Trauma

CHAPTER 57

The first thing Carrie noticed was the smell. It was damp and mildewed, like the fetid water of a marsh. There was a whiff of urine, too, as well as a rank body-odor smell that made her want to gag. She felt tender soreness on both sides of her neck, but nothing on her throat. A sick, flulike feeling made it hard to focus. She wondered if she’d been drugged. Probably. What had happened?

As her awareness became more acute, Carrie heard moaning and what sounded like people mumbling. The noises came from both her left and right, and it was different men who spoke. They made strange groaning and grunting sounds. Disturbed. Panicked. She could make out some of the words.

“Get down! Get down!”

The voice that spoke was sharp-edged, but muted, and the words were slurred like somebody talking in their sleep.

A different voice said, “We’re taking fire from the north side. Where they at? Where they at?”

More voices blended together. The chatter was best described as incessant, like the buzzing of the insects that occupied the woods behind the annex — only these were human voices, maybe half a dozen in total, mumbling simultaneously.

“I’m hit! I’m hit!”

“Talk, talk, talk to me.”

“Oscar Mike! Oscar Mike!”

“Go! Go!”

“Clear!”

“The rounds are firing downwind.”

On and on it went, without letup, until the chorus of voices became a single droning noise that Carrie could ignore. Her eyes fluttered open and she focused on what appeared to be the stripes of a mattress. It smelled, too — truly foul, just like the rest of this space.

With great effort Carrie managed to push onto her hands and knees. She lifted her head groggily and blinked rapidly. Her vision must not have cleared entirely, because what she saw made no sense to her. It looked like she was inside a dog kennel of some kind. Galvanized tubular frames held in place heavy-duty-gauge chain-link wire. The wire covered all sides of the welded structure, including the top. The single door, framed with galvanized tubes and covered in wire, was secured with a heavy chain and a heavy-duty padlock.

Carrie looked right and saw three additional kennels all in a row. Inside each wired enclosure was a thin and dirty man. Each of the three men sported a different stage of facial hair growth, as if it marked the length of his stay here. One had stubble, one had a full beard, and one looked like the Taliban. The man in the cage closest to Carrie rested on a grimy mattress, while the other two paced about their enclosures like animals at the zoo. Each man had sunken, hollow eyes, and a vacant stare. Those who moved about ambled with a zombie’s gait. They wore blue hospital scrubs that were soiled and tattered and in such deplorable condition it made them look like shipwreck survivors. Affixed to each man’s arm was an IV drip, secured in place with tape and hooked to a rolling metal IV stand. All three men muttered to themselves and seemed completely oblivious to Carrie’s presence.

Inside each kennel was a blue bucket, into which Carrie watched one man urinate. Water bottles were strewn about, and trays with food scraps attracted a large congregation of buzzing flies. The cement floor, the color of rust, was damp with puddles and chipped in spots. Carrie noticed several coiled-up hoses outside the cages — showers, she thought — and drains spaced throughout to capture any excess water.

Lining a concrete wall to Carrie’s left was a bank of decrepit-looking washing machines and dryers, some fallen over, some with broken glass and dimpled sides, all industrial strength. She knew then that this was the abandoned laundry facility of the old annex building. A tall pile of industrial laundry machines, like a mini-mountain of junkyard scrap, occupied a sizable area in the center of the cavernous space. Carrie believed she was in a subterranean room, with thick concrete columns peppered throughout to distribute and support the building’s substantial weight. Overhead banks of fluorescent lights lit the old laundry facility from above, and flickered on and off as if they were sending Morse code.

“Hey, why are you standing? Get the hell down, or get shot!”

Carrie spun her head in the direction of the voice. Three more kennels stood to her left, but only two had people inside them. The far cage appeared to hold the man Carrie believed to be Garrett McGhee. The person in the cage closest to her, who had ordered her down, caused Carrie’s jaw to come unhinged. It was Eric Fasciani! He was skeletal-looking, fierce with his gaze, haunted in every way imaginable.

Like the others, Fasciani wore soiled scrubs. His thin arms were covered in scabbed-over scratches, and Carrie noticed gruesome scratches on his neck as well. His face was bearded like the other men. Nobody shaved them. Nobody took care of them. Lab rats were treated better than this, at least for a while.

“Eric, what are you doing here? What is this place?”

Carrie spoke in a hushed whisper, afraid someone might come for her.

“What are you doing … what are you doing … stop saying that … got Taliban crawling all over this place. We gonna have to shoot our way out.”

“Eric, please, talk to me. Tell me what’s happening here.”

“He can’t hear you, Carrie Bryant, not really. Not in the way you understand it.”

Carrie’s breath caught at the sound of the man’s voice. Her heart sank and her spirit cracked wide open. For a few frozen moments, Carrie could not move. She swallowed a jet of bile as the fear set in and anger cooked inside. With gritted teeth, Carrie wheeled and set her frightened gaze on the man who spoke.

Dr. Alistair Finley.