Tabula Rasa Kristen Lippert Martin (15 page)

A second snowcat suddenly emerges from the swirling
 snow. It’s further away, but I can tell by the way both snow-
 cats are moving that they’ve caught sight of Oscar. He sees
 them, too, and steps out of the cab, onto the tire of the
 excavator.
I wave my arms and shout, “Hey! Here! Over here!
Oscar!”
Thomas reaches up and tries to pull me down by the
 edge of my coat.
“Like it or not, he’s our problem now.”
I see Oscar turn toward me, unsure of where my voice
 is coming from. Then he looks back at the snowcats, which
 are getting closer. Still he does nothing. He ducks as a few
 sparks fly off the edge of the excavator. Apparently gunfire
 registers enough with him that he knows he’s got to run
 and hide.
I see more sparks and then Oscar goes down. He grabs
 his shoulder and staggers to his feet. He’s up the pile of dirt
 in a matter of seconds, shivering violently, his eyes wild
 and terrified.
“Help me,” I say.
I tell him to get on Thomas’s other side, and he follows
 my lead as we try to make a controlled slide down the dirt
 pile to the door. It doesn’t work. We shoot to the bottom,
 and I end up acting as the bumper when we come to a
 stop against the side of the building. Thomas slams into my
 rib cage, but I stand up quickly and put my hand on the
 door handle. A prayer springs to my lips. I don’t know if I
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believe a word of it, but when I yank the door open I know
 my prayer has been answered and I’m grateful.
There is no light inside. Not even emergency lights. I
 have to leave the door propped open slightly to see any-
 thing at all. Oscar helps me drag  Thomas, but I can see
 he’s fading fast. Once we heave ourselves through the door,
Oscar makes a little gagging noise and passes out. His body
 is half in and half out of the door. I  pull him across the
 threshold.  
“Forget him, will you? And shut the door,” Thomas
 says.
“It’s pitch-black in here!”
“I’ve got a couple glow sticks in my inside pocket,” he
 says, patting his jacket. I reach in, take them out, snap both,
 and hand one to him. As I do, he grabs my hand and presses
 it to his face, closing his eyes.
“Angel, you saved my stupid life.”
I stroke his forehead. I can see he’s fighting to remain
 coherent. The pain must be beyond excruciating. “You can
 thank me by telling me the layout for this area.”
He pants in between every other word. “End of this
 hallway . . . set of double doors. There’s a big open room. I
 don’t know what it is.”
“I’ll be right back.”
I use the glow stick like a sword, brandishing it at the
 blackness. The walls are bare concrete. I see a trowel and
 a bucket and a few other tools lying around. It makes
 sense now. All these places are unfinished because the
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government walked away from this hospital and left it to
 rot. Left us all to rot. But if that’s the case, why was there
 still anyone here at all? Why were they still talking about
finishing my treatment?
As I get to the end of the hallway, I see the double
 doors that Thomas mentioned. I go through and come to
 a T, turn right and continue along. There is a line of doors
 with small glass windows. It looks very familiar down
 here. These are hospital rooms. All the doors are open, but
 they have the same heavy lock mechanisms we had on the
 fourth floor. My back suddenly stiffens as I realize that this
 is a basement.
Who would they lock up down here?
I turn around and investigate in the other direction.
At the very end of the hall, there’s a swinging door. I’m
 about to enter when I hear a scraping sound behind me. I
 turn. A flashlight, a really bright one, shines in my face. I
 put my hand up to block the light. The beam drops to the
floor, and I see a young, bald man, maybe in his midtwen-
 ties. He’s wearing pants and a shirt that look very much
 like military fatigues, but he’s barefoot. A fire ax dangles
 loosely at his side.
He looks at me, cocks his head to the side, and says,
“Welcome.”
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CHAPTER 19
 or some weird reason, I bow. I guess it’s because I want
Fto put my bald head front and center to make it clear:
I’m one of you. Whatever you are.
Right now he’s a guy with an ax in his hand. That’s
 reason enough to show him some respect.
“Hello,” I say. “We’re . . . we’re looking for . . . ”
For what? I don’t know what to say. Safety? I don’t
 imagine there’s much of that around here.
The man just looks at me. In his expression I read intel-
 ligence, exhaustion, and maybe pleasant surprise. He’s not
 unhappy to see me.
I start to say, “I’m . . . ” Then I wonder if I should tell
 him my name. I don’t know who he is or anything about
 him, so I think fast and finish, “. . . sorry to intrude.”
“It’s no intrusion,” the man says. “Misery loves com-
 pany. And that’s what we call ourselves. Misery Company.”
