Chương 134

Louis did not know how long he had been sitting on the cot before the first key turned. There was nothing in the cell to mark time. There was no window, only a square vent high in the wall and a yellow bulb behind a wire cage. The cot had a thin mattress. The desk was bolted to the floor. A stack of paper and a sharpened pencil was placed on it. On the wall above the desk, someone had painted in red: Leniency to those who confess, severity for those who resist.

He had read it so many times that the words no longer meant anything. After a while, they became shapes, red marks on cinderblock. He kept hearing the two shots. Each time he heard them again, his hands clenched. He could not tell how much time had passed. He could only think in before and after: before the shots, and after. Before, Savannah had stood in the mess hall with her wrist bandaged and her hair clean, telling him not to forget. After, she was gone, and the others were locked away in concrete rooms.

He could not say her name. The key turned again. The door opened. Maeve Fyres stood in the doorway with a folded jacket over one shoulder. Her hair had come loose from its tie in several places. The guard behind her looked bored.

"This one?" she asked. The guard nodded.

"Collins. He hasn't started." Maeve checked the blank paper on the desk, then Louis.

"Of course he hasn't." Louis said nothing. He sat with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, looking at the floor between his boots. Maeve walked in. The guard shut the door but stayed outside. She stood over him.

"Get up. You are supposed to write." He looked up at her. She did not soften. He looked back at the floor and ignored her. Maeve sighed.

"You think this is helping? Sitting here like a petulant child?" He stayed silent. She waited, then pulled the folding chair out from under the desk and sat across from him. Her boots scuffed the floor. She lowered her voice.

"She's not dead, you idiot." He looked up sharply.

"What?" Maeve looked at the door, then back at him.

"The shots were blanks. She's alive." Louis went still.

"You're lying."

"Why would I lie?" Maeve leaned forward.

"It was a fucking scare tactic. Yates is a piece of shit, but he's not a murderer. Not unless the committee orders it." Louis shook his head once.

"Where is she?"

"Isolated. In another building. I saw her." She glanced at the door again.

"Don't tell anyone I told you." Louis tried to decide whether she was lying. She did not look away.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

"Because I don't like to see people broken for nothing." Maeve gestured to the desk.

"Now write the fucking letter so we can all go to sleep." He looked at the paper. His fingers were cold. He tried to stay angry and could not. He felt weak.

"I need to let the others know she is alive." Maeve gave a short laugh.

"You think I am a fool? If I get caught helping you, I will end up in here too." He felt the first flicker of hope against his ribs. He let it go as quickly as it came.

"Then why did you come here?" he asked.

"To do my job." She held out the pencil.

"Now write."

"They need to know," he said.

"They think she's dead." Maeve's face tightened.

"You're lucky I told you anything. Don't make me regret it."

"Please." His voice was low and rough.

"They are my family. They are suffering." If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Maeve said nothing. She checked the door again, then turned back to him.

"Fine," she whispered.

"I'll tell them. But you write the letter now."

"Alright." He moved to the table and took the pencil. He wrote the date at the top of the page, his hand shaking slightly. Maeve watched him write.

"Keep writing," she said.

"I'll be back." She stood, walked to the door, and knocked once. The guard opened it from outside. She slipped out without looking back. The door locked again. Louis stared at the paper. He moved the pencil slowly. Savannah was alive. He repeated it to himself. She was alive. She was still here. He pressed the pencil to the page and began to write. He wrote slowly. I have nothing to apologize for. He looked at the sentence. It was true, but useless. He scratched it out.

He pressed hard enough for the pencil to tear through the paper. He started again. I accepted passage through the Road Authority because I believed it would protect my friends. He stopped at friends because it was too small. He almost crossed it out too. He wrote the next line slowly. This was an error. He gripped the pencil tighter. He wanted to break it. Instead he wrote more. I did not understand the full nature of the toll regime or the harm it has done to the working people of West Virginia.

He stared at that sentence until it blurred. He knew he would break a pencil or tear the paper if he kept writing like this. He forced himself to think clearly. Yates wanted a confession. Yates wanted proof of ideological re-education. Yates wanted a weapon to use against him later. He needed to give Yates what he wanted without giving him anything useful. He took a slow breath and began again, writing with more control. I now understand that the Road Authority is a bourgeois institution built on exploitation.

