I can’t say Berretti ever had much of a sunny disposition throughout our first meeting, but if he had even a hint of one, it evaporated as soon as my words left my mouth, and his frown changed to a snarl.
“If you wanna stay alive, Mr. Miller, you’ll go through with the tests. If not, then your ass is back out in the cold where you belong.”
With that, he performed a whirling about-face and left. A few seconds later, he snapped his fingers, and after offering me a pitiful smile, Dr. Hart followed.
There wasn’t much else for me to do but wait. So I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
An entire day must’ve passed where no one spoke to me. Every few hours or so, a young man brought me food and water, ointment, and fresh clothes. At first I refused to do anything with the items, thinking I was making a stand, but then the hunger and thirst caught up to me, and I stuffed my face full of whatever happened to be on the plate and gulped down whatever was in the glass.
Besides a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I didn’t know exactly what it was I ate. The last meal I had in there consisted of a brown slop sprinkled with bits of mystery meat, dull-colored vegetables, and two pieces of stale bread to sop it up with. Prison food is what it was, but hey, it was steaming and appeared semi-edible, so I ate it. I didn’t care if the mystery meat was chicken, beef, or rat. Hell, I would’ve chowed down on some tofu if that was the only thing on the menu.
Having given up, I decided to go all in. I stripped naked and examined the ointment. It came in a gray tube with no markings on it. I sniffed at it, thought it smelled like paint thinner, and hesitated. The guy told me it was for the frostbite, but that was all he said.
Currently, the frostbitten parts of my flesh were already starting to blister and peel. It was bad and I hoped it wouldn’t get much worse, so I figured I had nothing to lose. I smeared the gunk all over. It burned like fire, and I had to fight the urge to wash it off with what remained of my water, but then it stopped.
After a few hours with the ointment on, I noticed an improvement. A minor one, yes, but with what my lower abdomen looked like, minor improvements went a long way. The worst part of all this stretch of time was not knowing what happened with Mia and Monica.
And the loneliness.
Stuck in a cage, hearing nothing but the howling wind, I wasn’t only a prisoner of the City—I was also a prisoner of my own mind.
Then maybe half a day later, the door rattled open and jerked me awake. Through bleary vision, two large figures approached in what looked like spacesuits. One wore a gas mask, showing only his eyes; the other wore a helmet with a tinted visor. I didn’t recognize their voices as human when they spoke. They sounded like twin Darth Vaders.
“On your feet,” Gas Mask said.
“What?”
“Stand up!”
“What’s going on?” I was more surprised than angry, though believe me, the anger eventually came.
Gas Mask turned toward Tinted Visor. “He’s not going to cooperate. Let’s get this over with.”
Before I was able to get another word out, each seized one of my arms, ripped me from the bed, and shoved me against the cage door. I struggled, but it did no good. Cold steel closed over my wrists. Handcuffs, two pairs. The unoccupied end of the bracelets then went around bars.
“I’m not infected! I told you!”
“Can’t take your word for it, brother,” Tinted Visor said. “Nothing personal. Sometimes the blood tests are wrong, so Berretti wants to make certain you’re clean.”
Bullshit. Berretti wanted to torture me, and I wasn’t having that.
When they started ripping my clothes off, I slammed my head backwards. I hit Gas Mask too. The pain exploded at the point of impact and traveled down my spine, but the resulting grunt and cursing from Gas Mask made it worth it.
“Bastard broke my nose! Aw, fuck…hold him, Larry!”
Larry, AKA Tinted Visor, grabbed the nape of my neck and pinned my face against the bars. I heard the air whistle as Gas Mask swung his fist. He connected with my already-sore ribs. I felt them give, but I held my scream of pain back by biting my tongue. I wouldn’t give these guys the satisfaction.
“Keep fighting, Miller, and I’ll break one of your legs. Got it?” Gas Mask seethed.
“Fuck you.”
Larry laughed. “He’s a lively one, isn’t he?”
“Berretti said he would be. You know what? I got a better idea.” Gas Mask grabbed a handful of my hair, pulled my head back, and slammed it against the door. My skull rang against the steel. Warm blood cascaded down my brow and into my eyes. I closed them, but not by choice. All the fight had left me. Now no longer able to stand, I began sliding toward the floor, the darkness edging along my vision.
Their laughter followed me into unconsciousness, and that same laughter echoed around my head when I awoke I don’t know how many hours later. The wound on my brow was patched and I was wearing a ratty hospital gown.
The anger I felt forced me out of bed, but the headache brought me back down. So I slept.
On the third or fourth day—I’m not sure which—I met another man. He knocked on the bars, can you believe that? He knocked on the bars like a house guest knocking on the front door.
I said nothing, only glared at him. The pounding in my head had eased, but it lingered enough to stop me from picking fights.
The guy was tall and skinny, maybe a hundred and thirty pounds. I pegged him to be in his
