Page 41 of Gamma

I wait for what feels like an hour or so, and then I unlace my boot, remove the card-knife, and replace my boot. Practice flicking open the knife until the action is smooth. Then, I strip off my bra and remove the lockpicks, reclothe myself; the other women in the room are watching me curiously, but say nothing—none of the women in here speak English or anything I can even attempt to communicate in. I put my hair into a high, tight bun and thread the lockpicks securely into it at crossed angles so there’s very little chance they’ll fall out.

And then I pound on the door.

I’m ignored for a while.

I keep pounding.

After another few minutes of pounding, the bolt scrapes and the door is yanked open, and I’m face-to-face with a pissed-off guard—he’s Middle Eastern, judging by appearance, and by his clothing—the long tunic, slender trousers, and sandals. No head covering, though. He snaps at me in Arabic, or Urdu, or something; I’m woefully ignorant in so many things, this experience is teaching me.

He gestures at me with his rifle, snaps angrily.

“I have to shit,” I say.

He just gestures at me, shoves my shoulder to push me back into the room.

“Toilet,” I say.

He points at the far back corner, at a tiny, filth-crusted hole in the floor.

I wrap my fist around my thumb and pull my thumb out of my closed fist, downward. The guard smirks, points at the hole again.

I mime wiping myself.

He growls something, irritated, and shoulders his rifle, slams the door closed. The bolt goes back through.

I withdraw the card-knife from my pocket, hold it concealed but ready to flick open.

The bolt scrapes open, and the door follows. The guard has his gun hanging from his shoulder, and he’s got a wad of paper napkins. He extends them to me.

I grab his proffered wrist and yank him toward me as hard as I can. He topples forward off-balance, and I snap open the card-knife —before I can second guess or hesitate or even think about it, I slash the blade across his throat, applying both pressure and speed to the slice.

His throat opens in a red gash, and he chokes, reaches for his throat…a moment later blood floods down his front. He collapses to his knees, gurgling.

I lunge at him, snatch his rifle from his shoulder. Blood coats his front crimson. When he slams face-first into the floor, I drag him over to the corner where the nasty hole is, so the rest of his blood will drain there instead of making a puddled mess of the floor.

The women are stoic, unfazed by his death.

I hold my finger to my lips, and they nod. I search the body—well, actually, he’s not dead yet, I hear him gurgling still, sucking for breath. I find a spare magazine for his M-16, and a sidearm, a very old Colt M119, with a spare magazine for that.

I’m more comfortable with the pistol, so I sling the rifle across my body and hold the pistol in one hand. I motion for the women to stay here, and close the door, but don’t bolt it.

Out, then.

I have my card-knife in the other hand, because I don’t dare fire my pistol. Tiptoe to the end of the corridor, peer around the corner. I don’t allow my mind to replay for me the scene I just witnessed—the deed I just did. After watching for a moment, I feel comfortable that no one is coming. No doors, here. So I jog to the end. It comes to a T, here, going left and right. To the right, another long, empty hall; to the left, a short corridor with more open doors. I quickly check, but they’re all empty, and this corridor dead-ends. Back the other way. Another T-intersection, another set of doors, all empty. Back the other way; I’m starting to get a feel for the layout: a square of empty corridors, with a branch off of each corridor, four cells to each branch. Sure enough, I’m back where I started, the corridor where my group of women is held; I recognize the pattern of flagstones on the floor. Now I have to find my way out of this area.

One of the T-intersections leads not to a block of cells but a different hallway, this one much longer than the others. I move carefully when I reach the end, peering out cautiously in each direction; duck back swiftly when I see a guard’s retreating back. My heart pounds in my ears. He reaches the end of the corridor, and just stops. Stands awhile. Reaches into a pocket, produces a bit of a cigarette. Lights it.

Smokes a few puffs, head tipped back, exhaling as if immensely relieved by the nicotine hit. Then he scrapes the cherry off on the wall, pockets the butt, and begins to turn back to me.

I panic.

There’s nowhere to hide.

Shit, shit, shit.

I have to kill him, and quietly. My hand is coated in drying blood, and so is the little card-knife. I ready it, pressed against the wall near the corner. I hear his footsteps approaching. My heart is pounding so hard, so loud in my ears it’s hard to hear his footsteps. They stop. A shuffle.

I’m holding my breath.