Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's sandbox. I just play here because it's fun. I also borrow toys from the other copyrighted kids.

--------------------

NIGHT FALLS

By Etcetera Kit

Chapter Four: A Search

Two a.m.—it was either really late or insanely early. Knowing Pam and her strange mind, he would probably be better off assuming it was early. Whatever the case, she had decided that he was going to help her go through the e-mails on the hard-drives, in order to pin down a location. Okay. He was used to weird people asking him to do weird things, but this took the cake. When he had suggested that she use Mark, since the former filmmaker was more technologically adept than he, Pam had just stared at him, her unblinking gaze magnified under her huge, coke-bottle glasses. She had looked like some kind of demented grasshopper. And Roger found it better not to argue with demented insects unless they became a danger to themselves or others.

He stifled a yawn. The kitchen seemed cold at night, almost uninviting. This wasn't the warmth and noise of the day. Food actually brought people together—he'd seen it. A decade ago, back in the townhouse, they could have been having a screaming match, and all it took to stop it was dinner on the table, whether that dinner be take-out or home cooked. It didn't matter. They all shut up and dug into their food. Home cooked was a joke. None of them could cook if the instructions didn't say, 'open can, heat in microwave.' Or 'open can, dump in a pot, heat on stove.' Spaghetti-o's had been Roger's food of choice for many years. What was it that Angel used to say? That he could burn boiling water. That was accurate.

The coffee maker finally stopped dribbling and issued some steam. Done! He turned the device off, and grabbed two mugs from a cabinet above the sink. It was like someone stocked these kitchens from Sears—all the dishes were white, utilitarian. He was fairly certain that he and Mark didn't own any dishes that matched. Joanne had an eight person set that her parents bought her, but it was liberally augmented with random mugs, bowls and plates. Stupid white dishes that all matched.

Pam drank her coffee black. Roger had gotten used to black coffee based on years and years of never being able to afford sugar and creamer.

"You going to help Pam?"

He turned to see Mimi standing just inside the entrance to the kitchen. She was wrapped in a faux-silk leopard-print bathrobe that had seen better days. In fact, Roger was fairly certain that was the bathrobe she used when she had been a stripper. Her hair was back in a ponytail. There was actually a warm breeze tonight, making the complex a little more bearable.

"Yeah," he replied.

"I still can't believe we've found Joanne."

"Me either."

Mark had called him moments after Pam gave them the news. Joanne was at a prison called Sing-Sing, probably closely related to the old state prison. The state prison hadn't been used since just after the round-ups. Prisoners were moved upstate to the prisons there.

"Are you going to be all right?" she asked softly.

The question was layered. Physically, he'd be all right. He was used to pulling all-nighters, helping someone do something around here, and being alert at the daily seven a.m. staff meetings that the mayor liked to have. Emotionally, mentally? Now he wasn't sure. Finding the locations of these other facilities meant coming that much closer to finding the others. What if they got this close, and realized that they couldn't get them out?

All right, that was a stupid assumption. If there was one thing he had learned, it was that every building has an emergency exit, or back door. No one let themselves get blocked into a building, because the only exit was the main one. A place like that had to have a back-up plan for being discovered. Of course, the government was secure in their fantasy that no one would revolt. Liberty for security…. Seemed like a fair trade on the surface, until one lived it.

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

She nodded. "I keep wondering if, maybe, our memories of them would be better." Mimi shook her head, dark eyes uncertain and worried. "What if we rescue them and what was done to them was too awful to overcome?"

"Yeah…"

He didn't have a response for that. No one did.

"We have to try."

They turned. Mark was coming out of his bedroom. Were any of them going to sleep while this madness was going on? Roger let out an inaudible breath. He had been against splitting up in the first place. The reasoning had been that a larger group would be harder to contend with. And they always ran around the house, pairing off in twos and threes. That would have made it more difficult for the brute squads to figure out if someone was homosexual. But no… Angel had wanted to see his family, knowing that it was just a matter of time. Joanne had thought that she and Maureen would be safer in Maine. No one had listened to him, until he was sitting in a living room, staring at Mimi and Mark, knowing they were the only ones left.

Who knows? Maybe they all would have been taken if they stayed together. Angel seemed to think that was the case, right before he and Collins went to Philadelphia. God…

"The records kept at those places are detailed," Mark said, stepping into the room. "Pam sent me part of Joanne's file from Alkali Lake. Once we get further in locating these people and nailing down their funding, we'll be able to get to the files."

