Chapter 31

According to Wilson they usually shifted people on to the hard labor camps by the end of a prisoner’s year in a transit prison. That meant they needed to escape by next summer. “If your barcode number is ever called during a lecture or even when we’re doing confessions, do not respond, let them think you failed to attend that day because you were too sick or died in your sleep or something. It’s better to get in trouble later for not responding to a call to get moved to another camp than it is to go up when your number is called.”

It still wasn’t easy for Solomon to think clearly about escape, or anything else. Sometimes he was able to push through and the world was there again, more often he couldn’t. He did notice there was someone new in their circle, an Asian guy about his age. This was a re-education camp so it was pretty transitory. Someone was always coming and going. Maybe Solomon had noticed him because the guy’s posture was upright, his shoulders squared. When the stack-keeper looked at his tablet to see who was next to speak, the guy spoke up. “I have a question.”

“You can go next,” the stack-keeper said. “There’s a trans woman of color ahead of you.”

Solomon watched the Asian guy’s eyes flash. His lip curled. His contempt was striking. It was obvious he didn’t think much of the whole thing. He didn’t just accept it, as Solomon had been doing.

And when it became his turn to ask his question, Solomon’s observation became obvious to everyone else, too. “Why should I prioritize fighting anti-Blackness instead of focusing on my own struggle against anti-Asian racism?” the guy asked. “I’ve gotten more shit from Black people for being Asian than I have from anyone else.”

The stack-keeper put down the tablet in his hand, and looked around to make sure a counselor wasn’t within earshot. “Come on, man,” he said. “I’m just trying to get home to my family like you. If I put a question like that down they’re going to mark it on my file. So if you’ve got a problem with me, hit me or something, but don’t try to make me put that question down, because I’m not going to.”

It was so unexpected of a response, Solomon almost laughed. Normally the stack-keeper was as closed-mouthed as they came. “Someone else say something,” he said. “We’ve cleared all the people of color, and there are no White women who wanted to be added to go after them. You,” he pointed at Wilson. “You’ve always got something.”

Solomon didn’t listen to what Wilson was saying. Instead, he pushed his dirty hair out of his face and looked across the circle at the new guy. Their gazes met. Solomon felt closest to his old self for the first time in a while. It might have been literally the first time since his arrival at the camp that he’d seen open resistance during a confession circle. It made him want to go talk to the guy afterward.

On top of that, it was something Solomon had wondered about too. White people weren’t subject to enforced solidarity along racial lines, so why did they subject people of color to it? From what he could remember, the rule was that Black and Indigenous and Asian and whatever other people were supposed to have solidarity with other Black and Indigenous and Asian people, or be branded race traitors.

Which Solomon didn’t want to be. Anything but a race traitor. The bot search agent lecturing made it sound as if a conservative person of color was the worst thing in the world to be. At the same time, he couldn’t figure out where the rule of enforced solidarity was coming from, and why White people weren’t also considered race traitors when they didn’t have solidarity with other White people.

It didn’t end up mattering because Wilson wouldn’t let him talk to the guy. When Solomon got up after the confessions were over and started to cross to the other side of the circle, Wilson grabbed his arm and jerked him back, practically dragging him home to the abandoned dog park. Solomon tried to pull away after they arrived but he didn’t let go even then. “Do not go near that guy,” Wilson said, his grip on Solomon’s arm tightening. “He’s either an informant or if he isn’t, with that attitude, he’s going to get sent to a punishment cell in three seconds. Do not go near him.”

The next time they got together on the baseball field, the guy wasn’t there.

Shortly after that, Solomon started to bite his hands in his sleep. It might have been because of an infection, although he’d been constantly itchy since coming to this camp so maybe it was something else. He didn’t know, they were all so filthy there that he didn’t even notice the lice crawling all over his emaciated body at all times.

Maybe it was Solomon’s dreams, dreams he kept having where he was trying to escape out a small narrow corridor, only his hands were in the way, his hands were blocking him, they were trapping him in and in the dreams he was digging dirt around his hands with his mouth but when he woke up he’d just been biting his hands –

Wilson kept telling him he had to stop. Solomon wanted to, but he was asleep when it happened, so it wasn’t as if he was doing it consciously.

It had gotten cold enough at night that they’d moved into the basement of a building that looked as if a wrecking ball had demolished only one side of it. Wilson told him he thought that the blue zones hadn’t been purging as much recently, or even this building, which looked as if it might fall down on top of them with a strong breeze, would be overrun by other prisoners, and consequently taken over by the gangs. As it was, it was empty. Even then Wilson was still cautious, and they only sneaked into it at dusk to sleep, and left it at the first crack of dawn.

The only insulated place in the whole building was the stairwell beside a jammed fire door, and even there the temperature dropped to freezing at night. They slept close together for warmth, especially since Wison had only managed to find a single blanket for them both to use.

“It’s not gay if you’re otherwise going to freeze to death,” Wilson said, although Solomon wasn’t sure why he’d brought that up. Maybe blue zone men were more insecure about being gay or something. As far as Solomon was concerned, it was being gay that made something gay, and since neither of them were, whatever. All Solomon cared about was how miserably cold he was. If a tactical cuddle was the only way to get warm enough to be able to sleep at all, he was all for it.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

In addition to being unheated, the stairwell was also pitch-black. That meant it wasn’t until they stepped outside that Wilson could examine his hands. Angry red marks covered his skin. Wilson wasn’t happy. “I told you to stop. If you can’t, I’m going to tie your hands down.”

