Out

Chapter 3

Quarantine, 324 E.V., Cent. 15 - Present Day

The watchtower bell wakes me when the shadows on the floor are short, indicating mid-day; this bell tolls much later than the usual sunrise alarm. On the first day of my nineteenth year, I have trouble opening my eyelids. That last dose of medicine was potent. I must have slept through the wake-up bell. My head is light, but my ears are closed off, like I am underwater. The bell rings again, twice this time, a low and vibratory hum that vibrates my bones. Two rings means new patients arrive today, and all of them are feral.

I arise from my cot and take a seat on the floor, folding my legs beneath me to meditate. My knees are shaking, which could be from hunger or exhaustion or the dread I feel waiting for the screams of the feral women to reach me. Their screams are more chilling if I do not center myself. They scream while the hair is shaved from their heads to inspect for lice, when their clothing is stripped and their bodies washed. They scream when their doors are slammed shut, and they scream in their sleep. Their sorrow echoes through the air ducts and down the hallways, reaching into my bones and echoing there too. The hairs on my arms perpetually stand on end. I remind myself that my reprieve will come in the morning, when the feral women's throats are hoarse. If I saw their faces, or if I told them how long I have survived here, would they be comforted? That would defeat the purpose of being kept in Isolation.

Today, the wails curdle in the humid air.

"Patients: sit against the wall, away from the door," Officer Tarq calls.

This is protocol when new patients are admitted to this floor. It is drilled into our heads. We are all dangerous, we are all sick. Sit against the wall, or we might catch something.

"One. Feral." Tarq's voice echoes. It is strange to have only one admitted to this ward; there are usually several women brought into Isolation, shutting our ward down for an hour as they struggle. Only one today. I suppose that is the best present I could receive on my birthday: a reprieve.

The officers' boots thump as they escort the woman past my door. Tarq's limp is marked with a heavy scuff. The woman says nothing as they pass. She must be very ill. The door to the woman's cell and the shackles on her wrists are unlocked. Tarq cries out. A loud thump sounds: bone on concrete. A second thump follows. I crawl to the feeding slot at the bottom of my door and press my cheek to the concrete. Both officers are slumped against the wall, eyes glossed with a thin film of red fluid. Tarq, my daily visitor, and another officer of equal size, his brother, maybe. Though he is not kind, Tarq is a flickering light, and my longest acquaintance besides my Father. Both men are made of sheer muscle, and yet, the short feral woman stands above them like the conquering hero, fists clenched and panting for oxygen. They must be dead; neither man blinks the red film from his eyes.

The woman makes eye contact with me and the air is electric. Her eyes burn; were it not for those two green suns, her cheeks would be soft and round, but the glow casts a harsh shadow across her cheekbones. A deep furrow pulls at her eyebrows, accentuating the wrinkles in her worn complexion. Heavy, determined footsteps echo in the stairwell at the end of the hall, drawing the woman's attention from me. As soon as the footsteps move up to the next floor the feral woman turns back to me. She points to her own forehead, then to me, and takes off down the hallway with the swiftness of a young girl. Her hands connect with the door at the end of the hall, and the alarm blares as she slips into the stairwell.

I sit back on my heels. I rub my arms to banish the prickling, but the static intensifies. My shirt clings to my stomach and my pants to my legs. I am sure if I had hair on my head long enough to fly, it too would cling to my skin.