teased him about being paranoid. Was he prepping her for something like this?
With some sugar and sustenance racing in her veins, her head was working better. She settled onto the mattress, back against the far wall, and got as comfortable as she could with the news blaring.
It was tempting to grab the sack-blindfold from the floor where she’d left it, roll it up so it would only cover her eyes and ears, and use it to block out the light and sound. Maybe she could doze, in that case.
But the thought of putting that thing back on squeezed the breath from her lungs. It was better this way. She needed to stay aware of her surroundings.
Reagan studied her feet, rather than letting the images on the TV offer up new and creative nightmares. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she pinched her cheeks to try and stay awake. She had no idea what time of day it was, but she hadn’t slept since the odd dream at Hare’s condo.
She was startled awake by a sharp scream. She looked at the TV, pulse shredding through her. The image that played out was grainy but steady. A cheap camera on a tripod, maybe. The noise was a woman—girl?—backed in a corner. Three young men laughed and jeered as they took turns forcing themselves on the disheveled woman.
Reagan wanted to look away, but horror held her attention. Was this a veiled threat? A you’re next kind of thing? The rapists finished, and the girl curled into a small ball, sobbing. Reagan finally managed to stop watching. She was going to be ill.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” The familiar female voice drew Reagan’s gaze, and despite the voice in her head screaming don’t look, her head jolted up again.
Dormouse was on the screen. One of the guys opened his mouth to speak, and Dormouse leveled her pistol and shot him in the head. Before the other two could move, she’d delivered them the same fate.
Dormouse was a good fucking shot. And Reagan’s respect and appreciation for the general rose several points.
The conclusion to the film didn’t erase the victim’s screams or her assailants’ laughs from Reagan’s thoughts. Sickness surged forward, and she lunged for the toilet. Several minutes of retching later, what she’d emptied the contents of her stomach.
The toilet flushed on its own. At least I have modern conveniences. The sarcastic thought didn’t reassure her.
She pressed herself back into the corner, sitting on the mattress, watching the door, singing songs, reciting poems—anything that came to mind, to block out the TV.
She was so tired. Each time she dozed, the TV woke her up. And then the original story played again. They had it on a loop. Could she use the clips to get some idea of passage of time? Nothing related to the real world, but to be able to say she was on the second loop or the third would be something.
Except the next video wasn’t the one from Venezuela. And then ran one she hadn’t seen. And the original played twice in a row. And whoever had her in here really liked the fucking execution clip with Dormouse—that was the only way Reagan could let herself think about it.
Exhaustion finally won out, and she slept. She had no idea how long for, but when she woke up, she was lying down and her neck was stiff.
The familiar whirring noise of a motor drew her attention, and the smaller slot opened again.
“Trash goes in the slot.” The digital voice overlapped the TV. Most likely words spoken by the computer after someone input them.
She looked at the camera. “What if I don’t?”
There was a few seconds’ pause. “Then you don’t get more.”
No reason to test her fate when it came to food and water. She peered in the hole. It ran deep enough she couldn’t see the other end. She was tempted to put her arm in and see what she could feel, but she’d experiment first.
She placed both bottles in but left one sticking out. Just the neck. Hopefully something the camera wouldn’t be able to see.
“Better?” she asked.
The motor whirred. The door slid down and sliced through the neck of the bottle without a pause. Reagan picked up the severed plastic from the ground, and swallowed hard at the clean, precise cut.
When the compartment opened again, there were two more bottles of water in there, but no food this time. She was glad she hadn’t eaten all of hers yet.
Time ticked away, measured in videos. Water came twice as often as food. She grabbed naps when she could. If she thought being stuck in a motel room was boring, this was going to drive her out of her fucking mind.
She couldn’t sit in here and rot. She’d do pushups, but her arms weren’t strong enough. Maybe it was time to learn. Whoever was watching could laugh at her wimpiness, and if they left her in here too long, she’d be Sara Conner. But from Terminator 2, not the first one.
She pushed off the wall rather than the floor, because she wasn’t Sara Conner yet. Ten. Then twenty. Sweat trickled down her back. She wasn’t exerting herself that much. She kept going. It’s hot in here. She had to stop before her arms were tired, because her palms were so slick with sweat.
Great. Not only was she stuck in the same clothes she had when she left Hare’s, she was also gross and sweaty on top of that. She sat again and sipped water until her body temperature returned to normal.
A new clip blared onto the screen. The date on it was recent. The day after she left Hare’s. The piece was about a condominium fire in downtown Seattle.
Her stomach dropped into her shoes. She was almost certain that was Hare’s building. “What the fuck is this?” she screamed.
Nothing.
Clips bled together. She fell asleep and woke up shivering. She tried to exercise, and the heat in the room rose probably twenty degrees. She crammed one of her meals down the toilet and tried to flood the room. Would someone come running?
The water spilled across the floor. They hadn’t shut off the source yet. Maybe they weren’t watching her that closely? The water level only reached a few millimeters in the room. She realized it was escaping through tiny vents at the bottom of the walls.
“Clear the clog yourself, or you won’t have a toilet,” the mechanical voice said.
“Are you kidding?”
The computerized voice repeated its message.
Reagan rolled her eyes, fished out the soaked food, and tossed it in the open slot in the wall. She returned to her futon. As the room dried, a musty smell greeted her. The only thing she’d accomplished was making her mattress damp and smelly. Or maybe the stench was her. She didn’t know anymore.
“Don’t flush this one,” the mechanical voice was back a few hours later, along with another MRE.
“Fine.” She’d do one better. She tore the heating packet from her meal packet, and poured in enough water to get it hot. Then dumped the scalding water over her arm.
She screamed as the burning agony seared through her body. This might not be her smartest move to date, but logic wasn’t doing her any good, so what the hell? They’d have to treat her if she was injured, right? She didn’t hold back her whimpers and screams, letting them drown out the TV.
When the pain was too much to bear, she shoved her arm in the toilet and let the chilly water chase away the heat. At least temporarily. Blisters were forming on her skin.
She looked at the camera. “Do I have to kill myself to get a person in here?”