Infraction (8 page)

It's dark outside, but the single bulb illuminating
our room hasn't gone out yet. I roll onto my back and study the
crack. I pull the red thread from my pocket and run it between my
fingers. It is smooth and silky and softer than anything here.
Softer than the concrete walls, the metal exam beds, the soldier's
guns. Softer than the agents' eyes.

I let the thread fall to my lips, and it sends
tingles down my arms. I briefly wonder if that's what it would feel
like to kiss Jack. I roll over and force the thought from my head.
Why would I think of something as ridiculous as kissing him? I
spent the past few weeks hoping he wouldn't bring it up, wouldn't
try. I've been stand-offish about it. I see his face and his hazel
eyes and his lips.

For the love, Terra, focus on something else.

The blond hair hangs off the bunk below me. I decide
my cellmate could be beautiful. I bet she was once too. When she
could comb her hair, make it shine; when she could smile. I wonder
when the last time was that she smiled. I hang my head over the
side so I can see her better. Her back moves regularly with her
breaths. She's already fallen asleep. Maybe the longer you've been
here the easier sleep comes. And all that time, has she ever
smiled? That will be my goal, the thing I want to accomplish here:
to make her smile. I have nothing better to do.

My eyes flicker closed even though the room is still
light, when music jerks me awake. It plays from the intercom in the
corner of my room, and the echoes from the door tell me it plays in
the hallway too. It's a triumphant, slow march that builds and
swells. I recognize the melody Jack hummed in the cabin. It's
supposed to inspire loyalty and patriotism. That's what Jack told
me the anthem was originally about. But he was right. Whatever this
stands for now, it just leaves me empty. I look over the bed again,
but my cellmate hasn't even twitched. Maybe she tries to be asleep
before the music starts.

As soon as the anthem is over, the light flicks out.
The hall lights are still on, and they cast a ghostly glow into the
middle of our cell.

I close my eyes, but as soon as I do, a horrible
chorus starts. It begins as low whimpers and then builds to the
screech of some monster birds of prey. The screams are in the cell
next to ours, in the air, and down the halls. Are the screams what
make people haunted, or do the screams come from the haunted? There
are words in the pain, but they're so distorted I can't make them
out. I grip the red thread tighter, like it's my only anchor to a
world of sanity, to the world outside the chain-link fence, to a
world of trees and rain water. The screams, cries, and moans that
echo down the corridors, ripple through the concrete walls, finger
their way into my ears shatter my calm.

I rub the scarlet thread between my fingers. I close
my eyes and try to concentrate just on the smooth thread and the
memories it holds: Jack in the cabin as we both scrounge up
supplies. Jack.

It's not much, but it helps.

Still my cellmate sleeps. Maybe it wasn't the music
she was trying to avoid. Maybe she tries to be asleep before this
awful chorus starts.

The intercom crackles to life just as daylight creeps
through the window and hazes across the wall above my head.

“Breakfast. Report to the mess hall in five
minutes.”

My cellmate is already standing and tucking her
blanket around the edges of her mattress. Yesterday's clothes lie
in a pile at the foot of her bed. I grab my extra set and change as
quickly as I can. I should feel self-conscious stripping off all my
clothes in front of her, but after the humiliation of detox, I
don't know if anything could shame me. And honestly, I feel like
I'm just about alone here anyway. My cellmate is almost a
non-entity.

I rub my eyes. They feel like there's so much grit in
them they'll never be clean again. I was able to fall asleep last
night after the noise finally died away. The first hour after the
lights switched off, though, were horrific. I heard every cry of
pain imaginable: fear, heartbreak, loneliness, sickness, terror. I
hid my head under the pillow to shut it all out. Then, one by one,
the voices faded away. After the cacophony, the silence hung over
me like a shroud. I wonder how in the world my cellmate slept.
Maybe it's an acquired skill that comes through countless nights of
enduring that noise.

I watch her put yesterday's clothes in a small metal
chute by the door. They fall down, and I repeat the same procedure.
I hope I'll get another set.