Roger wished he had that kind of confidence. Mark had always been the more confident of them… wasn't the one that had stayed in the loft for six months going through withdrawal. A wry smile cracked his face. Mark had actually brought a psychology book home one night, and decided that Roger had developed minor agoraphobia. At least it wasn't what Collins did. Collins had a detailed medical book that he used to diagnose people's common colds.

"I don't know why Pam wants me," Roger commented.

"Because you're calm under duress."

Roger rolled his eyes at one of his oldest friends. Mark grinned. They both knew that Roger had thrown a fit and a half when he found out the others were taken. Perhaps Pam knew, on some level, that he needed to be involved in finding them.

Mimi came to his side, wrapping one arm around his waist. He sighed. Yes, he had a twisted imagination when it came to wondering what happened. Would the government have mutilated them beyond belief? Even mutilation on the smallest scale was just that. Torture, both mental and physical… experiments… There had always been a trend of claiming that products weren't tested on animals. He had a feeling that the pharmaceutical companies in this day and age didn't test thing on animals—they just tested them on locked up humans. People would have to pay—in money and silence—for that kind of thing… God… how did Joanne survive this long? How did any of them?

"You need this more than we do," Mimi whispered. "Collins was your best friend."

"Angel was yours."

"Roger…" she said slowly. "Yes, Angel and I were close, but Angel had decided her own fate, separate from what I wanted her to do. I couldn't change her mind."

"So did Collins."

"He would have come back to New York," Mark said. "And you know that. All you had to do was insist that he return."

"He wanted what Angel had been given."

"And that's why you let him go," Mark continued. "You knew that he loved Angel more than life itself… and you were best friends. That's why."

"You make it sound like I could have done something to save him."

"You always think you could have. Would you have chosen a half-life of living without Angel for him? Or would you have let him go, again?"

Roger and Mark stared at each other. The former rocker knew that Mark was right. Collins would have returned to New York. Maybe he would have been taken anyways, but… the anarchist had always done what he wanted… and he had wanted to be with Angel.

"We have a chance."

"I know. I know."

--------------------

I don't know what's going to happen now. Not that I have ever known what was going to happen to me, or to anyone here, but now… the last few hours have felt like a balm. Time is growing short. Before too much longer, a guard will appear and take Joanne away. I'll either be left here or taken to Paul for some kind of analysis. He likes to document all kinds of things, but he's extremely interested in physical sensations—pain, pleasure. There's got to be something off about that guy. No one will listen to me. I don't count anymore.

Her head rests on my shoulder, one hand over my heart.

I never realized before now, that I had been starved for a simple touch. Guards dragged me places all the time. But they were cold, impersonal, like handling cargo or a wild animal. But with Joanne… we talked for hours. I don't remember much of the conversation, just that we talked about old times, before we were taken. The Life, her job, my students, her cases, my theories, Maureen, Angel… My memories had always seemed so vivid, but, with someone to share, they became full technicolor. I could almost smell the food at the Life, the vanilla perfume that Angel liked, new fabric, even stale beer and body odor at a bar…

And as for what Paul wanted…

Why am I so hesitant to call it what it is? Sex. We had sex. Let me amend that, we had unprotected sex because some doctor thinks Joanne is sterile. Fun. She was so thin—I could count her ribs, see her hip bones straining against her skin. Christ, I knew that she would bruise so easily. I tried to make it as painless as possible for her. She straddled me, I cupped her knees to keep them from grinding against the stone floor.

I'm not sure that helped with the bruising aspect. I think we gave these people the kind of show they wanted. No clothes, both of us came… although I thought Joanne wouldn't be able to. The only thing Paul could scream about was that I wasn't on top—but I didn't want to hurt her.

At least this experiment was with a friend. Even if it was a friend that I hadn't seen in years.

"Collins…"

Her voice is weak. There's still a spot of blood on her lower lip, where she bit it during the beginning of the sex. I know that it hurt her more than she's willing to let on. Jesus, she's so thin, so ill… this was the exact last thing that she needed to be doing.

"What, honey?" I ask, adopting Angel's pet name for me. I don't know why it's so appropriate here. Maybe because it's sweet, but noncommittal. For me to use, at any rate. When Angel used it to me, I could feel so much, the depth and breadth of her love. With Joanne, it's just a cute pet name that I've introduced into the situation.

