The Unit (12 page)

“I’d like that,” I say.

“Okay then. Let’s get it done.”

I’m on the floorboards of a shack. My hands and feet are bound. It’s dark away from the fire, but I can see its flickering light through cracks in the walls. The boys pulled down my pants after they tied my hands and feet. I scrunch across the floor, trying to get my pants back up, but it doesn’t work.

A boy comes into the shack and closes the door behind him. He’s holding a lantern, and all I can see of him is the crazy shadow he casts against the wall. He comes closer and he isn’t much over five feet tall. He looks about thirteen. I think he probably has black hair, but I can’t be sure. He stands and looks at me like he’s making mental notes about female anatomy.

I have no idea what he’s planning to do. If he tries to rape me, I’ll have to fight him. So I get ready, but he squats down beside me and tells me his name is Donnie. He stays far enough away from me that I don’t feel so threatened. He tells me he’s not going to hurt me. He asks me my name. I tell him. He tells me that just because he isn’t going to do me, others won’t. I can’t answer him for a while after that, but then I ask him about my family and he won’t look at me. He says he isn’t sure, but he thinks they’re toast. I cry for a few seconds and he wipes my nose with a nasty handkerchief and I thank him before I can stop myself. He asks how I’m feeling and I say, “How do you think?” He stands up like he’s about to leave. Then I ask him how he’s feeling and he says, “Don’t worry about me.” I ask him to tell me the truth about what they’ll do to me, and he leans in and feels my forehead as if he’s checking my temperature. He tells me that his crew had captured another girl, right after everything stopped working.

“She lasted less than three days, but she was hurt bad before we found her, and the guys didn’t cut her any slack. I couldn’t save her.”

I can’t breathe when he says it. I want to cry and I want to scream, but somehow I don’t. He says he’s sorry, and he hopes I’ll last longer, and wouldn’t it be great if all the guys just came in here and talked to me and didn’t do anything else? He says there isn’t much chance of it, though. He turns up his gas lantern and his eyes are brown and red-rimmed and I can see that he isn’t happy about my situation. I tell him I’m okay; I know the score, but thanks for telling me the truth. Then we talk about things that have nothing to do with this place.

I ask him what he wants to do when things get back to normal and he says I’d laugh if he told me. I promise not to laugh and he tells me that he’s always dreamed about being a doctor, ever since he could first remember being alive. He moves forward into the light and I can see his face, a gentle face with a button nose and full lips.

“Do you think good people would let me be a doctor?”

“I don’t see why not,” I say, but he can tell I’m only humoring him.

“No. I don’t think they would, either. But maybe I’ll lie about my age and join the army or navy. I could be a corpsman. I’d be a damned good one, too.”

“If it’s what you want.”

“Yep. It is. I’ve been fixing up hurt people and animals for a long time. I’ve seen all different kinds of hurt and I’ve patched it up. I’ve only lost one of my patients, but she was all fucked up before I got to her. Let me take a look at you now.”

I’m bound, so it’s not like I have a choice. His hands are gentle as he takes my head in his hands and runs his fingers over the lumps that rose where the boys kicked me. He seems to relax when he examines me. I hear his small breath going in and coming out. He holds the lantern to my face and checks my eyes, and then he runs his finger down my ribs. He’s not just copping a feel. He finds the exact part of my ribcage that’s hurting, and he pulls my shirt up, careful not to bare my breasts, and binds my cracked ribs with duct tape.

He asks me what I think about his chances of getting into the military. I don’t say anything about his wanting to join. He’s interested in helping people, yeah, but maybe he’d be helping the wrong people. I only tell him I hope things will work out for him, and maybe someday we’ll run into each other somewhere on a sunny beach and I’ll buy him a beer or something, and he says he’d like that.

I know I should be pumping him for more information about my family and the other boys, but I find myself telling him about my luxury hotel fantasy. I can see his teeth in the dark when I tell him. He says he’d sell his soul for a slice of pizza. “Extra pepperoni with hot, stringy cheese and a cold bottle of Coke. Not a can. A bottle that’s wet on the outside because it’s so perfect and cold.”

