Page 30 of No Way Back
Finally.
It’s over.
I throw my head back against the iron door, the overwhelming need to break apart from the inside threatening to shatter at any moment. The bright glow of a flashlight shines at my face. “I said, who’s there?” But I can’t talk, can’t make out words. I can only shield my eyes from the brightness.
Loud footsteps rush to me, and I hear a safety clicking.
I still say nothing.
“It’s a civilian!” I look up to see three cops coming toward me, a few more running up behind them.
Multiple arms are underneath me, helping me up, the voices muddled as they ask too many things, shine too many bright lights my way.
“Camila.” I point to the door, where it has somehow finally gone quiet.
I don’t know if it’s a good thing.
“We will get to her, sir. Right now, our focus is getting everyone out who shouldn’t be here. We need to contain the prisoners.” My head is swimming, every sound muted, dull, like there’s a bubble around my head.
My voice breaks as I speak. “I-I can’t leave without her.” She can’t think I abandoned her.
“Sir, you need medical attention. You’re bleeding. We need to get you to the paramedics.”
I’m in a foggy haze walking through the prison, guards and cops with headlamps everywhere, they’re pulling out corpses and severed limbs into body bags like a clean-up crew. I hear someone retching behind me, and I turn back to see the upper half of an inmate still holding their iron bars.
I was his reckoning.
His legs are a few feet away, a clean cut through his midline separating his two halves. I feel a push between my shoulders, the guard’s voice in my ear. “Don’t look, son. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep again.”
He guides me forward, one block after the next, until we exit the maximum security prison. There are paramedics outside, multiple vans tending to the fewer than ten survivors gathered. They’re wrapped in blankets, some more soaked in blood than me, but they all have one thing in common: they’re in shock.
“Come on, let’s get you to the van.” He points me over to an empty paramedic station and walks me half way before I stop him.
“My fiancée.” It’s the only thing that matters, the only thing I need.
He nods like he understands. “I’ll go see what’s going on.”
I remove the jumpsuit, unzipping the middle and exposing the four-inch-long cut over my ribcage. The medic cleans it off first with alcohol, the burn intense, but I welcome it. Anything to distract from the panic that threatens to surface, to take over at the thought of being apart from her. The paramedic inserts the syringe of anesthetic at the gash, and the sting is quick, the medicine spreading as she pulls the needle and administers it across the full length of the wound. It’s numb at the surface before she finishes, a dull ache lingering somewhat deeper.
I glance around at the few survivors, and I notice a familiar set of eyes. She’s wearing one of the newer, still vivid orange jumpsuits now, like she stole it from someone else in the chaos. She doesn’t belong out here.
Her eyes meet mine over a few dozen yards, her stare lingering like she recognizes me, but I know she can’t see, not with the mask.
The same guard who got me out walks by. “Hey.” I draw his attention. “No one has told me what’s going on. Where’s my fiancée?”
He sighs, dropping his shoulders and turning to face me. “They’re having…issues getting her out of solitary.”
I jerk to stand, but the medic patching me up holds me still. “What do you mean? What does that mean?”
My heart races, my palms bead with sweat.
“Look, count yourselves lucky you all made it out of there alive. Too many people weren’t so lucky.” He scratches his head, his expression like an old cop who has seen a lot of shit, but nothing like what he saw in there.
“Where is she?” I ask again, my stomach churning anxiously.
“I’ll bring the prison’s medical director to explain. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head and walks away.
The only thing keeping me from flying off the handle is the needle currently sewing me up. The paramedic is antsy; she hasn’t said anything to me other than explaining each step of her process. She finishes the last stitch, and I’m practically bouncing when she lets me go. She’s yelling something about cleaning the wound daily and keeping it gauzed. I’m walking back toward the prison when I feel a hand on my shoulder, but I’m too jumpy from the night. I spin, grabbing for the throat of whoever touched me.