"I don't like this. I don't like the entire situation."

I don't like it either, but I keep that to myself.

"What if he was lying? What if there is a baby and they—"

"This entire government is pro-life," I countered. "The chances that they'll do something that will cause an abortion are slim."

"We don't fall under this government."

True.

I don't reply. Maybe I've read too many sci-fi books, but I did read a murder mystery novel once that had a doctor who put aborted fetuses into woman who couldn't have children, somehow. That part of the situation had been glossed. Hell, this could be an entire new enterprise for these people. Then the baby would be alive, just not born from the natural parents. I opt to go the 'cross that bridge when you come to it' route.

"We don't know anything yet," I say softly.

"I know, but…" She exhales slowly. "We have too much time to think."

"That's the point."

More than ever, I want to be with Angel in our shitty apartment. I want to take those steps two at a time, swinging myself around banisters and landings, just because I knew Angel was there. The apartment was messy, cozy and home. She would sit by the window and design, or paint in what qualified as a breakfast nook. Kisses, eating ramen noodle soup because that's all we could afford and consequently be able to cook… Life had been sweet, beautiful…

Not this cold hell.

"You miss Angel."

It's not a question. "Yeah," I breathe.

"What do you miss about her?"

Everything. "Her laugh," I begin. "Her smile, the way she made love, the fact that it was all right for her to wear mismatched shoes, but not me…" I trail off. Angel's kinky, beautiful… and she owns my heart forever.

We're quiet again.

Nothing about Maureen is volunteered.

--------------------

Roger gaped at the stack of papers—printed e-mails that Pam had recovered from the hard-drives. There had to be hundreds of pages there.

"You want me to go through all these tonight?"

"Yes." Pam didn't blink. This woman really thought that he could go through all this in a few hours. Did she miss the part where he barely passed the speed reading course he had to take to be employed by the mayor's office? Thank God his job didn't have much to do with reading things quickly. He wrote memos, did what the mayor told him to do, penned speeches…

"Highlight pertinent information about location," she instructed.

"I hate to say this, but shouldn't the location names be—"

"We don't know that," Pam interrupted. "It's probably a ruse."

Roger wanted to retort that it probably wasn't, but he kept that comment to himself. After all, the FBI was supposed to have taken the hard-drives and, by now, destroyed them. Pam was adept at fabricating reports that the clean room resulted in nothing. And she was good enough to cover her tracks. The FBI was dim enough to believe that the huge glassy and perpetually runny nose made her, well, not over-bright.

It was hard to believe that Benny—Benny—had been in charge of the FBI investigation. This was the man that padlocked their building, tried to coerce them into stopping a protest, screwed with his mind about Mimi and what was going on that he didn't know about… The former friend that demanded a year's worth of rent, because his father-in-law told him to. Apparently, he still had ties to the Greys, if nothing else. God, that yuppie scum was lucky that Roger hadn't been there. They had been friends… that was the frightening part. He, Collins, Mark and Benny, before Maureen moved in. The dirty laundry everywhere, soggy cereal, weak coffee, general chaos… He'd be in one corner writing a song, while Collins sat in the middle of a pile of books, working on his master's thesis. Mark filmed all of it and Benny would be studying for his graduate classes—law school, which he never finished.

He glanced at the paper on the top of the stack.

This is the patient's file—what were your results in a different climate?

Patient? That was rich. Roger high-lighted the last two words. That much meant that these places were in vastly different parts of the country, or, at least one was. The next dozen pages were the electronic form of someone's file—the name and personal information had been deleted. He blanched at the contents. This person was still alive? Jesus Christ, what kind of sick person did this to another human being?

My husband and I will be at our summer home in Maine. Any chance that we'll be able to see you while we're there? We can take the boat out…

He stopped reading. Maine—that was a positive location for one of these places.

This was going to take forever and then some. He cleared his throat. Pam gave him an annoyed look as she sorted through her own stack of paper. "Uh… Pam?" he ventured tentatively.

"What?" she asked, not looking up.

"What if we were to assume that the names gave us a location?"

"Didn't I already say—"

"Hear me out," he interrupted. "We've got four names—Sing-Sing, Portsmouth, Great Lakes and Death Valley."

"Yeah."

"Could we run on the assumption, for just a minute, that they are where the names indicate."

"But we've only got two."

