Page 10 of Revenant

No sign of an elevator anywhere.

What the fuck?!

Just where in the hell am I?

Instead of providing answers, my handler leads me to a small bedroom. While the room is an improvement over my last accommodations—it actually has furniture in it this time—there is still something impersonal and clinical about the space.

Though they’re disguised, I don’t miss the three cameras hidden in the room. Spotting them has become second nature when entering a new area, something I do without thinking. The man doesn’t say anything. The instant I step foot into the dorm, the door slams shut behind me with a solid thud.

When I don’t hear the locks click, my unease only increases. Most would think an unlocked room would be a good thing, but my experience has taught me otherwise. A locked room keeps out the crazies. Not only does it announce when someone’s about to enter, but it also allows me time to become presentable.

Whatever Dr. Hershamn wants with me, he’s trying to win me over with small favors. And if I hadn’t been locked away for most of my life, it might have worked. Instead, my new accommodations feel even more like a prison.

In the asylum, I was one of many.

Here, I’m one of the “special ones.”

Most people think being special is a good thing, but it’s a double-edged sword. There is no more hiding in the background. I’ll be expected to perform. My survival will depend on living up to certain expectations, like a trained circus animal.

Don’t perform, and they won’t have any use for you.

I head straight for the windows on the opposite side of the room and rip back the curtains. The view only reinforces the impression of a prison cell. Because instead of outdoor scenery, the vista is of an underground courtyard. There are three different levels, each lined with windows similar to mine. There are two windows on each side, which means eight occupants per level. I’m on the top floor, the view offering me the perfect vantage of the area below.

People of all ages and types mill around the cell block. Some are laughing and talking, but a handful are just staring blankly at a wall, completely unmoving. Upon closer observation, some are in the pink of health, while others look like they should be in a hospital bed.

I try to understand the dynamics, but the system is beyond me.

There are even more cameras, the surveillance system capturing every angle. If that’s not enough, I spot at least five guards monitoring the room. Two of them are dressed as orderlies, two more are dressed as regular people, and one looks like a patient.

How can I tell?

There is an alertness to them that the others lack, something you only acquire by serving in the military. They exude a certain menace that says they won’t hesitate to end you. Sure, a few of the patients are alert as well, but they ooze the air of a trapped animal.

Do I think they are any less dangerous?

Fuck no!

They would kill without hesitation if it meant they could escape this place. Or even spill blood over something as simple as a candy bar.

While each group is dangerous, the soldiers have a slight edge because they work as a team. Though a few of the inmates might work together to escape, they would leave behind their team members without hesitation if the opportunity presented itself.

Our survival instincts are too finely honed after years of abuse. While they might even feel bad, it wouldn’t prevent them from betraying a friend.

Turning away, I survey the room closer.

The space is a good size, maybe fifteen by twenty feet. There are two doors, one that leads to a long gallery bathroom, the second one filled with clothing, all in my size.

That’s not creepy as fuck.

I open every drawer of the small bureau, finding it full of socks, underwear, and bras.

Again, all in my size.

There is nothing special about the clothing. The brands are generic, like they want us all to be considered equal. Although I hate being forced to conform to their silent demand, I’m used to it.

Besides, anything is preferable to the dingy, paper-thin scrubs I’m currently wearing.

At least the clothing here looks new and not worn by other patients who have puked or soiled themselves repeatedly over the years. Grabbing a set of clothing at random, I head toward the bathroom and take advantage of the shower—one that has walls and soap and hot water and not a dozen other girls watching.

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