With the body gone, it was just Xavier in the room. Sam was never truly present—only his breathing from a comatose state—only the extra stench of blood and waste. But it was still company. Company that Xavier sorely missed. A reminder, a glimmer of hope that he hadn’t made this choice for nothing. That Sam would pull through. That the eventual leader of the revolution would rise up.
Now, the only hope was soon something, anything would change Haverty’s mind. Xavier had proposed a meeting with Haverty several meals ago, but nothing ever came to fruition. Perhaps something was said during Grant’s second interrogation that made Haverty reconsider Xavier’s worth. Realizing now if the letter was hidden, then no one would find it. Realizing the letter was no threat at all to stability. Haverty thought by eliminating Xavier that the letter went with him.
Grant had not returned, but the thought of his condition remained with Xavier. Is Grant dead? Xavier’s anger had subsided. Grant was a good man. He had cared for Xavier as his own child, pushing him to be his best. I should have stayed with him.
Now seeing what Grant had certainly known from the beginning, Xavier understood why he thought it best to choose that path. He was now free while Xavier was not. Grant recognized the situation, understanding that the Second Alliance was a giant, and feeble chops to its knees would not bring the beast down. River’s Edge was going to be a slight hiccup in their plan or an easy assimilation. Grant made it obvious that assimilation made the most sense, and now Xavier regretted not seeing it.
A scuffle, quick footsteps and thuds against the wall—a bark of orders and expletives just as Xavier was about to doze off again. He lay still, not moving even slightly, he peeked through his eyelashes, waiting for whoever shuffled his way.
A muffled scream of pain bounced along the tiled walls. A hard-hitting crack in response. More screaming. The sterile light, beyond any natural white existing in nature, crept around the corner. It moved across the wall, sporadic, highlighting the locker room in a panicked manner. Low grunts. Thuds. A stifled murmur. Xavier didn’t move. His heart beat faster. He attempted to hide his quickened breaths, tightening his core, restricting it just enough so it appeared normal. The light continued to grow. His eyes shuddered.
A prisoner stumbled forward, pushed from behind—his bucket tumbling across the porcelain floor. His head moved frantically around the room, lost, unable to see through the black hood that hid his face. A man? Maybe a teenager. His build very similar to Xavier’s own.
The prisoner turned to leave, his body jolted, recoiling from the broad chest of the Guard that brought him—another one standing just outside the threshold. The hood was pulled from over his face. Brown hair, the dirt bunching it into short locks. He was easily, fifteen or sixteen years old. Xavier peeked again through his lashes. Who in the world is that? Blood ran from his lip. A bruised cheek. His eyes wide with panic. A cloth gag in his mouth prevented him from saying anything intelligible. He made another attempt to leave. Useless.
“Sit!” The Guard ordered and pressed him down onto Sam’s cot still stained with blood.
The prisoner mumbled, panicked, shaking his head in absolute protest to being forced into what was obviously someone’s death. Murder perhaps, from what he could figure. A swift kick to the inside of the knee and one of the Guards buckled to the floor, signaling the other to step in. The much bigger companion lifted the prisoner by the front of his shirt and pinned him to the wall.
“Stop!”
Xavier was sitting up by this point. There was no sense in acting as if he would be able to sleep through the commotion. The prisoner’s eyes met Xavier’s as he hung there, perched above the cot, begging for answers—for help. Xavier tugged at the handcuff in response. What does he expect?
One could see the disappointment flood the prisoner’s face. He threw his elbow several times into the Guard’s grip, finally breaking free but falling onto the cot. A harsh grunt. The metal rail against his back. Both Guards grabbed the desperate prisoner—one by the arms, the other by his feet. Taken to the opposite side, the prisoner continued fighting, flailing about, screaming—their shadows crawling like frenetic spiders across the walls. Xavier could do nothing but watch as the Guards attempted to handcuff him to the cot. The scuffle ended with the Guards standing over the prisoner now in full compliance—fully secured.
“Decent fight, kiddo. Damn shame it’s over.”
One of the Guards winked at the prisoner and took out a knife while smiling, sliding it between the gag and the prisoner’s skin. The cheek creased as the blade turned toward the fabric. It tore and was spit to the ground. The prisoner gave the Guards an exaggerated, menacing grin, pulling at his handcuff as if to strike them again. He began laughing and grabbed for the Guard’s shirt, but was promptly swiped away.
“You two get along now.”
The lantern was lifted from the floor and carried off—full darkness once again. All Xavier heard was panting and anxious movements coming from the prisoner’s cot. Grunts, clanging, scoffs of anger. The excitement was over and Xavier resigned himself back to his situation. He had already gone through the motion of trying. He considered telling the prisoner there was no use, but figured it would at least pass some time for both of them.
Who is that guy? Xavier had never seen him. Not even a vague familiarity that ate at an individual as they tried to place them in their memory. Even with the Second Alliance moving in new troops, he felt as though he had seen most everyone in the town, but he couldn’t be certain. It was possible this was a trap. Someone sent in to gain his trust. Someone to pry out the location of the letter. Maybe Haverty hadn’t given up on it. Xavier couldn’t be entirely certain.
The metal creaked as the prisoner leaned back into his cot. “So what you in for?” he asked.
“A misunderstanding. What about you?”
“Same I guess, if we’re both being careful about what we say.”
A measured response followed by silence. He too could be thinking the same thing as Xavier. Who could blame him? There was no telling what he was in for either. The same kind of charge of conspiracy against the Second Alliance. It would be the perfect plan to pose an interrogator as another prisoner. Someone to confide in. Someone who would understand.
“Feeding you?”
“Yeah,” Xavier said. “Barely, but yeah.”
The mere mention of food was enough to make Xavier’s stomach begin churning. A diet of soup simply wasn’t cutting it. He wanted more—needed more. Through that short scuffle, the light had revealed his physical state. Knowing he had lost weight, but unaware to what extent, the glimpse left him without question. His ribs appeared ready to snap from the tautness of his skin. Hip bones, pointed and peeking above the waistline of his loose underwear. He was nothing but a wireframe.
“What they got?”
“Mostly soup.”
“How long until next meal?” he begged. His voice was eager as if he had been starved up to this point, although he appeared to be in relatively good shape other than the few minor injuries.
“I don’t know. Before I was in here, the town switched to two meals a day, so I think that’s what’s going on, but I’m not really sure. You’ll lose track of time in here, but I’ve been trying to keep count of my meals.”
“How many you had?”
“Six, I think.”
“Maybe three or four days here?”
“Seems so, but like I said, I’m not really sure. I can’t be positive.” Xavier thought backwards, confirming for his own sake. “They’ve taken some of my bowls, but three or four days seems right.”
“Seem to be taking good care of you.” A slight hint of mistrust in his voice. “Barely a scratch on you as far as I could tell.”