Page 89 of Fighting for Brielle
“Fine. I’ll go get your breakfast.”
Carson must not have been in the mood to talk to her, for he dropped off her breakfast and left the infirmary. Brielle didn’t care. She needed time to think. To figure out her next move.
She ate slowly, mapping the layout of the compound in her mind, though her head ached. Escape lay near the surface where she’d seen the elevators. If she could convince Anderson that he’d successfully begun to brainwash her, she might have a chance to free herself. She needed more information about their location, but questioning Carson would prove tricky. It had to be done subtly to avoid arousing his suspicion. Although the better part of his nature was still intact and desired to help her, she couldn’t count on it.
After she ate, Sherman suggested Brielle get out of bed so the doctor could check her heart rate. Brielle’s legs felt like Jell-O, but she forced herself to take tentative steps until she grew stronger. She traversed the length of the corridor, and except for a tiny flutter in her heart, she didn’t experience any other symptoms.
“You’re doing really well,” Dr. Sherman commented when they returned to the infirmary. “Just don’t do anything else to warrant more punishment.”
“I’m not afraid of pain.”
Dr. Sherman studied her. “You should be, Miss McAdams. You don’t know what’s in store for you if you fail to perform to Anderson’s expectations.”
“Have you treated Faith Stoker?” Brielle inquired, redirecting their conversation.
“No.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“Living in the communal section with other unmarried women and working in the kitchen from what I’ve heard.”
“Is she…you know…?”
“Stop asking me questions!” Dr. Sherman snapped. “Time for you to be taken to your new living quarters. You’re fine.”
Carson strolled into the infirmary with a half-smile on his face. “You pissed off Dr. Sherman. She can’t wait to get rid of you.”
“You seem in a better mood,” Brielle remarked as she followed him through the sliding glass doors.
“You bug me like an annoying little sister.”
“Do you have a sister?”
He stopped and scowled at her. “I don’t know. Jesus, Brielle, leave it alone.”
“Isn’t there anyone you miss on the outside?” she pressed.
His scowl deepened. “No. No one. You need a muzzle.”
“So I’m often told. Let’s talk about something else.” She pointed toward a corridor on their right. “What’s down there?”
On their way to the special living quarters for single women who’d successfully completed the program, Carson explained how the organization operated. Along with weapons, they’d been stockpiling food and water and bringing in people with various skills and knowledge Anderson claimed they would need after the revolution. They had a greenhouse, too, in order to grow fruits and vegetables and herbs. Every person knew his or her role and place in the organization and accepted it without question. No one possessed more than his neighbor. Wealth and material comforts were shared equally.
Socialism and brainwashing worked hand in glove, Brielle mused to herself.
She appreciated her new living quarters, thankful they were central to everything and close to the elevators. It contained a full-size bed, a recliner, and a floor lamp. A mini-fridge and microwave sat next to a counter with a sink and cabinets. She even had her own Keurig. An armoire held clothes in her size. A row of books lined a shelf. Beyond this area lay her private bathroom. She couldn’t wait to take a long, hot shower.
“Take advantage of the reprieve you’ve been granted,” Carson advised. “Rest. You’ll need all of your strength for the next phase of your program.” He paused. “By the way, you have the freedom to come and go as you please. The door opens automatically from the inside when you trigger a sensor. However, visitors have to be buzzed in. You can see them through this camera.” Carson pointed at it. “Understand?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll bring you lunch and dinner.”
“Thank you.”
“Trust no one.”
“Not even you, Carson?”
