Chapter 19
Thomas
I stare at the little marks that I’ve made on the wall and count them off. There are seven of them, which means I’ve been here for a whole week. A whole week and no visit from a lawyer, no hearing before a judge, no visit from any friends or relatives, and no phase two interrogation. I know by now that there are people who know I’m here. Even if Veritas has been caught, too, there are others at school and within the freedom movement who know one or both of us and have sounded the alarm by now.
And then there are my parents. A few days without responding to their texts, phone calls, and probably emails won’t likely arouse their suspicions. A whole week, though, and if they haven’t already contacted the school, they will soon.
I rehearse these things in my mind, trying to calm myself down. Trying to convince myself that there is hope that others are working for my release, or at least to get to see me. I’m rehearsing these things in my mind when I hear a loud buzzing sound, and the sign illuminates above the door of my cell, indicating that I should put my helmet on. I comply with the instruction and once again become anonymous prisoner 00XJ5.
Minutes later, I hear a loud click as a guard opens the door.
“Come with me,” they mutter.
I step out of my cell, and they point down the hallway, where a series of yellow arrows illuminate along the floor.
“Follow the arrows.”
Soon I’m in what appears to be another interrogation room. There’s something similar to a dentist’s chair in the middle of the room with leather straps attached to secure arms, legs, waist, and chest. My body stiffens. The guard pushes me forward roughly, then shuts the door behind us. They don’t say anything but stand beside the door staring blankly in my direction.
I get a good look at the chair for the next few minutes before the clicking of the door causes me to turn around as someone in a lab coat enters the room. They smile when they see me. Even on the avatar image, it’s an evil-looking smile. They walk across the room and stand on the opposite side of the chair from me before saying anything.
“It’s quite intimidating, isn’t it?” they ask.
I’m not sure whether they expect a reply or not, but I don’t respond. They don’t act surprised.
“For all of our modern advances, we still use leather straps to hold down prisoners during phase two interrogations.”
They pat the chair like it’s an old friend, and their smile changes to become slightly less sinister. I wonder if they’re conjuring up images of past interrogations in this very room, and the thought makes me shiver. I’m glad they’re looking at the chair right now and don’t see it.
They face me now, taking an almost friendly tone when they begin speaking.
“You know, you could have avoided this if you simply told Detective Santos what they wanted to know. Simply answer a few questions, then they would have sent you on your merry way back to school. But you didn’t do that. You gave Uncle Sam the finger and kept your mouth shut to protect your friends. I admire that.”
I’m surprised at the last comment. I would have expected disdain, anger, pity even—anything but admiration. Still, they’re probably just trying to mess with my mind. They turn back towards the chair and clasp their hands behind their back. From the size and mannerisms, I’d guess they’re a male.
“No, sir,” he continues. “This room is not for cowards. Not for cowards at all.”
He walks around behind the chair, placing his hands on the padded headrest and looking me directly in the face.
“I’m Doctor Cheros, head of interrogations at this facility. I’m not going to insult you by playing some psychological game, hoping the sight of this chair will intimidate you into providing the information we’ve requested. No, I’m not going to do that at all.”
He steps around from behind the chair, walking up close to me so that our helmets almost touch. He’s a good six inches taller than me and looks down at me with that evil smile in full force as he continues.
“I just wanted you to see where you’re going to be sitting in a few hours. I wanted you to know that, whatever fairy tales you’ve heard about what happens in this room, I can assure you it is far more painful than you’ve been led to believe. Have a nice time waiting.”
He turns his back on me and faces the chair once more, again clasping his hands behind his back as the guard takes his queue and orders me to leave. I compliantly follow the yellow arrows back to my cell.
Now I’m really terrified, which I’m sure is exactly the effect Doctor Feel-good back there was going for. What a sadistic nut job. A nut job who obviously enjoys torturing other people for information. I’m pretty sure that before today is over, I’m going to spill every secret I know to this man up to and including the fact that it was me, not my neighbor Billy, who broke my mother’s favorite china vase when I was five years old.
Just hold out as long as you can.
I encourage myself with the fact that the longer I hold out, the longer Veritas has to piece all of this together, realize what’s probably happening, and get somewhere safe, so the same thing doesn’t happen to her. Thinking of her gives me courage and helps calm the fears the good doctor seems to so gleefully relish stirring up.
The lock on my cell clicks shut, and I take off my helmet, putting it on the shelf by the door. A few hours. . . . Assuming he was telling me the truth, that’s how long I have before the interrogation begins. I try to think of things that will help calm me down. My dad cooking us breakfast on Saturday morning. Playing a board game with my family. Walking through the old schoolhouse holding hands with Veritas. But the image of that chair keeps pushing its way to the surface of my thoughts.
I stand up and pace back and forth in my cell. The torture, it seems, has already begun.