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Three other men suddenly step up behind him, emerg-
 ing from the darkness like smoke. I can barely make them
 out. One of the men is carrying some kind of electric lan-
 tern. He turns it on and bright white light reveals the room
 behind me. It’s a conference room.
“We thought they’d finally decided to kill us,” the man
 with the lantern says, almost cheerfully.
“Who? The soldiers?”  
He looks at me quizzically, and the man standing to his
 right says, “Our captors, of course.”  
I don’t know what he means, but I say nothing. All four
 of them are dressed the same: green pants and T-shirts,
 barefoot.
“My friend . . . ,” I start to say, turning back toward the
 dark hallway I just came down. “My friend is back there.
He’s injured. It’s pretty bad.”
The man holding the lantern points to the smaller man
 to his left. “Elmer here might be able to help you. We’re
 allowed to keep some basic medical supplies, and he’s found
 some other useful contraband.”
Elmer asks, “What’s the nature of the injury?”
“It’s his leg—there’s a lot of blood.”
Elmer turns around and trots off into the dark hallway.
“My name is . . . ” I’m not sure what to say. I still can’t
 call myself Angel. It’s like I haven’t earned the right to be
 her.
The soldier with the ax puts his hand up and says, “We
 only use code names around here. The less they know about
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us, the better. That was our medic, Elmer. I’m Sam.” He
 points to the guy holding the lantern, who seems to be the
 youngest of the group. “That’s Sylvester. And that’s . . . ”
A muscular man steps forward and says, “Jerry.” He
 gives me a flirty smile and touches his brow with his fin-
 gertips, saluting me.
“Otherwise known as Prince Charming,” Sam says
 drily.
A moment later, Elmer returns with a small case with a
 red cross on the side and nods in the direction of the hall-
 way. “Let’s go.”
I worry about what I’m doing getting involved with
 these guys, but Thomas might bleed to death if he doesn’t
 get help soon. I’ll take help from whoever I can get it from,
 even a bunch of guys who’ve named themselves after car-
 toon characters.  
“Lead the way,” Sam says.
I turn to head back the way I came, occasionally look-
 ing over my shoulder to make sure they’re staying with
 me. The men move in unison, like a flock of geese shifting
 direction in the sky, as we make our way down the halls.
When we push through the double doors back into
 the hallway where I left Thomas and Oscar, I see that it’s
 completely dark. A sickening pool of dread rises and soaks
 through me.
Sylvester raises the lantern. I see both Thomas and
Oscar on the floor. Thomas must have rolled over onto
 his glow stick. I immediately rush to Thomas’s side while
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Elmer goes to Oscar, whose bullet wound is obvious. I’d
 forgotten about Oscar in my panic about Thomas.
“No, him first!” I say, pointing to Thomas, my hand
 shaking.
Thomas has gone a gray-white color. His eyes are fran-
 tic underneath his eyelids.
Elmer looks at me and then at Oscar and says, “I have
 to treat the worst first. Unless he’s an enemy combatant.”
“No! Yes! He’s that, then. An enemy. Just . . . please,
 please help Thomas first!”
He turns toward Thomas to assess his condition.
Thomas moans a little when the light from the lantern
 shines in his face but barely seems to notice when Elmer
 peels back his boot. I’m relieved to hear him, even if he’s
 suffering, because it means he’s still alive and hasn’t bled
 out onto the floor.
“I need help moving them. I’ll take a closer look when
 we get them back to camp,” Elmer says.
Camp?
I’m worried he means back out into the storm, but then
I look again at their bare feet and realize that wherever
 their camp is, it must be inside.
The men lift Oscar and then Thomas in turn, putting
 them on a drop cloth they find nearby. They drag both up
 the hallway. The four men break into a jog at exactly the
 same moment. I follow behind them as we head deeper
 into the basement. I doubt I could have backtracked and
 found my way back out again.
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We finally come to a large room that looks very much
 like the rec lounge, except there is no television and no
 sofa. The only furniture is a folding table and several plastic
 chairs. I also see some folded blankets in the corner of the
 room.  
Sam says to me, “We assumed something must have
 happened. They cut the power, and we haven’t received
 our rations in the last twenty-four hours.” He points to a
 door in the far corner. It has a largish swing door at the
 bottom, like a cat flap. “Usually it’s like clockwork. Our
 captors come at precise intervals with food and water.”
I’m only half listening because all I’m thinking about is
Thomas, but the word captors snaps me back to attention. I
 look at Sam. I’m curious and confused. I guess you could
 see the nursing staff here as captors. But still. These guys
 talk like they’re prisoners of war.
