Survived (Revived, #2), Page 2

  “Walk,” the male guard commands.

  I don’t know why I’m out here. I don’t know what's happening. I don’t know anything.

  “W-where are you taking me?” My voice comes out as a squeak.

  The question is partly answered when the guard spins me in the direction of a small building. A tall man dressed in a dark blue uniform blocks the entrance door. As we get closer, I spot white letters stitched on the front of his suit: OFFICER.

  The two guards accompanying me stop walking, halting me in place with a hand on each of my shoulders. The officer in front of us holds his hand out, saying, “You’re here for what business?”

  The male guard gestures to me with a flick of his head. “Stray,” he says.

  The officer looks me up and down. “Homeless, I’m guessing,” he says.

  The male guard nods his head. “Yes, but we found her outside the gate.”

  The officer’s eyes narrow as he takes another look at me. His head tilts to the side. “An outsider?” he whispers. “Where did she come from?”

  The young female guard by my side snatches my hand, holding it up for the officer to see. I want to pull it back, but I hold still as he examines the black tattoo.

  “This could mean something,” the young guard says.

  The officer’s eyes open wider, and his gaze flicks from me to the two guards by my side. He looks back down at my inked hand, taking a small breath of air. He rubs his eyes with his fingers and says, “This is…” He trails off, eyes drilling into mine. “Where did you come from?” he demands firmly.

  I shrug. “It’s far...” I hesitate. “Underground.” But it sounds more like a question.

  The officer frowns and addresses the next words to the two guards. “Show her to the commander. He has to see this.”

  “Where is he?” the female guard says quickly.

  “The quarters,” the officer answers. He points to the door he’s blocking. “Lock her up. I’ll send someone to fetch him.”

  My feet refuse to move as the two guards head to the door the officer is no longer blocking. They want to lock me up?

  The male guard yanks me to the door. “Move, lady,” he says.

  While the door is being opened, I pull on the arm the guard has a hard grip on and say, “Why are you locking me up?” I hope it's temporary.

  A small smile forms on the female guard’s face, but I don't know if it's supposed to calm me or frighten me. She says, “It’ll be fine. The commander will see you soon.”

  I’m shoved into the small building. It’s lined with brick walls and rusty cell bars. It stinks of decay and metal inside. Boxes and large bags are scattered across the floors of the cells. The cold cement stings my feet.

  I'm overcome with a feeling of déjà vu as I look at these cells. But I’m not visiting anyone this time. I’m being locked up.

  The male guard throws me into the first open cell and slides the doors shut after I've stumbled through the doorway. The two guards linger in the room for a moment longer, giving me a chance to ask them a question. “Who’s your commander?” My voice sounds too loud for my liking.

  The male guard grins through the bars. “It's a surprise.”

  That is all they have left to say to me. When they turn to leave, I look down at my hands and listen to the clicking of their footsteps as they head out of the room.

  “Well...welcome.” The raspy voice startles me. I turn my head around, trying to locate the source. But I can't find it. All I see are people that I did not bother to notice before. They sit behind the boxes and bags in the cells. Their figures are not bone thin like I expect them to be. Some of the clothes they wear are rags, while others look new.

  Someone smirks. “Nice outfit.”

  I don’t reply to the voice. I only take a breath and try to fix the position of my short skirt before sitting down in a corner of my cell. It’s chilly in here, but not as it is outside.

  How long will I be staying here? And how long have these people been here?

  Instead of giving the prisoners the attention they want from me, I look down at the cracks in the cement.

  A few voices echo around the room in whispers, but I can’t hear what they are talking about. I keep my head down even when I hear the door at the end of the room swing open. Loud voices let themselves in. Footsteps follow.

  Then they stop, and the whole room goes silent. It feels as if someone is standing right outside my cell.

  I lift my head.

  The male guard who had accompanied me here has returned. Standing by his side is a tall, dark-skinned man. His black hair is cut short, matching the style of a freshly cut lawn. He stands straight with his eyes cast on me. Two badges are clipped to the chest of his dark uniform. One says: CDR.

