What Comes Next (15 page)

All right,
she said as if answering their nitpicking.
Now I’ll focus.

So she sat still and tried. The man’s eyes. The woman’s hat pulled down.
How big were they? What did they wear?
She took a deep breath and it was as if she could still smell the man’s scent and she was back pressed against the floor of the truck, unable to breathe, crushed by his strength. Suddenly, she was unable to prevent herself from slapping at her skin, trying to wipe away the sensation that he had somehow marked her. She itched and scratched at her arms, as if it were poison ivy covering her. But when she felt welts and sensed bleeding she made herself stop, which took more strength than she knew she had.

All right. The woman.
Her flat voice had been terrifying. The woman had come into the basement room and been the one talking about rules but not saying how to obey them. Jennifer tried to recall every word the woman had said to her, but it was lost in the fog of the drug that had made her pass out.

She was sure that it had happened. She was certain that the woman had been hovering above her, given her the drink, told her to obey. All this
had
taken place. It was not a dream and not a nightmare. She was not going to abruptly wake up in her bed at home in the middle of the night and hear the sounds of her mother and Scott’s furtive lovemaking through the thin walls. She remembered how much she hated this—and longed for it at the very same time. Jennifer felt as if she were caught in the midst of a half dream and she argued with herself, and for the first time she wondered whether she was dead already.

Jennifer rocked forward slightly.
I’m dead,
she told herself.
This is what it must be like. There’s no heaven. There are no angels and trumpets and pearly gates rising above billowing clouds.

There’s just this.

She caught her breath sharply.
No. No.
She could feel pain from where she’d scratched herself. That meant she was alive. But
how much
seemed elusive and
for how long
was an impossible question.

She shifted her seat and tried to remember exactly what the woman had said, as if there might be a clue within the words that would tell her something important. But each phrase, each tone, each command—all seemed distant and faint and she found herself reaching out, as if she could grab a word from the air in front of her.

Obey, and stay alive.

That was what the woman had said. By going along with whatever was happening Jennifer could stay alive.

Obey what? Do what?

Her inability to remember what it was she was supposed to do made her catch her breath and a single sob burst through her lips, welling up suddenly within her and exploding past any control she might have had.

This thought terrified her and she shuddered deeply.

Jennifer warred within herself. Part of her wanted to descend into a mass of despair and simply give in to the awfulness of her situation—whatever it was—but she fought hard against this desire. She did not know what the point of battling was, but she told herself that fighting reminded her she was still alive and therefore was probably a good thing.

But what she was going to fight, and how, eluded her.

I’m Number 4. They’ve done this before.

She wished she knew more about prisons and how people existed inside them. She knew that some people had lived through kidnappings that had lasted months, even years, before they escaped. People were lost in jungles, abandoned on mountaintops, shipwrecked at sea.
People can survive,
she insisted.
I know it. It’s true. It’s possible.
This thought allowed her to calm the nearly overwhelming desire to curl up into a ball on the bed and wait for whatever terrible thing was going to happen next.

Then she told herself,
You were in a prison and that’s why you were running away. You were able to pull that off So you know more than you think you do.

She shifted about on the edge of the bed.

The toilet. If they were just going to kill me right away, they wouldn’t have provided the toilet.

Jennifer smiled. This was an observation that had value.

She told herself to constantly measure everything, to assign some quality of reality to anything that she could actually touch, hear, or smell. The toilet, that was real. It was six strides away from the bed. When she sat on it the chain around her neck tightened, so that was one limit. She had not yet searched the other direction but knew she would have to. She imagined that the bed was the center of the room. Like a draftsman’s metal angle, she could travel a set distance in a semicircle.

She listened hard for any sound, lifting her head a little like an animal in a forest that happens upon a scent, or a noise signaling deep instincts to be alert. She held her breath so that
any
sound would be clear.

Nothing.

“Hello?” she said out loud. Her hood muffled the word but it still projected enough so that anyone in the room could hear it.

“Anyone there?”

Nothing.

She exhaled and rose to her feet.

As before, she held her hands out in front of her, only this time she was careful to count every step and to make certain that each movement was the same length as the one before.
Twelve inches,
she reminded herself, so she could begin to create real measurements.

Keeping her hands pressed against the wall, she moved toward the toilet.
One. Two. Three
… six steps before she felt the seat with her knee. She bent down and ran her fingers over the surface. As she had expected, she could feel the chain tightening when she leaned forward.
All right,
she thought.
Now move out slowly.

Jennifer took a step and was abruptly scared. There was some safety in the sensation of the wall beneath her palms, as if it helped her maintain her balance. Stepping away put her into a void, blind, tethered only by the chain around her throat. She sucked in air and forced herself to move away from the solidity of the wall and the new familiarity of the toilet.

She did not try to assign a value to what she was doing. Jennifer knew only that it seemed important. It was what someone should do. And concentrating on distances gave her the sensation that she was trying to help herself. She guessed that she would have to do more later. At the very least, this was a start.

Michael and Linda lay naked on the upstairs bed, still sweaty from their coupling, glistening with excitement. There was a laptop on the coverlet in front of them and they watched attentively on the small screen.

Their room consisted of a single double bed with passion-twisted and stained sheets. A couple of sturdy suitcases and canvas duffel bags strewn on the floor contained clothing. A stark uncovered overhead bulb lit up the room. It had a monastic emptiness except for a single flat wooden table in the corner. On the tabletop were a variety of handguns—two .357 Magnum revolvers and a trio of 9mm semiautomatics. Next to those were a twelve-gauge shotgun and the familiar shape of an AK-47. Boxes of bullets and spare clips of ammunition were spread about. There was enough weaponry to equip half a dozen people.