Roger inwardly sighed. This was going to take more convincing that he probably had in him right now. "Death Valley, let's say Arizona," he started. "Probably in Death Valley." He paused. "Great Lakes sounds like it's near Alkali Lake, northern Michigan somewhere."

"And Sing-Sing and Portsmouth?"

"There was an old state prison called Sing-Sing in New York. It's not used anymore. What if the facility or the name were reused for this secret facility?"

Pam looked skeptical, but put her stack of paper on top of an already precautious stack of software boxes on the work station. Good… he wasn't sure how much more of reading the e-mails he could stomach. Mark would probably have said that all the doctors were deranged anyways—or some kind of weird sadists. But how did they find that many doctors willing to sacrifice all? Maybe there's some kind of conspiracy theory. Maybe all doctors really are that detached. Who bought into all the government propaganda… apparently the crew that ran these places.

Idly, he flipped to the next e-mail.

And promptly dropped it on the floor.

"What?" Pam asked again, this time startled and a little concerned.

He shook his head. No, no, no… they did not do that to some poor woman.

The tech genius, and former AIDS victim, picked up the e-mail and scanned it, no emotion showing in her eyes. "That's not a new experiment," she said after a while. "Doctors have wondered for years, if aborted fetuses could be kept alive, could they be placed into a surrogate mother, someone who wanted the fetus." She shrugged. "It's kind of like the fertilized egg surrogate mother thing, but starting a later place in the development."

"Who did they get pregnant?"

She shrugged. "Look, don't make such a big deal out of it. If they figured out how to do this successfully, then the natural mother and the surrogate mother will both be fine, and the baby as well." Pam rolled her eyes. "God, sometimes you are such a man." She gave him a pointed look. "We're trying to find these locations, remember? And the US snail mail service knows all."

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, unable to argue with her logic. But what had really been bothering him… "Pam? What if they did that to Maureen or Joanne?"

"What? Aborted their baby and put it in some rich, hag trophy wife that could pay?" She shrugged again. "We're still working, but chances are good we'll be able to get into the facility records with time. There'd be information on the natural parents, as well as the surrogate ones."

"Now you're talking about kidnapping a baby?"

"I've kidnapped an endangered penguin before."

Dear God, Pam was off her rocker about a mile and a half. What kind of person compared endangered penguins to humans? Apparently Pam…

She had turned back to the computer, bringing up the satellite aerial maps. The pictures were updated every half hour, so they had an accurate picture. Pam also knew what an altered image looked like, so they could see where something was supposed to be. With places as big as these facilities, that wasn't too hard to miss.

Mind reeling, he tried to concentrate on what Pam was doing.

--------------------

I think I've officially gone crazy. Some guard took me to the med center for 'tests' today and I started laughing when they strapped me to a chair and started an IV. Laughing! What kind of imbecile laughs when they're running a low-grade poison through his or her veins? Obviously me. I kept laughing until they took me back to my cell.

And then, sometime, the laughs turned into bitter sobs.

Maureen was out for testing then, because she didn't hear the howling. Moreover, she didn't immediately want to know what was wrong and demand I calm down long enough to talk to her. Maureen thinks like a stereotypical man in more ways than one. Problems need to be 'fixed.' That's why she wants to know what's wrong—she thinks she can fix it. She's also not as empathetic, wondering why someone is in pain. Still very egocentric. I love her dearly, but sometimes…

No. It's just better that she didn't hear me sobbing.

I feel like an infant, lying on my back and examining my dirt-caked toes. Amazing that I don't have gangrene or something yet. We're all taken through a shower thing once a week. I know it's an ordeal because the guards have to time it precisely. We're not supposed to see each other in the halls, so that makes showering a whole bunch people tough. The entire process stings. We have to strip, the scalding water comes on, changes to a disinfectant, then back to the water. I swear they douse us in rubbing alcohol once a week. Keeps the lice away. I think they give us a new orange smock every couple of months. Or maybe they wash the old ones.

I'm thinking a psychotic break would make life much more interesting.

"Angel?"

Okay, time to stop acting like the lunatic I've become. "Yeah?" I question, dropping my feet to the ground and ranger-crawling to the mouse hole. I've gone from thinking too much to… hell, what is this? Acting out some kind of game? Tom had a book about constructing situations. One father hid his child in an Italian concentration camp, and told the child that the entire situation was a game. He kept up that ruse and the child stayed alive. I wonder if I construct this situation in some kind of Count of Monte Cristo thing… Maureen and I could dig a hole to freedom. Yeah right. Dig with what?

