Allison Hewitt Is Trapped (14 page)

“Fucking hell … It’s like that, is it?” he asked. He had an accent, British, but it was weak. The driver leveled his rifle at Ted and nodded toward the car.

“Sir? Sir! This isn’t what it looks like,” I told him, struggling for air. My arm was killing me, twisted and pulsing, shot through with pain.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before,” he said, laughing humorlessly as he tossed Ted and me into the back. “Gone a bit mad, have you? I’d love to shoot you right now and leave you with that poor bastard, but I think I’d rather toss you in lockup and let you think about it for a few days.”

“No! You don’t understand, sir. He stole from us! Those boxes, go look, I swear, he took all our food!” I shouted, struggling against his iron grip. Ted tried to say the same but the man cuffed him across the face. “Don’t hit him! What is wrong with you? We’re on your side! Jesus Christ, let us go! We’re not criminals. Why aren’t you listening to me? Listen to me, you fucking idiot!”

He raised his hand and I shut my mouth, settling back against the hard steel of the truck. The vehicle jerked to life, the boxes left on the ground, jumbled and opened like a few abandoned toy chests. Zack watched the truck roll away, his hand reaching after us.

They blindfolded us and our hands were secured. It didn’t feel like handcuffs; zip ties maybe. We were more or less tossed out of the truck and onto pavement, then yanked around until we could stand. They marched us up a steep hill, no stairs, gun firmly planted between my shoulder blades. They took my laptop and our weapons and all I could think about was getting that ax back, and persuading this jerkoff that I wasn’t a maniac. I suppose persuading him with an ax might have proven just the opposite, but I was too angry and confused to care.

A door swung open. I could tell from the sound of the hinges and the riotous noise inside just where we were: the gymnasium. It’s that sound, the way the words bounce around off the high ceilings and wood floors, the way sneakers squeak and squeal on the shiny surface. The soldiers’ boots clapped rhythmically as they pushed us through the gymnasium. We went through another set of doors, into a cool, damp hallway, and then down two short flights of stairs. It felt like a basement, moldy-smelling and claustrophobic.

They took our blindfolds off and left us in the dark in separate rooms. I was tossed into a little office with a window. The red-haired soldier left my hands bound. He smelled like fireworks and scotch. The table in the corner had a heavy layer of dust and a few blank spaces, voids where a computer monitor and keyboard might have been. Everything smelled perpetually wet, ruined, like it was once flooded and never completely dried out. It was probably a coach’s office, but they certainly made it feel like a cell.

They didn’t bring food. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know if there was any getting out of this one.

*   *   *

Today

Someone comes to check on me bright and early, before I can really remember where I am or what I’m supposed to be doing. They had taken my weapon and my mom’s purse, but they didn’t take the Post-it note. I maneuver it out of my pocket as best I can and run my fingers over the writing. She wouldn’t give up, I just know she wouldn’t.

For the last hour or two I’ve been passing in and out of a dream state, so exhausted and scared that I’m not at rest, but my brain has stopped actively trying to think of a way out. When the key goes into the lock and I hear the click, I’m expecting to see the red-haired soldier again with his funny beard and wide, sideways grin. But it isn’t him. It’s someone totally different.

“Hello there.”

I quickly palm the Post-it and stare up at him, my knees tucked tightly to my chest. The zip tie around my wrists is making them ache like hell and I can feel the skin getting raw and blistered. The pain is momentary because I know this person, somehow I know him. He doesn’t seem threatening. Intimidating maybe, but not threatening. Even carrying a big fuck-off assault rifle he doesn’t come off as particularly aggressive. It might just be how small the room is, but he seems to take up all of it. He’s dressed in black fatigues too, but the front buttons look like they’ve been done up hastily. I glance at his shoulder, and the crown and bird patch are there too.

“I’m Collin, Collin Crane.” After a pause he adds, “I know you can speak. Finn says you’ve got a barb on the end of that tongue. Don’t be foolish,” he says, crouching down. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

That’s when it hits me.