The door buzzes and then swings open, and we file
down the hall. I join other women, herded along the corridors to
the mess hall. The same lines form around the same food carts. The
gelatinous beef stroganoff has been replaced by two rubbery
pancakes (without syrup) and two dried-out sausages. I'm also given
half an apple, another carton of milk, and a large water
bottle.

Madge sidles up beside me. “To drink during the day.
You know, because they care so much.”

I follow her to the same table. Kai is already there.
She's eaten all her pancakes and her apple. The sausages lay
untouched on her tray. Without even thinking, I give her both my
pancakes and take her sausages. Sure, the carbohydrates would
probably do me some good, but she needs them more than I do. She
squeezes my hand.

“Thank you.”

I nod and take a drink of milk to wash one of the
sausages down my throat.

“You'll get in trouble, you know.” Madge cuts one of
her pancakes into perfect squares. She doesn't even look at me, but
I can feel that same sharp look she had in her eyes yesterday at
dinner. Forget her butter knife—she could cut her pancakes with
that look alone.

We must be having one of those “be careful what you
talk about” conversations. I raise an eyebrow.

“We're not allowed to share food.”

Why?
I mouth.

“
Afraid someone will get too strong?
Afraid people will start fighting over it? I don't know. Doesn't
matter. They just say we're not allowed to do it. They've enforced
it before.”

I frown and take a bite of apple.

“
Hey, I'm not saying don't do it.
I'm all for helping Kai out a bit. Just be careful.” Madge flicks
her eyes up to the observation booth and back down just as quickly.
She has to be right about what she said yesterday—there's no way
the watchers can pinpoint one conversation out of dozens, is
there?

We don't say anything more, however, because two
soldiers march right up to our table.

“
Worker 7456.”

I almost choke on the apple skin and nod, my eyes
streaming tears. I glance over at Kai as she slips the last pancake
under the table. They don't notice; they're too focused on me.

“
You're requested for
interrogation.” They reach down and each grabs one of my arms, but
I pull free and stand on my own. I still have a little dignity and
they're not going to take it. I look at the remaining sausages and
the milk on my tray. So much for breakfast.

My cellmate's eyebrows raise as I turn away, and it
almost looks like she's worried. Then Madge does the last thing I
expect: she reaches over and pats my cellmate's arm consolingly.
Maybe my cellmate isn't quite the empty girl I thought she was.

Eyes watch me as I follow one
soldier through the cafeteria door. The other follows behind, and
we make a parade that terrifies me because I have no idea where
we're going. I don't know what I'm to be interrogated about; I
can't
tell
them anything. I also
seriously doubt the interrogation is just about
questions.

The soldier leads me down one gray corridor to
another, and soon I'm so turned around that I have no idea how far
into the building we are or how I'd ever find my way back. Then he
abruptly stops before a windowless door and raps it with gloved
knuckles three times.

The door opens and a cool, female voice speaks.
“Enter.”

The first soldier stands aside, and the one behind
me prods me into the room. Then he leaves too, and I'm left in a
brightly lit room with nothing more than an empty chair, a table,
and two chairs occupied by an agent and Dr. Benedict.

Dr. Benedict smiles warmly at me. I can't bring
myself to return the feeling, not with the agent—the same one who
brought me to detox—sitting next to him with her arms folded and a
scowl carved deep into her face. I stand and shift my weight to the
other foot. Should I sit down? I don't want to get any closer to
that woman than I have to, but after a moment, Dr. Benedict
glances at the agent, bites his lip, and then gestures to the chair
across from him. I sit.

The agent unfolds her arms and picks up a digital
tablet. She taps the screen twice and then flicks her fingers over
its smooth surface. Her eyes dart across the screen, and she raises
her eyebrows.

“
Terra?”

I'm not sure if she's talking to me or
Dr. Benedict.

Dr. Benedict shrugs. “You know how I feel about
names.”