  The other says: CARNEZ.

  The male guard gestures to me, his head turned toward the tall man.“This is the girl,” he says.

  The man nods. “I am aware.”

  The male guard's attention turns to me. “Your hand. Show him.”

  Slowly, I lift my right hand, showing the black tattoo to the man.

  He goes still for a moment, but steps back and puts his hands behind him.

  The male guard clears his throat. “Do the tattoos mean anything?”

  The man’s eyes narrow slightly. “No.”

  I press myself deeper into the wall and say, “Who are you?”

  The tall man shakes his head. “No, miss. Who are you?”

  CHAPTER 3

  V I V I A N

  I don't introduce myself.

  The dark-skinned man sighs. “Very well,” he says. “I’ll tell you who I am first, then you'll share something about yourself. Will that work?”

  I shrug.

  He nods. “I'm known as Commander Denham Carnez. My job here is to keep this town in order, but there's someone else who's in charge of this society. If you ever need him, you'd have to look for Marcus Kent.” Denham wraps his left hand around a cell bar and leans forward. His right hand is behind his back. “So, where are you from?

  He's asking me what place I have just come from, but I don't answer the question. Instead, I say, “I don’t know where I was born.”

  A small smile forms on his lips. It's not clear if he's annoyed or amused. “Not where you were born, but where you had been living prior to your arrival here.” He leans away from the cell and straightens his posture. “You've never lived here before. It's shows. A lot.” He gestures to me, probably indicating my outfit. “Stands out too much.”

  I tug on my skirt subconsciously and cross my arms. My back is still against the wall. “Will you ever let me out?”

  A voice shouts out from one of the cells unexpectedly. “Why should he?” Soft laughter echo around the room. I glance down at my feet, feeling my face reddening.

  Denham waves a hand at the male guard next to him. The commander's hand shoots out and he waits until the guard drops a key into his palm.

  I watch as the key is inserted into my cell’s lock. There’s a faint click and the door is slid open.

  Denham steps back to clear the doorway, keeping his right hand behind his back. I look down at his hidden arm, wondering if there's anything wrong with it, or he's just doing that out of habit. Quickly, I look away; only because I feel if I stare too long, I might come off as weird. If I don't already, that is.

  Denham gestures for me to stand up, but I hesitate before doing so. Once I’m on my feet, I move slowly toward the open doorway of the cell. Maybe this is some sort of trick. What if they change their minds at the last minute and shut the door right in my face?

  Everyone's eyes are on me, even the prisoners'. Denham waves again and sighs. “Well? We don’t have all day.”

  I hurry out of the cell, and the door is shut behind me. A few groans echo throughout the room.

  “Oh come on,” one prisoner calls out. “Let me out too.”

  Without a reply, Denham guides me out the exit door with the male guard trailing beh
ind us.

  I’m standing outside again, inhaling the air. Denham snaps his fingers, and without hesitation, the guard with us steps forward until he's right beside the commander.

  Denham tells him, “Fetch me some gloves. We will be in the meeting quarters.”

  The guard presents him with a salute and a “Yes, sir” before walking off.

  Soon it's only Denham and me, heading toward a black jeep. One of its wheels look deflated, but I barely give any attention to that. My worry is not knowing where Denham's taking me.

  I want to walk backwards, away from Denham. But he'll catch me. I'll be shot, so there's really no point in running.

  Why am I so important all of a sudden? Unless I'm not, and Denham's only leading me someplace where I can be quietly executed.

  I pull myself up onto the back of the jeep without waiting for Denham's invitation. When I catch a glance back at him, I see him shrugging, then grabbing a seat at the front of the jeep in the passenger's side. A driver, wearing a dark blue uniform, sits behind the steering wheel.

  The jeep pulls forward. We're driving away from the curb, accelerating as we head deeper into the town.