I look over at Elmer. He’s covered Oscar with blankets
 and raised his feet onto one of the chairs. He’s now work-
 ing on Thomas. I watch as he cuts away the lower leg of
Thomas’s ski pants and then ties a tourniquet just above his
 knee. I find myself tensing, trying to look and not look.
Sam sees the worry on my face.
“Elmer is the best medic around. He can work miracles,
 even with the few medical supplies they give us.”
Sam is looking at my clothing, like he can’t make sense
 of what I’m wearing but the wheels are turning in his
 mind. For some reason I decide it’s best not to mention the
 blizzard outside.
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“When was the last time you had any contact with your,
 you know, captors?” I ask.
“They rarely speak to us directly,” Sam says. “Obvi-
 ously, because of the language difficulties.”
I shift my weight back and forth. I need more infor-
 mation from them, so no matter what they say, I nod in
 agreement.
“Have you ever tried to escape?” I ask.
“Where would we go?” Sam asks. “It’s desert in every
 direction for hundreds of miles. That’s assuming they don’t
 shoot us first.”
Desert? I don’t know what’s happened to these guys, but
I’m not going to be the one to tell them they’re about as far
 from a desert as you can get.
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CHAPTER 20
 lmer works on Thomas for an hour or so. Just get-
Eting his boot off without aggravating the wound takes
 half that time. I try to stay away but can’t, even after
Elmer shoos me back for the tenth time. I rest the back of
 my head against the wall, my face tilted toward the ceil-
 ing. That dripping sensation is back. I feel like another
 memory wants to come, but it won’t. I think the stress of
 what’s happened has delayed it somehow.
Sylvester offers me something he calls an MRE. I’m not
 sure what he’s talking about. It looks like a granola bar. I
 take one and thank him but don’t eat it.
After half an hour of watching me pace, Sam approaches
 me and says, “There’s a place to wash up down the hall. I
 strongly suggest you use it.”
I look down at myself. I’ve got dirt, blood, and that
 weird blue dye that they use in porta-johns all over my
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coveralls and probably on my face. Maybe the smell of me
 is getting to them.
He holds his lantern out to me, but I show him my glow
 stick.
“I’ll be okay.”
I walk into the outer hallway. A deep, eerie quiet
 instantly surrounds me. I feel like I’ve been ambushed by
 the emptiness. I wave the glow stick around. Everything is
 the silvery gray of unfinished concrete.
A few yards up the hall, I see a bunch of construction
 materials, including a stack of plaques that haven’t been
 mounted yet. I give them a nudge with my foot, and they
 topple to the floor, clicking like dominoes. There are four
 of them. I pick each one up and read what they say: “Cus-
 todian,” “Mechanical Closet,” “Recreation Lounge,” and
“Guest Reception.” The last has an arrow pointing to the
 left, but I don’t know which direction the sign was sup-
 posed to be facing.
Further on I find the bathroom. It’s exactly like the one
 we had on our ward. There are no mirrors. There’s also no
 hot water. Teeth chattering, I pull a stack of paper towels
 out and swab myself off. They come away in my hands,
filthy. I go through the whole contents of the dispenser,
 dropping each paper towel to the floor after I’m done, until
I’ve made a tall, soggy pile. I feel like I’ve just washed off
 all my war paint after a long, unsuccessful battle.
I cup my hands beneath the running water to take a
 drink, and suddenly I am swimming. No, drowning. I
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have to grab hold of the sink; otherwise, the terrible, spi-
 raling sadness washing over me will suck me down.
I know what this is.
I know what’s coming.
This is the moment. The very moment I found out.
I see the social worker standing in the doorway. The dark outline
 of her slumping shoulders. Her braided hair backlit by the bluish
fluorescent light in the hallway. She is the stranger holding a brief-
 case who has come to tear my whole world down.  
I push the memory back, out, away. I slam into the wall behind
 me and press my hands against my ears, but there’s no defense
 against a voice inside your head.
“Sarah?”
My mother told me never to open the door for a stranger,
 but this woman keeps knocking and holding up badges to the
 peephole.
“I’m afraid I have some very sad news to tell you. Please open
 the door.”
Somehow, in this instant, I know what she’s going to tell me,
 and I decide I won’t listen. So long as I don’t listen, then it hasn’t
 happened. I sit down on the couch, put my headphones on, and
 ignore her. I won’t open the door, no matter how long she knocks.
I’ll barricade myself in here forever.
But it doesn’t work.
People with sad news always find a way to get to you. They
 just go find the building super and two police officers to escort him,
 and then you can’t keep them out anymore. They bust in and tell
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