He asks if I’ve had anything to eat and I try to remember, but I can’t. He takes off his coat and puts it under my head. With my head up I can see that his hair is black as ravens. I’m bound and hurt and crusted with God knows what, but it feels good to be able to look at him without straining my neck. Donnie’s voice is low and gentle and I can imagine him trying to nurse a wounded animal back to health. He reaches into the pocket of his coat and takes out a package of turkey jerky. He breaks off a piece and puts it in my mouth. I don’t tell him I used to be a vegetarian. I chew and he smiles like I’m a sick dog or cat he’s found and soon I’ll be all better. He feeds me more, a handful of M&M’S and some salted cashews with pocket lint in them, then he gives me water.

“I never had a sister,” he says.

“I have a younger brother.”

“I hope you still do.”

“Thanks.”

He leans in again and runs his hand through my hair, then he leans back and sits again.

“You won’t tell them I didn’t do you, will you?”

“No.”

“Because if you tell them, I’ll never hear the end of it. They’ll say I’m a fag, and maybe I’ll end up in here someday.”

“I won’t tell. When will I see you again?”

“There’s sixteen of us. Each of us gets a turn after we stand our watches.”

I can’t hold back, and I let loose all the profanity I’ve ever heard, and then I scream straight into the world’s horrible face. Donnie starts to leave, but I stop screaming. I want to ask him something. I’m not sure about the question floating around inside my head, but then I get my mouth to work.

“How long are your watches?”

“Four hours,” he says. “I hope I can talk to you when my turn comes around again.”

I hear my voice say, “Me, too,” then I kind of pass out.

When I wake up, I’m alone. I try not to think about anything. People in hell shouldn’t think too much. I breathe my way through a monster panic attack, then I focus my eyes on close-up things, the spiderwebs that cover the inside of the shack. Their silk is white and heavy with dampness in the warm room.

They kicked me very hard when they took me, and I keep drifting off into some unreal place. I cough something up but it’s not blood. My memory of talking to Donnie is still clear, but my memory of Bill Junior’s visit is a fluttery thing that I can’t trust. I know I’m in bad shape. I try to sleep.

When they took me, they dragged me by my hair. If it hadn’t of hurt so badly, I would’ve laughed at them for being so cliché. They threw something into the store and pulled me toward the wrecking yard. There was a huge explosion behind me. I saw the orange blossom of it above me. Pieces of lumber and roofing shingles fell from the sky. The boys stopped to laugh and high-five. I looked back. The rear of the store was completely flattened by the explosion. I started to fight them. I did it without thinking and I’m not proud about it now. I scratched and kicked and punched, and I didn’t quit until they kicked and punched me to sleep.

I drift off for a while and then another boy comes into the shack and closes the door behind him. He’s much bigger than the first one, and he’s not there to talk. I scream, then I fall again into the blackness. Fighting my way to the surface and staying awake long enough to witness the rape. My own.

When daylight comes they lock me in the trunk of a car. I have no choice but to curl up on moldy carpet and rusty metal. Dark and alone. Torn flesh trapped inside twisted wreckage. Then there’s the sound of approaching footsteps. Laughter. They pull me out for more. Like a snack, I think, but then the blackness takes me and I’m grateful.

So dizzy. Dad says I have a concussion. I can see light, but the world looks like it’s not put together right. I don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to jinx anything. If I ever get my sight back, I promise God and man and the devil himself that I’ll use it in the cause of justice. But right now the things I see best come from my memories, and it’s not the same, and I wonder if I’ll ever see anything new again.

My circadian rhythms are all screwed up because I can’t tell what time it is. Anyway, I don’t want to sleep ever again. My missing fingertip hurts like hell, even though it’s long gone. I keep trying to see something. Anything clear. If I fall asleep, I might miss my chance to see something. I blink about a thousand times, hoping to open my eyes to a clear scene, then I stare like I’m trying to read a license plate from a thousand yards away. Maybe if I try harder, my vision will clear up. I’ve always had good vision, 20/15 in both eyes. Pilot’s eyes. But now I’m getting a panic attack. Going suddenly blurry feels like being locked up in a box, underground.