  The car careens to the left, and I grab on to the car seat in front of me. My head whips left and right, but I don't know what I'm looking for. Something else to grab on to in this dangerous ride?

  I don’t trust the driver, as I've only met him a couple of seconds ago. He shouldn't be going this fast, especially in a small town like this.

  Buildings and pedestrians zip by. Every sharp turn makes my stomach twist, but neither the driver nor Denham seem to be bothered by any of this. They make small talk, completely ignoring me.

  The car finally comes to a halt, and I nearly let out a loud sigh of relief. I practically jump out of the vehicle even before Denham exits. The driver remains in the car.

  Once Denham's out, the car pulls out of parking and disappears down the road. I turn my attention to what catches my eye behind me. A tower.

  This tower must be the meeting quarters Denham mentioned earlier.

  I realize my assumptions are wrong as soon as Denham says, “That is the watchtower.” He points to a small brick building right next to the tower. “We’re heading there.”

  I give him a few nods to tell him I understand, but my feet don’t stride after him.

  It’s not too late to run, I tell myself. Just run. He’s got his back turned.

  As I’m about to spin around to face the road (my exit) another jeep pulls up next to the curb.

  The male guard from earlier hops out, carrying a small paper box. Denham turns to face him and my chances of escape disappear.

  “You requested gloves, sir,” the guard says. pulling two blue material pieces of latex from the box. As the blue material is pulled over Denham’s hands, I see that it's just gloves. Now his right hand is no longer behind his back. It’s relaxed by his side, which makes my stomach tug with suspicion. Is he hiding something?

  With gentle but cold fingers, he grabs my shoulder and steers me in the direction of the small brick building.

  The guard follows, holding the paper box out to the commander. “Would you like to take this, sir?”

  Denham starts dismissing the offer but takes the box of gloves anyway. “Thank you. I’ll take this to the meeting quarters.” He motions for me to continue following him.

  I do, but with the guard right behind me violating my personal space. It’s as if he’s afraid I’ll make a run for it.

  We reach the door to the brick building and Denham lets me enter first.

  I am surprised.

  The building looks small from the outside, but it's even smaller on the inside. About a dozen people hang around. They look up at all three of us as we enter. I feel as if their gaze stays on me the longest. I’m the stranger, I guess.

  I cross my arms and try to look somewhere else. Maybe the floor. My thin clothes aren’t making me feel better either. I wish someone would give me something else to change into.

  But my clothes aren't better than this room. The walls are stained black and scratched. A lit fireplace is in the far corner of the room, but the fire is about to die out. No one pays attention to it, even as the last of it's wood yells out for help. Carpet has been laid out across floor. It's worn-out and thin, letting in whatever chill is outside invite itself in. Two battered couches sit in the middle of the room, occupied by a couple of people. The rest of the people in the room sit in chairs.

  A woman speaks up, voice high-pitched. “Who’s she?”

  Denham puts a hand on my shoulder but I take a step to the side to avoid him. He points a finger at me instead and says, “She hasn’t told me her name yet.”

  A man sitting in one of the chairs in the room coughs into his hand. His fingers wipe his nose as he says, “So what is your name?” He turns to look at me, one eye squinted.

  “Uh.” I rub my wrist and look up at the ceiling, trying to pretend like I'm the only one here. However, everyone's figure still appears in my peripheral vision. I breathe out once, then finally decide to tell them my real name. It comes out slow and reluctant. “Vivian.”

  The man who asked me my name scoffs and leans back in his chair. “Your name’s Vivian?” He says it like he doesn’t believe me.

  I nod. “It's Vivian.”

  “And where did you come from, Vivian?” he asks, almost spitting my name out.

  Instead of answering, I turn to Denham and say, “Is there an extra change of clothes I could get?”

  He looks me up and down, pauses, then snaps his fingers twice. A man on one of the couches rises. “Yes, commander?”

  Denham points his thumb in my direction. “Find her something else to wear.”

  The man nods and disappears through a narrow door I have not seen before. Denham moves his thumb to a chair in the room, telling me, “Sit down.”

