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  "Skye," she said.

  Something heavy struck her in the back of the head and she staggered, but stayed on her feet. The other man, the one who had hit her, circled around from behind and into her field of view. He was a giant of a man, two feet taller than Skye and with rippling, muscular arms as thick as her thighs. Broken iron shackles hung from each of his wrists, their ends slightly rusted.

  "You have no name," the robed man said with a sneer. "Not in this place. Not until you've earned one.”

  The other man, whose mere approach was intimidating, grabbed hold of her shoulders. He ripped at her shirt, which was filthy and thinned from her time on the road. Skye gasped and covered her breasts with her hands, left completely exposed in the cold, dim room.

  The large man loomed over her, his eyes lingering on her body. Skye took a step back, closing her eyes as if she could simply will the two men away. As though when she opened them, she would be back at home and the world would go back to normal. As if that would even be any real comfort.

  Something soft pressed against her arms; Skye let out a slight yell and opened her eyes. The man had merely tossed some clothing at her, if you could call these tattered gray rags clothes. She hurriedly pulled them on. The big man laughed and elbowed the robed man, who turned an unamused eye to him.

  On the front of her shirt was the number fourteen, printed in a large black font. The robed man regarded her with a smile while the big man unlocked the door behind him, which swung open with a creak.

  "A bit of advice, fourteen," the robed man said as he stood aside. "This is a test. There are winners, and losers. Keep that in mind."

  Skye didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing. The big man pointed to the door with a grunt. Skye didn't move, terrified of what would await her on the other side. When he started toward her, she scurried past him and the door shut with a slam behind her.

  She was in a large, circular domed room. Around its perimeter were individual beds, each spaced a few feet apart and labeled with a large number on the wall above. The numbers started from one at her left and circled around to twenty six on her right. In one corner opposite her, a space was left for rows of exercise equipment. In another, the wall gave way to two doors apparently leading to the bathrooms. In the middle of the room there was an array of tables, chairs, and sofas.

  As she stood there alone taking in the strange place, twenty five heads scattered all around the room turned toward her. They were mostly young adults, although a few among them looked middle aged. They were men and women, all dressed in the same gray rags she wore, and each labeled with a different number. Just a moment of silence followed, and then everyone returned to whatever they had been doing.

  Skye spotted bed fourteen on the other side of the room and started to make her way toward it. Now no one paid her any attention at all, and she crossed the room like a ghost. The mattress was thin, topped with a scratchy blanket and nothing else. At the head of the bed, a metal hatch on the wall caught her eye. Skye knelt down, trying to pull the thin metal flap back.

  "I wouldn't do that," someone said behind her.

  She jumped up with a start and spun around. He was a young man, bald, with a friendly smile. He wore the number nine.

  "Sorry," she said, sitting down on her bed.

  Nine laughed. "Doesn't matter to me. Just saying, it won't open. Opens from the outside."

  "Oh. What for?"

  "They push your breakfast through there. If you want to call it that. And your instructions, every night."

  "Instructions?" Skye asked.

  "Ah, man," he said, rubbing his bald head. "This shit is hard to explain, actually. I'm not really the welcoming committee. That's usually Six."

  He pointed all the way across the room to a woman who sat on her bed, back against the wall, eyes closed. "I dunno, um..." he paused. "So you'll get these papers every night through there," he pointed at the metal flap. "They'll tell you something you have to do, or something not to do. Mostly, they just fuck with your head. Look, people will tell you a lot of different stuff. People will say it's a test, or that you can find a way out. But if you ask me, this is just a fucked up prison and they're out there laughing at us."

  "Has anyone gotten out?" Skye asked.

  "People disappear, yeah. But I’m not sure that’s the same thing as getting out."

  "Could be, though."

  Nine laughed. "Sure. Anyway. How did they get you?"

  "I was heading for D.C. with my husband," she said. "Then the whole world went to hell. Tornado ripped through traffic on the highway, sent our car flying. He didn't make it."

  "I'm sorry," Nine said.

  Skye shrugged, though she held back a tear and masked a wet sniff with a cough. "Everybody's been through something."

  "True,” Nine said.