The agent rolls her eyes. “Stop
taking your work so
personally
.”

Dr. Benedict crosses his arms and looks
away.

The agent purses her lips. “Worker 7456. You've been
here almost twenty-four hours. Are your accommodations
suitable?”

I nod. A little chilly maybe, but if I asked her to
turn up the heat I doubt she would. She raises her eyes to see what
my answer is. I study her hair. It's pulled back so tightly into a
bun it raises her eyebrows at the ends, making her look angry all
the time.

“
Any conflict with your
roommate?”

I shake my head. She wants to be a therapist too? I
suspect she just doesn't want any fighting among the inmates—fewer
people to work if there are injuries. All her terms almost make me
laugh. Accommodations? Roommate? Next she'll be calling my
ten-by-ten cell “guest quarters.”

“
Good. Now let's get down to the
meat of the questions, shall we?” She leans forward and laces her
fingers together. Her steely blue eyes bore into me, and I sit up
and stare back. I won't be frightened, not now. I have to repeat it
three times in my head. I won't be frightened. I won't be
frightened. I won't be frightened.

“
Tell me, Worker 7456, why have you
never had a tracker?”

I swallow hard. The lies will start here, the lies
that I promised I would never tell again in the settlement or to
Jack. But lying to this woman with her severe bun and permanent
scowl feels like a good deed. I motion to my mouth.

She purses her lips, and the expression cuts deep
lines into her jaw. “I know about your tongue. Don't be
condescending to me. I don't want you to forget for one moment that
I know more about what's going on here than you do.”

That's what you think, I tell myself as I fold my
arms over my chest.

“
Dr. Benedict?” The agent
gestures to me.

Dr. Benedict stands and steps toward me with
something that looks too much like a dog collar for my taste. I
tense up and scoot back in my chair.

“
It's okay, Terra.”

The agent clears her throat when he says my name,
but he ignores her.

“
This will help you speak. It just
goes around your neck, and it picks up the vibrations from your
vocal chords and throat and transmits the data to a speaker just
above the table.” He points and, sure enough, a small black box
hangs from the ceiling. “You won't sound like you, of course, but
you can make words.”

I'll be able to speak? I relax a fraction as he
steps toward me again and wraps the collar around my neck,
positioning a small lump just over my adam's apple. It scratches
and presses uncomfortably against my throat, but he's being so
gentle with me. His fingers brush over the thin skin of my throat,
and his touch warms me. His careful hands remind me of Jack's.
Unexpectedly my eyes are burning, and I can't help wondering where
Jack is. Is he even still here?

“
Worker 7456?” The agent's sharp
voice cuts through, and I snap my head up.

How many times has she said it? Dr. Benedict
looks at me like I've been lost for several minutes. I look at my
hands.

“
I said, why have you never had a
tracker?” She sits with her fingers poised over the tablet, ready
to make notations on every word I say.

I look at Dr. Benedict—the only
thing resembling an ally I have here—and he nods slightly,
encouraging me. Of course he'd want me to answer. He's with
them
, isn't he? But he's so different.
Kind. I clear my throat, and the sound transmitted through the
speaker comes out robotic and harsh. I glance up and take a deep
breath.

“
I was born in the wilderness.” It
isn't my voice. Dr. Benedict prepared me for this, though I
wasn't quite ready for how inhuman I would sound. My voice has all
the expression of a machine. Isn't that exactly what they'd like me
to be?

The agent studies me, trying to divine the truth.
“So your parents had trackers?”

I nod. I don't really want to hear that voice
again.

“
Say the words.”

I look down at my hands. My fingernails are peeling
from all the hot water in the cannery. “Yes, they had
trackers.”

“
Did they have trackers when you
were younger or had they cut them out?”

“
As far back as I can remember, they
had cut them out.” There. Now there is no way for her to somehow
search scanner records and find a way to track my fake parents down
and figure out who I really am.

The agent smirks. “You know, I'm very good at
reading lies, Worker 7456.”