“It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness.…”

“It’s you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Voice, it’s you! The man on the radio! Holy shit, I can’t believe it!
It’s you.
”

Crouched down to my level, I can see his face clearly now. He’s older than the other soldiers, probably in his early fifties, with dark, close-cropped waves graying about the temples and a pair of bright, formidable hazel green eyes. I can’t help but wonder what his hair would look like if it were a bit longer, freer. There’s a deep dent in his chin and his eyebrows are dark and very straight. His eyes smile at the corners, creased with age and experience. His eyes smile just like the way his lips are smiling at me now.

“You’ve heard me on the radio, have you?” he asks, puffing out a laugh.

“ ‘He is five-eight, blond, green eyes, about one hundred and seventy pounds,’ ” I repeat. “Zack … Jack … whoever he was. That’s him, that’s why I’m here. I tried to explain it to your men but they wouldn’t listen.” I can feel my mouth running away with me, the words tumbling out too fast. He puts up a hand, cocking his head to the side.

“I know about that.”

“You do? That’s great, I—wait, you know? Then why am I still in here?”

“I wanted to see you for myself,” he says. His voice is wilder in person, but still very much striking, an opal finished off with sandpaper. He has an accent too, like the red-haired soldier, but thicker. “That bastard had been the scourge of our supplies for weeks now. We were hours away from offering a reward when you and your friend turned up.”

“How did you know to come for us?” I ask, making sure my poor, aching wrists are in full view.

“A dog, actually.”

“A dog—Dapper? So they made it, then. Thank Christ.” Relief is sudden and glorious, quenching, and the knot in my stomach relaxes a little. But the man’s face is tensed, fraught with craggy lines.

“They? No, there was just the one, the dog. We thought maybe he was rabid. He bit my nephew. You met him I think, my nephew. At any rate, we figured stranger things have happened; maybe the dog is agitated for a reason. I sent them out on patrol and that’s when they found you. What happened to your dog? His tail was singed. It’s almost half gone.”

“No. No, no, god
damn it
, Janette.”

I can picture it so easily and that hurts.

“Were you expecting someone?” he asks gently. This is when he pulls a gleaming bowie knife out of his belt and flicks the blade across my zip ties. I rub at my raw wrists, alternately wincing and sighing. I try to hide the Post-it but he’s caught a glimpse. He tries to take it and I jerk my hands away.

“My friends … My friends were supposed to come.”

“From what direction?” he asks, suddenly all business.

“East, directly, um, probably down Dayton.”

He stands up, backing a few steps away. That’s more than enough. He doesn’t have to tell me that Dayton is dangerous or swarmed or whatever. I’m sure what he has to say next will sting so I prepare for it, which is something I’ve simply learned to do, like tying my shoes or making a sandwich.

“Dayton … No, I’m very sorry, Dayton isn’t passable. There are so many cars.… The police tried to set up a barricade but that only made it worse.”

Janette must have panicked and thrown the cocktail. Poor Dapper.

“Am I in trouble?” I ask, staring down at the floor. It helps to concentrate on the pits in the cement, on the grooves worn into the concrete by a chair or desk. What if I run into their families? What if I have to be the messenger?

“No, no, nothing like that,” he says, laughing again. It’s a big, full, boisterous laugh that fills up the little room, testing its boundaries. “I’ll have a word with my nephew. I apologize on his behalf. He can get a bit … well, overzealous.”

“I noticed.”

“Sorry about the wrists,” he says, offering a hand. I take it, pulling myself up, finding that I’m starving and weak. He sees me wobbling, listing to the right. “We’ll get you some food and a place to rest.”

“And Ted? My friend?”

“He can come too. And what should I call you?”

“Allison. My name is Allison.”

I stop at the door. My feet are leaden and aching and I can feel every tug and pull of the tendons in my ankles and wrists. I just want to drop down right there and sleep for days. Collin waits for me, watching me fixedly from his great height. For some reason I can’t meet his eyes. I don’t want to, I don’t want him to see how full of anger and disappointment I am. This is not a good introduction. This is not who I am.

“Have you … Has anyone with the name Hewitt showed up? Lynn Hewitt? She would be about my height, in her fifties, pretty?”

“I don’t think so,” he says. “But I don’t know everyone who passes through here. Is she your mother?”

“Yes.” I can barely hear my own voice, something is drowning it out. My throat is so tight it’s a chore just squeezing down enough air to breathe. My knees tremble but I stay on my feet, keeping my head down, my eyes away from Collin.