What? That’s ridiculous. “I didn’t know you liked it like that,” Solomon snapped at him as sarcastically as he could.

Wilson’s reply was flat. “I’m not kidding, it’s going to get you noticed by the counselors.”

Solomon was too tired and hungry to respond further. Besides, he didn’t actually think Wilson meant it until they came back to the building and were about to go in. The sun had set so there was barely enough light to see by, but Solomon definitely saw it when Wilson pulled out a length of rope he kept on him at all times that he used when he made rat traps. Solomon pulled away from him. “No.”

“I’m not asking,” Wilson retorted.

They were both getting worn down. Solomon could tell Wilson’s patience was wearing thin with him, with his inability to consistently stay out of the fog. But if there was anything that Wilson had impressed upon him for however long they’d been in this hell, it was that danger was everywhere, that he had to be ready for the blow to strike from any direction, and that nobody would help him when it came.

Solomon’s hands were the only thing he had to protect himself if they were attacked. He would not let Wilson tie them down. At Wilson’s command, he had guarded for twelve hours straight a half-built water fountain, he’d flung himself out of a plane at 20,000 feet, he’d tackled a blue zone guard giving up his own chance to return to the red zone, he’d drank more than his fill of the only water given to them in the truck, he’d sent a girl to a hard labor camp in his place. But this, he would not let him do. He would not let Wilson tie his hands down.

Wilson made as if he were going to wrap the rope around his wrists but Solomon pulled away from him again. “What are you going to do if someone attacks us at night again?” he spat. “We’re sleeping and someone jumps us, and what, I’m supposed to just watch because you tied me to the stairwell?”

Wilson wasn’t fazed for even a second. “What are you going to do if a counselor sees your hands and says, hey, they look injured, oh, have you been digging, you’ve been digging, haven’t you, trying to escape, confess it, confess it, confess it, confess it, oh, you won’t confess it, into a punishment cell with you, oh now that it’s been a month you’re willing to confess it, aren’t you, good, into a punishment cell with you for trying to escape! What are you going to do then?”

Solomon closed his eyes. The fear was back, the overwhelming panic that he was constantly having to push off to be able to breathe at all. He could feel himself cracking. He was going to end up doing as Wilson wanted, he was going to end up having to have his hands tied down, and he didn’t want to, he didn’t want to, he didn’t want to, I don’t want to –

He opened his eyes and looked down to the side. He held out his hands. “I’m not going to be able to sleep,” he muttered.

He expected Wilson to ignore him and to immediately start tying his wrists together but at that, Wilson hesitated. They stood there for a moment in the cold air, Solomon’s hands out, Wilson’s rope still knotted in his fingers. Then Wilson put it away. “Let’s go in,” he said. “I’ll think of some other way.”

Wilson’s other way turned out to be Solomon sleeping on his back while Wilson lay on his side with his arm draped over both of Solomon’s. It wasn’t as warm as spooning so Solomon was still lying awake on the concrete floor when Wilson fell asleep. He couldn’t see a single thing in the stairwell. It was pitch black, dark as night, dark as death, a death that loomed everywhere around him, a death that was waiting, waiting, its maw open wide, its eyes gleaming, watching him, and Solomon couldn’t run, couldn’t hide, couldn’t get away –

If only he had a light, a light, a single flame to ward it off –

A light.

It had been a long time since Solomon had thought about God. But lying there in the utter blackness with Wilson’s arms around him, thinking about light, some verses started coming to him. He remembered Umma’s face as she would read Adah and him one of her favorites. The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned. But there were more. He didn’t know how he was remembering them. While he’d read different parts of the Bible plenty of times, he’d only ever memorized a few verses, yet they kept coming to him, as if someone was reading them aloud to him.

Do not gloat over me, my enemy! Though I have fallen, I will rise. Though I sit in darkness, the LORD will be my light.

You, LORD, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

The LORD is my light and my salvation — whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life — of whom shall I be afraid?

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me…

Solomon repeated the last one, because if there was anything this prison was, it was a valley of pain and sorrow and death. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me…

The part of him that had started freezing up ever since he’d tripped over the dead body in the back of that truck was coming dislodged. He could feel it melting, and then a dam of his emotions burst out into ragged gasps that he tried to keep as quiet as possible so as not to wake Wilson up. As Solomon looked at death in the face, at death all around him, at death inescapable, he found what he felt most of all was pity. Pity for the poor pathetic blue zoners he was imprisoned with. Pity for every pathetic soul in the union they used to have.

Pathetic wasn’t the right word, though. There was a Korean word, bulsanghe, which meant the same thing but without any connotations of contempt; in fact the opposite. It was a word full of compassion. Umma had used it often when Solomon was a kid after he’d bumped into something and gotten hurt, poor, poor Solo, bulsanghe, bulsanghe. And he was reminded of another verse Umma had often shared with them, this time from the end of the Bible. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away…

Solomon closed his eyes briefly, a slow breath leaving his lungs. No matter what horrors still lay in store for him, sooner or later, they would end. Death would come. Then death itself would end. And through it all, God would be with him.

I’m not leaving you, he heard, and it was a whisper like fire in his heart.