The computer was a top-of-the-line Apple. It connected wirelessly to the main studio in an adjacent room.

“Give everyone a warning beep,” Linda said.

She bent to the screen, studying the picture. She watched as Jennifer unsteadily stepped away from the wall next to the camp toilet.

“This is really cool,” Linda added, admiringly.

Michael wasn’t watching Jennifer. Instead he was concentrating on the curve of Linda’s back. He ran his finger up her rear, all the way to the top of her spine, then circumscribed her shoulders, pushing her hair aside, and kissed the nape of her neck. Linda nearly purred as she said, “Don’t forget the paying customers…”

“Maybe they can wait a few seconds,” he said. Then he ran his tongue up toward her ear.

Linda giggled and shifted about, coming to a cross-legged position on the bed. She took the computer and theatrically placed it between her legs so that it hid her sex. Then she bent slightly over the top, dangling her naked breasts above the screen. “Here,” she said with a grin. “Maybe if I do this… you’ll pay more attention to our job.”

Michael nodded and laughed. “No shit,” he said.

He hit a series of keys, which sent out a small electronic noise to all the Whatcomesnext subscribers. The tone—there was a selection of downloadable songs, sounds, and alerts that subscribers could choose from—signaled that Number 4 was awake and doing something. Many people had taken advantage of an additional offering, where the signal was sent to a private cell phone number.

“There,” he said with a grin. “Everyone knows. Now, do I get a reward?”

“Soon,” Linda replied. “We need to see what she does now.”

Michael made a fake face, as if he were going to start crying, and Linda laughed again. “It won’t be long,” she said.

Michael turned back to the screen and watched Jennifer for a moment or two.

“Do you think she will find it?” Michael asked.

He did not say what
it
was, only pointing to the computer screen.

“I put it where she can reach it, if she goes out the limit.”

“Kind of depends on what sort of explorer she is,” Michael said, and Linda nodded.

“I hate it when they just sit there,” Linda said. “Number Three really pissed me off all the time.”

Michael did not reply to this. He was well aware how angry Linda had been with some of Number 3’s behaviors, which had resulted in surprising shifts in the show’s process. “I should pan over, make sure that everyone can see it’s there.”

Linda nodded. “But slowly… because they won’t get it at first. I put it so you can’t really tell what it is unless you really look hard. But then, when they figure it out…”

She didn’t need to finish her statement.

Michael stretched and sighed. “I should go to the other room. Play with the camera angles.”

Linda put the laptop aside. It was her turn to reach out and run her fingernails across his chest. Then she leaned forward and kissed his thigh.

“Work first, play later,” she said.

“You are insatiable,” he replied. “Which I like.”

Linda put her hands above her head, leaning back provocatively. He bent forward and kissed her. “Tempting,” he said.

“But the job comes first,” she replied, slowly closing her legs together.

She laughed. The two of them dragged themselves from the bed and padded on bare feet down the stairs, like children on Christmas morning, to the living room, where Michael had set up the main studio. As in the other rooms in the rented farmhouse there was little furniture. What dominated the space was a long table with three large computer monitors. Wires went in various directions, snaking across the wooden floor and disappearing through drilled holes. There were speaker systems and several joysticks, along with keyboards and surge controls. An editing board and a sound board also filled the space. In short, Michael had assembled all the high-tech equipment necessary for broadcasting on the Web. Just outside the window there was a portable convex antenna. The room had the same quality as a military operation or a movie set: much expensive equipment, all with specialized capabilities, all operated from a pair of black Aeron desk chairs centered in front of the primary computer.

It was cool in the room, and Linda went to retrieve a pair of faux fur-trimmed L.L. Bean parkas from a hallway to cover their nakedness. She slipped into one and arranged the other across Michael’s shoulders as he bent to the screen. She looked outside at the nighttime beyond the window. She could see nothing except black isolation, which was, at least in part, why they’d rented this particular farmhouse.

“Do you think Number Four even knows what time it is?” she asked.

“Nope.” Michael thought, and then added, “Which means… make certain that we don’t help her. You know, by giving her breakfast in the morning or something that is clearly dinner at night. Keep mixing up the meals. Feed her three straight bowls of cereal followed by some burgers. It will help keep her disorientated.”

“I know that, silly,” Linda said.

Michael smiled. He liked it at the moments the two of them discussed the ways that Number 4 could be manipulated. It was the part of the game he most enjoyed. It also energized Linda, which made their own sex more unbridled, more passionate. When it started to slow, that was when he knew to wrap things up.

He took a single joystick marked with a piece of white tape that said
camera 3
and moved it slightly. On one of the monitor screens, the angle shifted slightly revealing an object placed to the side of the bed, opposite the toilet. He moved the joystick forward, giving a closer look.

Linda was at his side, working swiftly with a keyboard, typing rapidly, her fingernails clicking.

On the main monitor—the one that showed what was going out to subscribers—Linda’s typing appeared in red script across the image of Jennifer moving cautiously about, hands outstretched.

There’s something for Number 4 to find.

What is it?

Michael panned camera 3 briefly to a small, misshapen lump on the cement floor. It was at the periphery of the chains allowance. Jennifer was still several feet away, and the only way she would discover it was if she continued searching at the limit of her travel. Linda continued at the keyboard.

Will Number 4 locate it?

Michael laughed. “Keep going,” he whispered.

Will it help Number 4?

Linda was typing furiously.

Or will it hurt Number 4?

“Now ask them,” Michael said.

A box appeared on the screen as Linda hit keys.

Find?
was followed by a square where one could click a response.

No find?
had the same box.