“It’s not guilt,” he murmurs, and I can hear the soft rhythm in his voice, the same sound that would float out of the radio speakers like a childhood ghost.

“What?”

“It’s not guilt, what you’re feeling right now. It’s shock.”

“Oh.”

“There’s an important difference: shock wears off eventually. Guilt, I’m afraid, does not.”

“And you would know this because…?”

“Let’s call it personal experience, shall we?”

But I’m not smiling, I’m not giving him the reaction he wants. His face, which has the same quixotic, expressive quality as the surface of a shiny buckle, settles quickly into a sympathetic frown. “You killed a man,” he says. “That tears the soul. But it’s just a tear, Allison, and tears can mend.”

“Stick to reading the classics, please. I can take care of myself.”

“I see Finn was right about your winning charm,” he replies, but there’s a bounce, a hint of laughter to his voice. “But I’m sorry to tell you that you won’t frighten me. I’ve taught know-it-alls and geniuses and idiots your age for many years. Nothing surprises this old man.”

“You’re a professor?” I ask, inching toward the door.

“
Was
a professor, yes, of astronomy.”

“A professor of astronomy with shitloads of guns?”

“We all have our hobbies.”

*   *   *

Ted is with me now. They’ve given us hot food and chamomile tea and stale cookies. And they gave me back my laptop. Ted’s glasses are even worse now, one lens almost falling out altogether, but he’s otherwise unharmed. It’s good to have my friend back, to see his bright eyes flashing beneath his mop of black fringe. There’s a village of tents in the arena and Collin managed to track one down for us. Collin estimates there are maybe one hundred and fifty people in the gymnasium with more arriving every day. Dapper couldn’t be happier; he doesn’t seem to miss the other half of his tail and I appreciate his unfailing enthusiasm. He smells a bit like charcoal and chemicals, but we’ve been given the go-ahead to bathe him tomorrow. The generators here produce so much power that they’ve managed to hook up a few hand-pump showers and water heaters.

Ted is almost asleep. His chemistry recitations have degraded into incoherent mumbling. I want to sleep, I want badly to rest and to forget, but every time I close my eyes I see Janette. I see Phil. I see Matt and even Zack. I don’t want to regret or hate, I want to be the person I was before all of this started: Allison Hewitt, Graduate Student, Student of Literature, Faulkner Enthusiast, Field Hockey Player, Daughter, Normal Person.

Those titles don’t exist anymore. Collin is no longer a professor, Ted is no longer a biochemist and I’m just a survivor. I don’t even know who Zack was, what he loved to do, what he was in his former life. He told me that he was a cook, that he ran track, that he liked to golf and that he was applying for an internship at an environmental issues magazine. Any of those things could be true and any of those things could be false.

Collin says I shouldn’t regret what I did. He says it will only hurt for a few days, a few weeks. I think he’s wrong. I think it will hurt forever. I think the sting will endure past all tolerance or understanding and it will follow me until I either learn to be someone else or I die.

And worst of all, my mother isn’t here. I searched but I didn’t need to: I can feel it. She’s out there somewhere in the world, struggling to survive and I’m here, safe, helpless to protect her.

COMMENTS

Isaac says:

October 7, 2009 at 3:55 pm

I’m glad you’re alive. If your mom is out there you’ll find her or she’ll find you. Food is getting low here, morale too. I’m not sure how much longer we can hold out. Going it alone sounds good right now but I know that’s just pride talking. Don’t give up, Allison, you’re carrying all of us with you.

Brooklyn Girl says:

October 7, 2009 at 5:25 pm

This is the last time you’ll hear from me but I wanted to say good luck and so long. You’ll do just fine, Allison, I know it. This morning our block caught fire and it’s only getting worse. We have to leave. I have no idea where we’ll go but there’s no choice. It’s time to move on.

amanda says:

October 7, 2009 at 6:23 pm

please … i can’t wait.

i know that i don’t have much longer before the cold consumes me or they do. yet i’ve come to rely on your group to keep me company; i was trapped here alone and have found your blog as the only contact i’ve had with ‘real’ people. i will mourn holly along with you … as long as i’m able to … but please keep writing.