"Are you all right?"

Are we ever all right? I make a noncommittal noise, sounding almost like a frog. "I think the Count of Monte Cristo is about a sandwich that learns to add."

Maureen is silent for a moment, but then she laughs. The noise sounds beautiful. We laugh so rarely here. God, for a moment, I silently praise whatever power sent me Tom—Tom and all his books. He raided the half-price bookstore on a weekly basis. I read more during those days than I had in my entire life. What book was is? Peter Pan. The first time a baby laughs, a fairy is born. I snort inwardly. Fairies. That's what people called me. Fairy, fag… I had someone called me a dyke once. I don't think they realized I was actually a man…

"Those sandwiches were actually kind of gross," Maureen says after her laughter dies down.

"Deep-fried and covered in sugar—sounds like breakfast."

"Ew! No! Cookies and milk—that was breakfast."

I snort. Somehow I'm not surprised that Maureen had cookies and milk for breakfast. In fact, it didn't overly shock me to learn that she ate whatever she wanted, didn't exercise regularly and still has—had—the body of a goddess. I'd have said it was just a roll of the dice, if I believed that God played dice. Which, I'm fairly certain, she doesn't.

Yup. I've already had the conversation with Maureen about how God is a woman.

"Will they ever let us out of here?" Maureen whispers.

"I don't know."

I can't imagine the government letting us out—to expose to the world what went on and what they did to us. Then again, if there's some kind of military coupe again or the government radically gets changed again… if it becomes more equal, we might be released. Hell, we might even be given classes to reacclimatize ourselves to the real world… We could stage a revolt. But when people without guns go up against people with guns… none of us would be alive to tell the tale.

"Will they kill us?"

"They've had a million chances to kill us," I spit. "But they've always nursed us back to health. It doesn't make any fucking sense!"

"Remember kickboxing?" Maureen asks.

"What…" I trail off. Of course I remember kickboxing. Good grief, I only took lessons throughout high school and intermittently through college. The purpose had been so that I learned to defend myself—and those kicks hurt when combined with heels. What does that…

I suddenly sit straight up, no longer laying on the floor. The primary purpose of the lessons I took was self-defense. They taught us what to do if someone attacked from the front, from behind, from the side… and how to twist out of various grips, including someone dragging you by your upper arm… which was what the guard always did to us.

"But what then?" I ask. "I can get out of his grip, but…"

"You'd have to get his gun. They only carry one gun each."

"But the reinforcements and… how would we get out?"

It's a given that I'm taking Maureen with me. One guard, if I have his gun, will probably open Maureen's cell, but…

"Angel, I can't go with you. I'd slow you down."

"But—"

"I've thought about it," she interrupts. "You'll have more of a chance by yourself. You'd need to get to the first floor—ground level."

"I'm not leaving without you."

"There's no other way!" She pauses. I can hear the angry intake of breath. "Fuck, Angel! Get out, find Collins, and get the fuck out of the country! Please!"

"Maureen—"

"No. Don't argue with me. Just do it."

--------------------

"This is going to take a while."

He could see that much for himself. The round about locations were great, but this was going to take a lot of time scanning for the exact locations. Sing-Sing would probably take less time and less deduction, but the other three were vague. Hell, the facilities could be disguised as huge meat factories or something, and they'd have to monitor the incoming and outgoing traffic to figure out if it was their facility or actually a meat factory.

Roger stifled a yawn. They had drained the coffee cups ages ago.

"Want some more coffee?"

Pam made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. Roger took that as a 'yes', picked up the mugs and headed upstairs for the kitchen. Pam lived in a different part of the complex from him, Mimi and Mark. The tech people were gathered near their lab—different from the forensics lab and mortuary that were below ground. The computer lab was on the first floor, comprised of a clean room and enough technology to blow NASA into orbit. He didn't know what half their stuff did. Mark had a sketchy idea. All he needed to know was the surveillance systems in the vans for stakeouts and missions. Hell, he could even troubleshoot those.