My hearing is all screwed up, too, but I can hear my heart going like a speed metal drum. I think I’ll either die or explode. Mom kisses my forehead then cleans my face with some kind of cloth. It feels good, but it freaks me out to be touched without being able to judge when the touches are coming. She works with tweezers. I feel tugs and pulls as she gets the glass out of my cheeks. I try to hold still. She tells me to take a deep breath. She plugs my nose and dumps about a gallon of water over my head while she runs her fingers over my eyeballs and I scream. She stops and I quiet down, but I can’t get rid of the feeling of her fingers on my eyes.

“I didn’t find any glass in your eyes.”

I blubber for a while and then I get some of my
me
back.

“That’s good news.”

“We think you have a concussion. Are you still dizzy? Do you have a headache?”

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

I don’t want her to worry. She tells me to rest. To try to calm down. I say okay, but I’m thinking,
Yeah, right
. I drift off, but it’s not sleep.

I can see more light when I wake up. It’s colder when I come back into the world. I’m pretty sure it’s dark, and what I’m seeing is the moon above the clouds. Dad and Mom are doing something. Mom’s arm is in a sling, but she doesn’t let that stop her. They’re loading stuff into our packs, probably the junk food and supplies we fought for.

I remember the times I woke up early when we were on vacation, lying still in a motel bed, my eyes closed and listening to them pack supplies for the day. Something important is missing, but I can’t figure out what it is. I just know it’s something that will make me feel stupid or very bad.

Dad walks up to me. I can tell it’s him by the sound of his boots. He shakes my shoulder and stands me up.

“Can you travel?”

“Sure thing, Captain.”

I fall down and he stands me up again. I thought I’d gotten past the dizziness when I was stretched out on my back, but standing brings the real message home. Dad puts a pack into my hands and helps me put it on. He puts my poncho on me, too. I’m swaying back and forth and he takes both of my hands in his and holds my arms straight out.

“Your sister’s gone.”

“Dead?” I’m already winding up to cry like a little girl.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Is she hurt?”

“Maybe. Probably. They have her.”

“Well, let’s go get her back.”

“Let’s get out of here first.”

“But this place is
ours
.”

“There isn’t much left of it. And I’m sure they’ll come again.”

“Well okay, then.”

And then I’m sneaking away in the dark with my parents. Mom holds my hand, but the whole thing feels like a long sobriety test. I stagger with my hands held out in front of me for more than an hour, then finally I learn to trust that Mom won’t lead me into a boulder or something. I finally stand tall and put one foot in front of the other. My hearing is slowly getting better. I can hear us stumbling in the grass and on the shoulder of the road. I can see well enough to know that it’s dark and we’re all blind now. We walk forever and ever, it seems. I can’t tell which way we’re going, but whichever way we turn feels like the wrong direction. I can’t see Mount Shasta but I know it’s somewhere above us. I try to use the breeze to guess where we’re going, but it changes direction too often for me to guess anything about anything.

First things first. I send Luscious and four sober men to go search the bodies in the store, but Luscious comes back and says the bodies got up and walked away. It’s the worst mistake I’ve made since Ookie got shot. Shoulda, coulda, woulda, yeah, but I was so happy we got the girl that I didn’t finish the job.

Luscious shrugs his shoulders. It’s getting dark, so I’ll have to wait until first light to put together a team to go after the old man and his ball-and-chain and their smartass-looking kid. But the more I think about it, the more I’m kicking myself in the ass for thinking they were killed in the explosion. The girl’s daddy isn’t someone we should fuck around with. He’s pretty damned good with that rifle of his, and he’ll want to take the girl away from us, but she’s ours now. I need to make him understand the facts of life and death. Tomorrow I’ll take my best shooters with me, and some dynamite, and if we can’t find them fast, I’ll get the old man up in his plane to spot for us.