  "Anyway, I made it out there for a couple months. Stuck to the highways, moved between outposts when I could. Eventually, some fucking raptors cornered me in a mall. Thought I was dead, until some people showed up with assault rifles. Saved me, then threw a bag over my head. Must have been a week or two ago, they put me in a truck and sent me somewhere. Here I am."

  "Bad luck, that."

  "Plenty to go around. But possibly better than getting eaten alive," she said.

  Nine laughed. "We'll see how you feel in a few days."

  As he spoke, the door she had entered through opened again. The big chained man stood there, a shotgun held in front of him. From behind him came a stream of other rag-wearing prisoners, though these wore red and had no numbers, each carrying several trays which they piled on one of the tables in the middle of the room. As quickly as they had come, they were gone. None of the other prisoners seemed to pay them any mind, but a few made their way over to grab a tray.

  "Dinner time," Nine said.

  Skye followed him and took her own dinner tray, the contents of which were uninspiring but not at all as nightmarish as she had expected. A small peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a handful of baby carrots. Frankly, it was better than the average meal she had managed to scavenge on the road.

  Nine seemed to sense her surprise. "Wouldn't get used to it," he said. "New prisoner, new cycle. Food starts out nice, gets much worse. People will be happy for one night at least." The prisoners did seem cheery, she thought. Most of the others were talking and laughing together in a big circle in the middle of the room.

  Skye and Nine sat and ate together at one of the tables. "So what's the deal with the big guy, with the chains?"

  "Scary fucker, eh? He's just one of them, the Chains they call them. Most aren't as big as him, but they're all bad in their own way." He took a big bite of his sandwich, then continued through his full mouth. "There's them, and the Robes. You probably saw one on your way in. They're the priests or whatever. I've heard one of them talking about 'greeneyes' or something. Don't know if that's something or not."

  "The robed man who brought me in had green eyes. Not natural looking though. Bright green. What does that mean?"

  "Hell if I know," Nine said, brushing his hands on his dirty gray pants. "I don't know what any of this means. Don't know who these people even are."

  "I do," came a woman's voice. Twenty-one was a petite woman with short hair, and she sat down across from Nine just then. "They call themselves the Church of James. They preach about the end of the world, mankind needing to become stronger or some shit."

  "So you always say. Who the fuck is James anyway?" Nine said. Twenty-one shrugged. "On the other hand, you've been outside more recently than me, so maybe you do know better. Or you," he added to Skye.

  "Never heard of them," Skye said.

  "What did the man with the green eyes say to you, when you came in?" Nine asked.

  "He said this is a test. And there are winners and losers."

  "Well," Nine said. "There's sure as hell some losers. Twenty six of 'em. But there are no winners here."

  Within the hour, the light which filtered in through
windows around the top of the dome began to fade. With a loud clack, metal hatches popped open around the edges of the room. The prisoners all hurried to their bunks, snatching up the small slips of paper which now lay at the head of their beds`, lest someone else get to theirs first. Skye rushed to do the same.

  The thin, wrinkled paper read in a tight, cursive script:

  Don’t trust 9

  She crumpled up the message and pushed it back through the hatch, which then snapped shut. Around the room, others did the same as the light was fully extinguished. Only three faint orange solar lights around a pillar in the center of the room remained illuminated.

  Skye slid under her blanket and closed her eyes, glad for the darkness which hid the tears beginning to run down her face.

  Some time later she heard the telltale sounds of sex from across the room, intertwined with the low drone of one soft snorer somewhere. Sleep did not come readily, but eventually she drifted away.

  Skye woke naturally as the morning light crept in through the windows above. Already she could hear quiet chatter from the middle of the room. It seemed she was one of the last to rise. Skye sat up and rubbed her eyes. A cold toaster pastry sat next to her head, apparently slipped through the hatch while she slept. She ate it quickly, leaving the wrapper next to the hatch.

  Life in here seemed to be boring, to put it simply. Some people talked, others napped through the morning. Skye herself went to check out the exercise equipment, and decided she might as well work out.

  She slid a few weights onto the bench press bar and lay down on the bench, with a bit of trepidation. She’d never been the gym type of girl before. Sure, she’d hit the treadmill often enough to stay slim, but had never been much for weights. Though the past few months’ apocalypse had left her toned and scrappy, it still felt unnatural to her.

  As she lifted, slow but steady, someone approached. "Spot you?" he asked.