A single lamp in the living area was on. The computer and surrounding fans were off, meaning Mark must have gone to bed. He set the mugs on the kitchen counter, glancing over his shoulder. Mimi was curled on the couch, dozing. She held Angel's skirt to her chest, much in the same fashion that Jo held her teddy bear. His breath caught in his throat…

They had been two sets of friends in a sense, all those years ago. Sure, he knew of Mimi before that fateful Christmas Eve, but only as 'the girl downstairs' or 'the dancer from the Cat Scratch Club.' He didn't have a name, let alone much of a face to put with that description. Angel had once told him the story of how he and Mimi met. At a fashion show, or more, an audition for one. As an underling designer, Angel had been corralling the potential models into a line outside a building. The infamous story about the skinhead harassing her… the rest was history. Unfortunately, Mimi didn't get the job, but she and Angel became friends.

He, Collins and Mark had become an inseparable trio after that night in jail. Benny had been a friend of Collins'—apparently they had been undergrads together. Maureen was Mark's girlfriend… and the two groups merged on that Christmas Eve. Joanne came into the fray later, but became a part of the group nonetheless. And now…

He hated clinging to a memory of the past. He had fought so hard against the past during his withdrawal, when he first met Mimi… and those demons came back to haunt him when she was going through her own withdrawal. But that is what they had been doing for ten years—clinging to memories. Angel's skirt, Collins' jacket…

Roger padded into the living area and knelt by the couch. He gently brushed Mimi's hair out of her face, a lock that had escaped from her ponytail. "Mimi," he whispered.

She stirred, blinking. "What time is it?" she mumbled.

"Almost three," he replied.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Angel's skirt fell to her lap. "I was just thinking," she started softly. "Angel was always there for me. She was the best friend I ever had." Her voice wavered. "I thought I was going to lose her once… and then I actually did."

He nodded. "He had a full-time job, had to go to all kinds of events outside normal working hours, and still made time for us." He paused, a rueful smile on his face. "I think what really killed him was leaving the fashion company."

Mimi's eyes were distant, misty. "She loved working there." She met his gaze and forced a smile. "I guess I'm just afraid that, if we find them, the people we knew and loved will be gone."

"Midnight," he sang softly, purposely butchering the notes. "Turn your face to the moonlight!"

She laughed and playfully smacked his arm. "Your career as a Broadway singer is going down in flames," she stated.

"Never wanted to do that anyways," he shrugged.

"So how's the progress?"

"Roundabout locations—Pam's working on the aerial surveillance."

"Did you get thrown out or come up with an excuse to leave?"

"What do you think?"

Mimi shook her head. "You're a bad example for your children."

"Now they belong to me?"

He stood up, holding out his hands. She accepted his assistance as she got to her feet. He pressed a quick, but firm kiss to her lips. She responded. He gently rubbed her arm before heading into the kitchen and putting on another pot of coffee.

"Hopefully, I'll be able to come to bed soon."

They both had experience working with Pam. She could be narrow-minded in her task. Did she sleep? Roger was willing to be that she didn't.

Mimi nodded. "I need to get at least a few hours of sleep. Cortland and I are going to see what we can salvage of our case tomorrow morning."

He watched as she went down the hall and disappeared into their bedroom. A sigh came, uninvited, as he listened to the coffeemaker. Memories… He had never wanted to escape those memories. He just wished that the past ten years hadn't happened. Hell, part of him even wished that Trent hadn't come to them with the cure. They had been preparing for Angel's death… and they were served another kind of death instead. He wanted to be living in that old industrial loft, eating Captain Crunch, and having Collins pouring Stoli down people's throats before ten in the morning. He wanted to swing down the fire escape and be in Mimi's apartment. He wanted to go to the Life and harass the head waiter…

They were three strangers, trapped together in this web of lies and deceit.

They didn't know themselves anymore.

Shaking his head, he watched the brown liquid dribble into the coffee pot. Wishing for the past wasn't helpful. He had to accept things as they were now. Nothing could change what had happened—not the cure, not the townhouse… nothing.

A few minutes later, he headed back into the computer lab with two full mugs of coffee. Pam made no indication that she had heard him come back. Her attention was focused on the screens in front of her.

"There's an old nuclear testing facility in Death Valley," she said without preamble. "I think that might be our place—the government records say that it's been out of use for thirty years, but recent aerial shots show supply trucks entering and exiting." She paused. "We also got some incoming helos, and a few personal vehicles. Doesn't look abandoned to me."

"The others?"

