Keep Watch

Chapter Thirteen

Dreams and reality had a tendency to blend together in the darkness of a jail cell.

Chloe could never tell when she was truly awake. Even with her eyes open, images and thoughts swirled in front of her as if they were alive, and phantom sounds or smells lingered far past when they were welcome.

One smell she couldn't get out of her head was of Jeremy's clothing, a familiar and comforting thing that nearly put her to sleep with the drowsiness it brought upon her. That was a safe smell, one she inhaled every time she fell asleep — and there it was, in her nostrils, even though she knew that was impossible.

She'd picked up a habit of speaking her thoughts aloud, as it was the only way she could know they were real. "That's fucked up," she said. "Real fucked up. God, if you're real, fuck off."

She looked up, expecting there to be sky, but was disappointed once again by the stalactites. She didn't believe in God, but if she had, she wouldn't have been able to pray to any sort of Heaven; she added that to the list of indecencies hidden in the depths of that cell.

The conversation with the nurse had proven to Chloe that the helicopter hadn't, after all, been rescuers. What she couldn't understand, however, was what they still wanted from her — why had they picked her up and brought her out of there if they'd only wanted to keep observing her? She was bound to go crazy at that rate, if she hadn't already; would she not, then, be a useless subject for whatever they were trying to figure out?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the clanging of a key, followed by the scrape of plastic against concrete. Chloe retreated back against the cell wall, staring wide-eyed at the movement she could not see. Footsteps disappeared down what she could only assume was a hallway, and after a few moments, she padded forward on her toes, careful to stay quiet.

On the floor, she could only just make out a black tray. On top of it was something that could only be described as pig slop, topped with a single slice of untoasted bread and a cup of water.

There weren't any utensils. That was a good idea, considering they were right — Chloe probably would have put them to some nefarious use. What she did notice, however, was a little rolled-up note, tucked under the hem of the tray.

She tugged it out, careful not to splash any of the beigeish muck onto the paper.

It was nearly illegible as she unrolled it, but she held it an inch from her face and squinted, and like that, she was just barely able to read it.

If this has found you, it said, then we've experienced our first miracle.

That means they don't wash the trays, and they don't give us the same one each time. Two incredibly lucky things in a place like this.

There is a sound system that muffles our voices. We can't speak to each other, even if we tried; what it doesn't muffle, though, is tapping.

If you're smart, you already know what I'm telling you. Listen for the code in the stalactites; there is a message there, if you know where to look. Below is a guide to morse code. Good luck. If we're lucky, I'll never see you again.

Sincerely, Robyn.

Chloe rolled up the scrap and slid it between the tie of her gown and her skin. It wasn't secure there, but that was better than having it taken from her if she was spotted with it.

Her attention moved to the slop, and with great hesitance, she scooped up the first glob with her fingers. It looked like oatmeal, if it had been cooked for several hours and then refrigerated until it rotted. Still, it was more than she had eaten in what she thought had been two days, so she shovelled it past her lips after only a brief inspection.