He could almost hear Yates reading it aloud in the instruction hall. He kept writing. My decision to pay for passage was a selfish act that prioritized my own safety and comfort over the struggle of the West Virginia proletariat. He paused, then added another line. I have acted as an enemy of the people, and I deeply regret this error. He read it over. He stared at the words deeply regret, trying to mean them, trying to imagine what those words would feel like if they were true. He could not.

He only felt the cold floor and the image of Savannah's face as they led her away. He thought of his father. Constantine Collins would never write these words. Constantine Collins would have burned the building down. He imagined his father in the command center, ordering nuclear strikes on this town. He imagined missiles launching from a submarine in the depths of the Atlantic, erasing this place from the map.

He imagined the mushroom cloud rising over Beckley, burning away the slogans, the portrait of Lenin, the gray jumpsuits, the faces of the men who had taken Savannah, and finally himself. Then he thought of Angelique, Gladice, Willa, Donya, Savannah, and Cherish. He would not burn them. He would not let that happen. He pushed the thought of his father away. He had to survive. For now. He had to write. The key turned again. The door opened. Maeve stepped back in with a clipboard, jaw tight. Louis stood.

"Did you tell them?" She shut the door behind her.

"Yes." Louis breathed out.

"What did they say?"

"Gladice called me a lying red bitch. Angelique thanked me. The others cried." She shrugged.

"Happy now?"

"Yes."

"Good. Finish your fucking letter." He sat again. He thought of Angelique and Gladice. He tried to imagine how they had taken the news. He thought of Cherish, who would be crying with relief. He tried not to think about Cherish sitting there and believing Savannah was dead. He wrote another line. Maeve read over his shoulder and frowned. She pulled the paper toward her.

"Let me see that." She read the paragraph and snorted.

"This is shit." He said nothing. She pushed the paper back.

"You have to sound more sorry. Admit your errors. Condemn your actions. Otherwise they will make you do it again tomorrow and the next day." Louis looked at her.

"I don't know what they want to hear." Maeve sighed.

"Write this." She began to dictate.

"I, Louis Collins, submit this statement of self-criticism after evening instruction and after receiving correction from the comrades assigned to supervise my labor." He wrote the words as she spoke. Each one felt wrong. Maeve continued.

"I recognize that my first error was to believe that my personal intention mattered more than my class position." Maeve watched him write.

"I was raised in privilege. That blinded me to the suffering of the working people. I allowed myself to be used by the Road Authority, which is a capitalist tool that serves the exploitation of West Virginia's resources." Louis wrote without looking up. He wrote faster now, filling the page. Maeve kept dictating. Louis copied paragraph after paragraph, the phrases changing but the meaning staying the same. By the time she reached the final lines, the page was almost full.

"I ask the comrades of the People's Army of West Virginia to treat this statement as the beginning of correction. I will work to repay the working class for the harm I have caused through my ignorance and arrogance. I will follow instructions without question. I will learn to be useful to the people." Maeve nodded.

"Good. Sign it." He signed his name and slid the paper toward her. She read it over, then folded it and slipped it under the clip on her clipboard. She stood.

"It's good enough," she said.

"They will probably make you write more tomorrow, but this will satisfy them for now."

"Thank you." He meant it.

"Don't mention this to anyone," she said.

"If you do, you will fuck me over, and I will make sure you regret it."

"I understand." Louis looked at her.

"Thank you for helping us." Maeve hesitated, then turned her head away.

"I didn't do it for you."

"Then why?"

"Because..." She stopped, then shook her head.

"Forget it." She knocked on the door. The guard opened it. She walked out without looking back. Louis sat alone again in the cell under the buzzing yellow light. He let himself believe what she had said. Savannah was alive. He had not lost her. They were still together, even if they were apart. That was enough for tonight. He lay down on the cot. The mattress was hard and thin. He closed his eyes. He thought of the others, of Savannah somewhere in the dark, and of the next time he would see her again.

It took a long time, but he slept.