Page 95 of Too Many Beds
The Last Bed
Jessica A. McMinn
“Bend over, grab your ankles, and cough three times.”
Those were the first words I heard in this place. Words that cleave my resolve in two as I walk the long corridor, gaze fixed on the back of the guard’s head, trying to think about anything other than those damn fucking words. The man has a bald patch—a scar, actually—and pondering its origins is a welcome distraction from the rattling bars and catcalls whistling out from the cells as we leave the main administration building.
I carry my world in a plastic basket: prison rags of blotchy beige; laceless canvas shoes; a toothbrush; and a cake of soap so obviously recycled that a curl of pubic hair still clings to its dimpled side. There’s a towel, small as it is—reportedly so I can’t hang myself or lynch a fellow inmate. What a comfort that is.
After a lengthy elevator ride, the guard leads me through yet another brightly lit corridor. I haven’t been around so much artificial light before—even after spending the week in remandsince my arrest, my eyes still haven’t adjusted to the sharpwhitenessof LED lamps. Is this what they hoard their precious electricity for? To banish even shadows from every corner of their world? These lights sting—painfully so. Like staring at the sun. I think I prefer the dark.
I’m too busy rubbing the burn from my eyes that I don’t notice the guard stop; I walk straight into his back. A shameful squeak of pain bursts from my lips as he pushes me away with an irate elbow. The post-arrest beating left my ribs tender and face a bloody mess—among other bruised and broken things.
“You won’t last a day in here,” he sneers.
Fuck you; I’ll last a lifetime if I have to.
We’d stopped before a thick steel door, solid save for a little barred window no larger than the scabby towel they gave me. My visage is displayed on a cracked holoscreen, a short, looped recording taken at the time of my arrest. Fuck, my face was so swollen you can barely see my eyes. It’s gone down now, I think, though maybe the bruising will give me a bit of cred in here. Make me look tough, less like I’m shitting myself.
Bend over, grab your ankles.
A code flickers beneath my mugshot: 38745612-P.
“Alright, 38745612-P—Eden Walsh—this is you,” the guard says, swiping his wrist across the lock panel. The door slides open. “For tonight. We’ll get you settled in your block tomorrow.”
He glares at me, ordering me inside without having to say or do anything. And I obey. Like a frightened fucking little child.
Black scuffs mark the otherwise pearlescent room, like someone’s shoes had scraped every surface in a fistfight. There’s a steel pallet suspended to my right and a toilet tucked away behind it in the back corner. It’s clinical. Cramped, but clean—better than what I’m used to.
“Will I be assigned to D?” I ask, trying to keep the eagerness from my voice.
The guard raises an eyebrow. “Keen to bunk down with the top dog, are you, kid? He’ll welcome someone like you with open arms! Right, boys?” he calls out over his shoulder and a chorus of hoots and howls erupt from the surrounding cells. Faces press against small, barred openings and I catch enough glimpses of hungry eyes and rabid, lapping tongues to send a shiver down my spine. The guard guffaws at my discomfort and slaps me on the back; I stumble further into the cell, my soft-soled shoes squeaking on the polished floor.
“Lights out, kid.”
The overhead strobes shut off as the door swishes closed, chiming cheerily as the lock engages. Silence fills the wing but not for long: a low chant rumbles to life, rising like a slow-moving tsunami on the horizon.
“… eat … ew meat … new meat … new meat … new meat …”
My skin prickles as the chant reaches a crescendo. I cover my head with my hands, trying to block out the calls. Is this how those long-extinct animals felt? The ones our ancestors hunted for food? I feel sick to my stomach. Exposed and vulnerable, locked in a cage. Have I made a terrible mistake?
“Enough!”
The shout silences the prisoners like the dead. I can breathe again, but not comfortably. I curl over on myself, feeling more alone than I ever have. I’m not used to this … faceless segregation. I’m used to the slums of overcrowded—overflowing—cities. To too many people crammed onto too little land left above sea-level. To life in powerless shacks with seven other people, all working minimum wage on a factory production line. Out there, I was never truly alone, even when Iwason my own—the device in my arm saw to that. It kept me connected with live news and friends via comm links. But now …
My thumb ghosts over an inch-long incision in my wrist, neatly sutured with transparent thread. It had been the Authority’s first act following my arrest—the removal of my device. No warning, no anaesthetic. Just a hot scalpel, burning and tearing as it mined my flesh for something half the size of a fingernail. With one flick, my whole identity—my whole existence—popped out into a dish. Every piece of me was tied to that chip. Without it, I have nothing; Iamnothing. I can’t contact anybody. Can’t access the digital archives or consume any media that’s not physically stored on obsolete technology.
It was something I hadn’t considered, when I got myself arrested. Hadn’t considered how … isolating it would be. I felt untethered—adrift, like one of the fluorescent buoys off the coast that marked where the edge of the continent had once been. So far, far away …
“You wanted this, Walsh,” I whisper to myself through gritted teeth. “Pull yourself together.”
But it’s notthisI want—it’shim. Tarrant O’Connor. My compass. My lifeline.
My lover.
I’ll endure anything to be with him again.
“I’m gonna fuck you up, pretty boy!”