Page 13 of Trade
I don’t know how I’m walking on my jelly legs or why I’m going along with the guards like a good little soldier. I always thought I’d fight, that when the worst happened, there’d be a fighter inside of me all along just waiting for her moment. That’s what happens in stories, right? At the last minute, the heroine finds a strength she didn’t know she had.
I feel like when you dream that you’re awake and you can’t move your limbs. I go where I’m led, down another corridor and through a curtain of heavy plastic strips dangling from the ceiling like in a walk-in fridge. We emerge in a huge antechamber with a wall split with a seam from ceiling to floor. A wall that’s a door.
The door to the Outside.
My heart pounds in my ears as my skin breaks out into a clammy sweat. They’re really going to do it. They’re going to shove me out.
Brisk footsteps sound on the brushed concrete, and Gary Krause appears in front of me, flanked by two of his lieutenants, Ron Maxwell and Eugene Reedy. I’ve helped Eugene’s wife out a few times before, sneaking her tea in the back of the cafeteria where she works. I don’t know the particulars of her situation, but she doesn’t want to be tied to him a day longer than when the doctor declares her postmenopausal.
Now, Eugene stares at me with an intentionally blank face and bright, beady eyes. He’s excited.
I’m going to puke. My gaze darts around the cavernous room, notably free of the clutter lining the way here. A dozen guards stand around, watching us.
Gary clears his throat. “Sorry, Gloria,” he says, before his tone changes completely. “When we finish this discussion, the doors will be opened, and youwillwalk outside of your own volition. There you will be met by one to five Outsiders. Youwillcomply with their instructions. You will not attempt to flee. You will not commit any act of violence or retaliation against them. You will not speak to them. When they are done, they will leave, and at that time, you will return to the doors and wave at the camera you see mounted to your upper right. Do you understand?”
I blink and stare at my dad’s old friend. My brain is stuck onone to five. One to five.Five.
“You will hear a horn, and you will strip. All garmentsmustbe left outside, including underwear. You will go through decontamination and be readmitted to the bunker at that time. Do you understand?”
Gary pauses again. I can’t answer. I can’t think. My blood is pounding too hard. It’s all I can do to keep the pressure in my veins from blowing up my heart into meaty chunks.
“If you fail to comply with any of these directives, you will not be permitted reentry. Do you understand?”
He hardly waits a second before he continues the lines he’s clearly recited so many times that he delivers them by rote. “If you do not immediately and willingly comply with the Outsiders’ instructions, you will not be permitted reentry. If you fight, if you flee, if you communicate with the Outsiders in any way—verbal, written, or hand signal—you will not be permitted reentry. Do you understand?”
This time he waits until I nod.
“You may choose to disrobe here so that your clothes will be waiting for you when you return,” Gary says. Eugene licks his thin lizard lips.
Before I can weigh the option, Gary coughs, prompting a response, so I shake my head.
“That is your choice,” Gary says. He holds out his hand, and Ron puts a clipboard in it. “Now, you’ll need to sign that you’ve been apprised of the procedure and the consequences if you fail to comply.” He clicks a pen and passes it to me. “Initial here. And here.”
He points. I initial. GLS. Gloria Lynn Smith.
I should have signed the paper Gloria Walker. I’m not Mrs. Bennett Smith anymore, am I?
I hover the pen over my signature on the last page, seriously wondering if I should ask for a fresh copy, if I’ve made a mistake, when Gary takes the clipboard away.
“All right. Let’s do this,” he hollers. Guards pull down thick metal chains, heaving with all their strength. Gears grind. Metal shrieks. Slowly, without a second more warning, a crack of glaring white light appears.
Gary and the others back off toward the plastic curtain. Two guards in gas masks slowly pull the chains that draw the bay doors the rest of the way apart.
I’m frozen in place. Alone. I glance over my shoulder. Everyone is wearing gas masks now. Where is mine?
I turn to ask and see the line of guards behind me have all picked up poles, ten or twelve feet long. Some have wrench-like heads attached, some have cafeteria trays welded to the ends. They remind me of the phalanx of Macedonians with spears in Dad’s book on Alexander the Great.
A guard—maybe Eugene—prods my back with his pole, shoving me forward until I have to take a step or trip and fall.
They’re not giving me any time. Everything is happening too fast. The widening crack is now several feet across. The blinding light is ebbing. My eyes still burn, but they’re adjusting. The world past the huge metal wall isn’t black blotches and shadows anymore.
It’s technicolor. It’sOz.
A cafeteria tray jams into my back, and I stumble forward into the colors. Air hits my face, cool and rich and fresh. So wondrouslyfresh. I inhale, and my lungs feel raw and brand-new.
My vision isn’t right. I can’t focus. I scrub my eyes and blink.
The pressure disappears from my back. I stumble forward a few more steps, and I’m Outside.