"Two possibilities for Great Lakes," she said. "We've got an old plant on an island—looks kind of like Alcatraz. There's no company currently using the place." She paused. "And there's an abandoned meat packing plant on shore—a ferry connects them. Trucks have been going to the meat packing plant, and the ferry runs regular rounds. Again with the personal vehicles. It's one or the other, or that thing is the Great Lakes complex."

Roger blinked. A complex?

"In northern Wisconsin, if you care," she continued. "Portsmouth is in Maine—northern part, on the shore. The place looks new. There's no previous record of a factory or something big being there. The land was privately owned until the government bought it twelve years ago. The whole thing backs up to a cliff—anyone escaping would have to jump into the water or escape by the front route."

"And Sing-Sing?"

"In the same place as the old prison—underground. Otherwise, there's no reason for guards to be outside and supply trucks to be entering."

Damn. Pam was good.

"It's all surprisingly dim," she added.

--------------------

James Garfield, Arthur Chester…

You curl in your cell, as far away from the door as possible, trying to remember all the presidents. You had stress and anxiety problems in the latter part of high school and undergrad school. Your therapist had suggested coming up with a device—a mantra of sorts—to help you calm down, focus, and ward off the anxiety attacks. As a pre-law student, you decided that the litany of United States presidents would work well. Now…

Grover Cleveland, Benjamin Harrison, Grover Cleveland…

You feel like you've recited the list of presidents—Washington through Reagan—so many times, a least one thousand times a day. It's almost become the only thing that runs through your head. A doctor asks you a question and you reply with the president that you happen to be on. No one asks if you've cracked up, gone crazy. No one really cares. You know that the presidents keep you sane. A bunch of old, dead white men are keeping you from madness.

It's fate, really, that you and Collins saw each other in the hall. Since the truck and the trip from your old facility… he was like a gift from heaven. You were starting to believe that all the others were dead, that you'd die without seeing a single one of them. But no, Collins… the moment the guards realized you knew him, you knew that the situation was going downhill. They gave him some kind of tranquilizer. You were returned to your cell until he came to.

Those few hours shone like the sun. It was bright, warm… the person touching you genuinely cared about you. They spin lies. You know that you might be pregnant. The diseases tested on you were cardio-pulmonary, nothing that would affect your reproductive system… unless you've just been too starved for too long. You have an idea of what they could do if you are pregnant. It's no more or less frightening than anything else. Not that you'd be able to tell. They'd have to run tests.

William McKinley, Theodore Roosevelt, William H. Taft, Wilson Woodrow…

Huh. You've made it all the way to the 20s… not bad.

Collins talked about Angel for a long time. You know that he still loves him. He loves you like he loves all his friends, but Angel… he'd die for him. You don't know if you would have done the same for Maureen. In fact, you don't know if your relationship would have lasted. Collins and Angel would have been together forever, had disease and persecution not happened to them.

You wonder if Angel and Maureen are still alive.

Warren Harding, Calvin Coolidge…

Shit. You momentarily forget who's after Coolidge.

Hoover!

Roosevelt, Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan!

You finish the litany of presidents for now. You vaguely wonder who the president is now. The whole election thing seemed to have been lost in the pull before you were brought here. Reagan was already controlled by his cabinet. You don't know who took over or who was calling the shots when you were arrested. Martial law… no one knew who was in charge.

The door to your cell creaks open.

The shiny-shoed doctor from before enters. He carries a clipboard. You don't really care what he wants. Maybe he wants to get laid.

"Hello Joanne."

"Hi," you reply flatly.

Washington, Adams, Jefferson…

"I want to talk about your experience with Thomas."

For a moment, you wonder who Thomas is, but then it clicks. That must be Collins. You're sure that he's probably corrected this doctor before, but is ignored. Lovely.

"I'm not a psych prisoner."

"You are a lesbian, correct?"

You don't answer.

Madison, Monroe, Adams.

"Joanne, this isn't hard. How was the experience?"

Jackson, van Buren…

"Joanne? Answer me. You don't want to go to the med center."

Harrison, Tyler, Polk.

"Joanne?"

"Zachary Taylor," you say, smiling at him.

--------------------

Author's Note: Hey all! Thanks for your continued support of this piece. I regret to say that I'm not sure when I'll be able to update this piece or even if I'll finish it. Writing these first few chapters has been really cathartic and I'm currently embroiled in an original fiction project. Good luck to all of you and thank you! I am really tickled to see any interest in this!