Page 23 of Sigma

He shakes his head once, curtly. “Drink.”

I sigh in frustration, but finish the water—albeit slowly, in small sips. I feel him waiting, and getting impatient, but chugging it won’t do me any good. When I’m done, I cap the empty bottle and hand it to him.

He holds the tray with the trash on it one-handed. Eyes me. “Toilet?”

So considerate.

I only shake my head. “Not yet.”

“Hit on door, two time. Then back.”

I nod my understanding, and he withdraws. Closes the door, and I hear it thunk as it locks.

The light turns off.

And so passes the time. Am I fed three times a day? I don’t know. No two meals are the same. There’s thick oatmeal with blueberries once, which could mark the beginning of a second day. Maybe. A gyro, with potato chips. Stew, rich and hearty. It’s all very good food. The same guard, every time.

Finally, I do have to use the bathroom, so I pound on the door twice, and then step back to the far side of the small room. The man opens the door, and this time he has a shotgun in his hands, pistol grip, sawed-off double barrels. Pointed at me. He gestures with it for me to step out—I do so, blinking at the light.

The walls are narrow, the ceiling low and writhing with plumbing and electrical. It’s clean, but aged. He touches the center of my back with the shotgun, which I take to be instructions to walk. There’s a left turn, and then a right, the hallways branching at each turn so that unless I count turns I’d be lost quickly. No other doors that we pass. Finally, there’s a bulkhead, and on the other side, an open door to a bathroom. Or, rather, in broader world terms, a toilet or water closet, just a tiny room with a metal toilet and a small foot-pump sink. For sure no escape from here, even if I was so inclined.

I use the bathroom, wash my hands, and when I emerge, he brings me back to my room—except, he takes me a different route than we used to get here, passing a few closed doors and going through more than one bulkhead. Keeping me disoriented, I suppose.

It works.

Back to the cell.

The engine rumbles always, sometimes increasing in tempo and thus pitch, but for the most part, it’s a constant grumbling rumble.

I lose count of meals—if I had to guess, and if I’m assuming three meals a day, then it’s probably going on four days? Maybe.

It’s honestly so boring it’s impossible to sustain fear. The only break in the monotony is when my guard brings me food and the occasional trip to the bathroom—the hallways in the belly of this ship must be a hell of a maze, because we never take exactly the same route twice, and I know I have no chance of finding my way out on my own, even if I were to be able to leave the room and overpower the guard.

My best bet, still, is just play along and pay attention.

* * *

At some point,I notice a difference in the sound of the engine—an abrupt increase, in pitch meaning acceleration, and then a decrease, and then another increase.

Docking?

My guess is confirmed when the sound of the engine reduces to an almost inaudible idle. A long stretch of more nothing. Then, finally, the door unlocks and the light turns on. My constant guard is there, again with the sawed-off shotgun.

He has a black bundle of cloth in his hands. He tucks the shotgun under his arm, clearly assured by my track record of behavior that I’m not going to rush him, and digs in his back pocket, producing a sock and a roll of duct tape.

He hesitates. Eyes me. “You quiet?”

I nod eagerly. “You don’t need to gag me. I’ll keep quiet.”

His eyes harden. “Silent.”

I hold my hands together in a praying gesture. “Promise.”

“Make noise, very bad,” he warns. “Trouble for me, trouble for you.”

“I promise.” The thought of being gagged again is worse than anything else. The taste of the sock, the ache in my jaw, the tape around my face pulling my hair and skin…ughh, no. I’ll keep my damn mouth shut on my own, thank you very much. Mama didn’t raise a fool—I know that whatever this is about, my best bet is to keep cooperating until I see a clear opportunity. I’d really like to not be beaten up or raped, thank you, and so far, it seems like as long as I’m good, I’ll be left alone.

And fed some pretty damn good food, honestly.