  I clutch at the hem of my shirt and clear my throat uncomfortably. “I’ll stand until I have something else to wear.”

  Denham shrugs and takes a careful seat in the couch behind him. He folds his arms over his chest. “So Vivian, how did you find this town?”

  I give a casual shrug. “Oh, you know...I was walking...and then I…” I don’t continue. Should I tell them about the underground building? Do they really need to know the truth of where I actually came from? I decide they do not.

  Denham is still waiting for my response. “Then you what?”

  I shake my head and decide to take Denham's offer by lowering myself in a chair. I scoot to the edge and keep my shirt flat against my thighs.

  Denham watches me for a moment. “You...don’t want to talk about it?” he asks.

  I shrug.

  The only thing I can hear in the room is the crackling of the flames. Someone coughs.

  The silence is interrupted from the returning man. In his hands he carries clothes. One is a worn-out dark blue sweatshirt, while the other material is a pair of dark pants. Not jeans, but pants. Too large to fit me.

  “I scavenged around the storage closet and found these,” the man carrying the clothing says.

  Denham pushes himself to his feet. “That'll do,” he says, taking the clothes from the man’s hands. He tosses me the outfit, but I only manage to catch the sweatshirt. As I examine it, I spot a few stains and holes here and there.

  The pants have no pockets, and no pleasant smell either. It's odor carries a wet carpet smell. What appears to be white dog hairs cling to the fabric, but really, I have no idea what that could be.

  I feel a cringe form on my face. Well, something is better than nothing, so I'm fine with this. The smell will disappear soon anyway.

  I mutter a thanks for the clothes. No one suggests a changing room so I pull the black pants on over my skirt, right where I’m standing. I shake the sweatshirt out once before pulling that over my head. After I’m finished, I sit back down onto the chair and try to ignore the stares.

  “Finished?” Denham asks as he sits back d
own onto the couch. He doesn’t wait for my reply but asks the next question. “Did someone send you?”

  I stuff my hands into my pockets, then pull them out quickly. “Nope,” I say.

  Denham waits for additional information, but that’s all I have for him. He leans forward on the couch and props his elbows on his knees. “Did you come here alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get here?” Denham asks slowly.

  I chuckle but attempt to keep a straight face as I say, “I walked.”

  Denham nods. “You said that before. How long were you walking for? Days? Hours? Minutes? Weeks? Aren’t you hungry?”

  I might have felt hungry when I was out walking in the cold, but I feel better sitting here.

  “A couple of hours” is my answer.

  Nobody in the room says anything then, and I count one, two, three, four...to hear the seconds pass. Maybe Denham has run out of questions to ask me.

  ...thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—

  “You must be hungry,” Denham cuts in.

  I’m about to object but don't. What can I say anyway?

  Denham stands up and tells me to do so too. I do without objection.

  Two people shoot salutes at the commander as he leads me out. He closes the door and we start walking through the street and toward a building with the letters cafe written across its door. A bell jingles as both of us enter the bar. The inside is almost deserted except for one lonely customer in the corner of the room, an employee looking like he’s about to doze off, and an elderly janitor scrubbing vigorously at a stain on the floor.

  The place looks better than the meeting quarters, but it's not far from becoming a pigsty. It's definitely not a place a commander would enjoy hanging out in.

  The worker spots us as we near the counter he’s at. He flashes me a quick grin and turns to Denham. “Sir?”

  Denham points a finger at me. “Get her something.”

  Just as I had anticipated, the worker asks me what I would like. Unfortunately, I am not too familiar with what they make here, so all I say is “Could I see a menu?”

  Both of them let out a laugh as if they think this is amusing. The worker reaches from underneath the counter and slaps a piece of paper down on the table. Letters at the top of the paper say: MENU.

  So it exists. Their laughs made me think there is no menu.

  I choose a grilled-cheese sandwich. Before walking off, the worker tells me it'll be ready in a minute.