“I don’t know, Dad.”
“Matt, what do you think?”
“We’ll get it done.”
“See, Xavier, we can do this. First things first, we’ll have to get into the school.”
“Dad?”
“Come on now, with all the stuff we’ve had to do. Every crazy thing done to us. This isn’t one of the things we’ve talked about. No one is coming back for this school. When we talked about the rules, I meant natural right and wrong.”
“Mr. Finch?”
“I just mean the basics. No stealing, no killing, the basics. Think along those lines. We still have to do things the right way. We can’t abandon our principles.”
“What happens if someone is there?”
“If someone’s there, we’ll figure out how to get them on our side. We’ll talk to them. Explain our plan and hope they agree.”
“And if they don’t like it?”
“We’ll move on.”
“Where do we start?”
“We’ll cut through the woods to the back. It’s going to have to be a secret for now. It can’t be obvious what we’re doing yet.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“We start gathering. Everything.”
He opened his eyes, not knowing how much time had passed—still surrounded by the void, completely absent of light. There was no way to tell. Even time spent awake could have been sleep for all he knew. He rustled about the cot, trying to get comfortable, but an overpowering smell of stewed corn made him realize how hungry he was. It was close by. Dinner? Lunch? Carefully, he poked around the floor searching for the source. The clanging of a spoon against the tile. It disappeared. He lifted the bowl to his lips and began to drink. It was cold. Probably there an hour or longer, but it still satisfied his ache even though it wasn’t a lot. He finished and slid the bowl underneath his cot.
The white bucket called to Xavier. He grabbed it from the foot of the cot and relieved himself, adding to the stench of urine within the enclosure. He held off on relieving himself completely, saving his bowels for another time, knowing that eventually he would have to give in. Once he was acclimated to the smell, it might not be so bad.
The pillow cradled his head once more. His pulling rattled the handcuff—secured—still without any give. Xavier’s eyes moved about the endless space around him. The whistling noise had stopped. A leaking faucet filled the void—a distinct smacking noise as each drop collided with the porcelain of the sink. He tried to filter the dripping from his mind. Where’s the breathing? He couldn’t see. There was no way to tell.
“Sam?”
Nothing.
“Sam!”
Nothing again.
“Help! I think he’s dead! Help!” The shouting bounced around the tiled chamber. It was unknown if the words made it to the gymnasium above them or not. He continued shouting. If Sam hadn’t died, it may still have been possible to save him. The metal handcuff scraped along the railing of the cot as Xavier moved to the corner, reaching, stretching as far as he could. His hand grasped for anything material, nothing but the emptiness around him. Finally, he felt it—the metal rail of Sam’s cot. He shook hard, but nothing. No response, not even a startle. “Hey! Wake up! Wake up!”
“What the hell’s going on down there?” A voice demanded.
“Hurry! I think he’s dead!”
Footsteps scurried across the floor. A light accompanied the Guard into the shower room. “Whoa!” The Guard startled at the sight of Sam, the lantern swung as he stopped.
Xavier turned his head away from the light. It was too much all at once. When he could see again, he looked back, his eyes following the trail of red. The gauze had been soaked through—the cot too, and now, blood dripped to the floor, running between the porcelain tiles toward the drain in the center of the room. The Guard placed two fingers on Sam’s neck. His shoulders dropped, and he turned from the body.
“Just you now.”
The Guard gathered the bandages, clothing, and towels from the floor and placed them in Sam’s waste bucket. All the light escaped the room, the bucket’s handle clanking with every step away from the showers.
Xavier now knew. There was no going back. This was the future. Every man, woman and child—the entire town—soaked in blood. No one would be safe. Squads of Second Alliance Guards lining the halls of River’s Edge striking anyone who deviated from the cadence. Citizens, with their arms and legs broken, struggling to maneuver the winding halls of the school. All the mouths of the dissenters sewn shut. Their tongues nailed to their foreheads. All of them stripped of clothing, humiliated, their bodies gaunt and wanting for nourishment. Everyone chained and bound together in a forced march to the capital—treasonous prisoners of a non-existent war.
The Guard returned shortly with another. The two of them spread a tarp across the floor and set the body onto it. They wrapped him. One of them turned to Xavier. “Did ya know him?”
“Every one of us knows each other, cares for one another.”
“Do ya want to say something before we go?”
“What will be done with him?”
“Burnt, more than likely. If you want to say somethi—”
“You guys killed him. Every one of you.”
Xavier lay back down, covering his face, softly sobbing, not just for Sam, but everyone else—River’s Edge. It’s over. Sam was dead. Xavier was simply waiting his turn. There would be no stopping the Second Alliance. Was there anyone that actually wanted to? Even Xavier’s faith in Matt was merely a glimmer. His passive reaction to Sam being struck—telling Xavier to let it go—that there was nothing that could be done.
Xavier now almost regretted writing the note and leaving it for him. Matt wouldn’t do the right thing. He was like everyone else. Fall into line and shut up. Nothing to see here. Move along. The vision his father had set forth was now gone. Abandoned by Grant. Destroyed with Sam. Rotting away with Xavier.
Chapter Eleven
It had been six meals, more than likely three days since he first lay on that cot. It was impossible to know for sure. The hunger between each bowl of soup seemed to suggest it was much longer. Those hours stretched, distorting any sense of reality that he hung on to as he remained there without conversation.
Xavier curled into a position he discovered was the most comfortable available to him on a stiff canvas cot with one hand locked in place. His wrist felt numb—his limbs rigid, unused, useless to any other task beyond sleeping.
He now understood why Grant had appeared as he did when he emerged from this tomb. His twisted clothing. The dribbles of food. And that was only one day of living in this absolute darkness. Xavier could only imagine his own appearance—one of dirt and filth.
He could feel his hair matted to his forehead from sweat and the inability to clean himself. Stripped down to his underwear from his own doing. The clothing ripped into tattered strips using the head of a screw on the cot. He wiped himself like he had before in that house on his old street. The waste and makeshift bathroom tissue filled the bucket, filling the room with a fetor that Xavier now felt as a film covering his skin.
He slipped in and out of sleep—only meals and the use of the bucket interrupted his dreaming. It was difficult to maintain whether his eyes were opened or closed. It truly didn’t matter, being unable to tell the difference would never stand in the way of sleep. His body now craved it. The darkness, the ennui of nothingness made it that way. With nothing to stimulate himself, it was a matter of survival to simply sleep through this ordeal before his mind deteriorated from the isolation.