81
ANSON
Metal cable or not, Pudge managed to tear through all the zip ties. With the socks wrapped around his palms, he made it look effortless, and once he found a rhythm, it was quick work. Nearly everyone was awake by the time he finished.
The bumpy road had given way to smooth pavement, and the truck had picked up speed. We were on some kind of highway.
A plastic camping toilet was attached to some brackets in the front corner of the trailer with a series of bungee cords. A line had formed as people woke. Every time the lid was lifted, the harsh chemicals inside lofted out. The stagnant air in the trailer was heavy with the fumes.
Paul, Vincent, and I were huddled around the Kid, who was still groggy, but coming around quickly. “If she’s right about Chicago and we’ve been on the road for twelve hours, we’re almost there. It’s around eight hundred miles, right?”
He asked this of Vincent, who only shrugged. “How the fuck would I know?”
“Well, it is.”
The Kid looked down at the ground and mumbled something to himself. I think he was doing math, but I couldn’t be sure. Without looking up, he said, “You think they dosed us six times?”
“We’re sure about that,” I told him. “We all have six puncture wounds in the same places. One in our neck, five more in our thighs.”
“They might still think we’re asleep.”
“Why?”
“One of my foster dads sold ketamine, and he told me he loved it because people built up a tolerance fast. The half-life got cut with every dose, especially when they were close together.”
“Like six in twelve hours.”
He nodded. “If the first one knocked us out for three hours, the sixth might only work for one or two. Maybe less. With a long trip like this, they may not have thought about that.”
Vincent didn’t understand math, but he understood a tactical edge. “So when they open those doors, they’ll expect to find us all still sleeping.”
“Probably.”
I wasn’t so sure. “We don’t know if they used ketamine. What if it was something else?”
The Kid pursed his bruised lips. “The way I understand it, most drugs work like that. Painkillers too. Your body builds a tolerance, and they work less and less.”
“So they open the doors,” Vincent said, “and we rush them. All of us at once.”
“I don’t know. They might still have guns.”
“You know they’ll have guns,” Paul interjected.
Holding the wall as she went to keep from falling, Mona returned from the back of the trailer with Pudge following her like a lost puppy.
“We checked every inch of this thing. The back door is locked from the outside. We couldn’t find a way to open it from in here.
There are no vents or hatches anywhere. They rigged the toilet to the walls, but it’s not vented to the outside.
There’s only that.” She pointed up and we all followed her finger.
There was an air conditioner unit built into the ceiling.
About three feet long and a little more than two feet wide.
But the ceiling was at least ten feet from the ground.
It was rattling loudly, having trouble keeping up with all the body heat.
Water dripped down in nearly a steady stream to a rusty puddle on the floor.
“There’s no way we’re getting up there,” Paul muttered. “Even if we could, it’s bolted in. We don’t have any tools.”
Even Pudge, the tallest of us by far, only glanced at it glumly before turning toward the back of the trailer again.
“Christ, that thing stinks.” Vincent frowned at the toilet at the opposite end.
Nearly everyone had used the toilet, including me. Every time someone flushed, a fine mist of harsh chemicals sprayed the waste in the bottom tank, and the acidic smell lofted out into the trailer. It was so thick now, I swore I could see it, this hazy film in the air.
Paul’s nose crinkled. “Maybe we should tell people to stop pissing in it.”
Vincent said something else, but I didn’t hear him.
I’d stepped away and was working my way through the crowd toward the front of the trailer.
The smell only grew worse as I approached, and my eyes began to water.
The toilet looked like something picked up at a camping store.
It was completely self-contained and strapped to the corner of the trailer with thick bungee cords.
Thankfully, the lid was closed. I didn’t want to think about the contents of the disposal tank.
There was a valve on the disposal tank threaded for a hose, but it was sealed.
I was more interested in the inner workings.
I flipped open the plastic lid on the back and peered down inside.
There were two canisters. One contained compressed oxygen; the other was labeled “Bronopol” and covered in warning labels—flammable, corrosive, toxic category one, and a skull and crossbones image, too.
Surely the source of the smell. Both canisters had quick-release latches for easy replacement.
A label on the toilet itself read, “Outdoor use only - no confined spaces.” Clearly, our captors hadn’t read the instructions before installing it in the trailer.
You understand how it works, right, Champ? It’s a simple enough design. The flush handle opens the valve on the compressed air, it flows through that copper tube to the Bronopol, and it forces the chemical out through a spray valve down below. All pressure-based.
I did understand, and I told Father so.
That’s when the truck slowed.
There was a harsh blast from the air brakes and a quick deceleration. Those without a handhold were tossed forward. Others dropped to the floor. The truck nearly came to a stop, then accelerated again, this time making a long right turn.
Toll station, maybe? Father pondered. Followed by an exit ramp? That might mean you’re getting close to your destination.
“Pudge!” I called out over my shoulder. “I need your help with this!”