  "Sure," she grunted between reps. He was tall, muscular, and looked to be in his early twenties, or a few years younger than Skye at any rate. He stood at her head as she continued to lift. She noted through her upside-down vision that his shirt read eleven.

  She powered through one last press, then with his help lifted the bar back onto the rack before sitting up. "Getting used to it yet?" he asked.

  She looked at him. "Not at all."

  He laughed. "Me neither. Hey, if you ever want to get out of here, we can try."

  "What do you—"

  She was interrupted. "Hey Fourteen. Eleven. Good morning." It was Nine, who had sauntered his way up next to Eleven, the latter man looking somewhat unnerved despite Nine's diminutive figure.

  "Not much, man," Eleven said with a slight stutter. "Just helping out the new girl. I'll get going though. See you around."

  He walked away abruptly. Nine started to speak, but Skye stopped him. "They have a shower in here?"

  "Yeah," he said, looking dejected. "Bathroom’s over there."

  "Thanks. Talk to you later."

  She used the bathroom and took a quick, freezing shower, left to change back into the same gray rags she had worn the day before. For most of the day she laid on her bed, looking up at the clouds rolling slowly by above the dome. At one point someone approached, but she pretended to be asleep and they left.

  When they had gone, Skye inspected the dome. It was solid, and the windows were sealed and far too high to reach. The only way in or out—as far as she could see—was the door, and it was made of thick steel and without even a handle on the inside.

  The door opened again for dinner, and the red-ragged prisoners brought their food trays. Tonight, there were half as many trays. Half the prisoners went over to the table at once, and Skye noticed they all had even numbers. She joined them, taking a tray from the table while feeling a measure of guilt. As she looked around though, the odd numbered prisoners didn’t seem to show them any ill will.

  "This happens a lot." Nine's voice again. "We just alternate who gets to eat. So enjoy it tonight."

  Skye grimaced as she looked down at her tray, which contained a mound of unidentifiable brown sludge. To her relief, it tasted slightly better than it looked.

  Their instructions came again that night:

  Don’t eat breakfast, and return two breakfast bars tomorrow night

  She awoke the next morning to a commotion of startled voices. Skye sat up with a start. A few beds away, two men were fighting. One of them grabbed the other by his shirt and slammed him into the wall. A woman nearby tried to pull the apparent aggressor away, but he swatted her hand off his shoulder. The other man, who had fallen to the floor, scrambled over a bed. His opponent followed, sliding over the mattress and taking it with him as he rolled to the ground.

  Oh shit.

  Skye leapt to her feet and ran toward the disturbed bunk. The men were rolling around together, swinging fists and elbows. On the bare bed frame, she found a breakfast bar unattended. She snatched it up, stuffing it into her waistband before quickly sliding back onto her own bed. As far as she could tell, nobody's eyes had left the two fighting men.

  The fight ended, one of the men left bloodied and motionless on the floor. Nobody seemed to have any interest in coming to his aid. He stirred a few minutes later, dragging himself across the floor to his bed and leaving a trail of blood after him. He lay silently on his bed for most of the day, eventually standing up around dinner time. The man staggered a few unsteady steps before collapsing back on his mattress.

  The guard and his retinue brought their dinner, again enough food for half of the prisoners. Tonight, the odd numbers took their trays, and the evens, including Skye, did not. Her stomach rumbled painfully, and though she had two granola bars at her waist, she resisted the urge to eat them.

  One food tray was left on the table, she noticed. Of course, the man who had been beaten was number Three. Skye was not the only one to realize this, and by the time she made it to the table someone else was there too. She put her hand down, sliding the tray toward herself.

  "It's his," she said, nodding toward the injured man.

  "Who cares?" the woman said, and pulled back on the tray.

  "I care." Skye took a step toward the woman, who raised her hands to push her. She stomped on the woman's foot and pushed her to the floor with a scream. Skye could feel the other prisoners' eyes on her, but she took the dinner tray over to Three all the same.

  "You okay?" she asked him, sitting the tray down next to him on the bed. His eyes were open, a pained look on his face and his chest rising and falling heavily. "I brought your dinner." He glanced at her but didn’t reply, so she stood and went back to her bunk.

  That night, when the hatch opened, she tossed the two breakfast bars through the open hatch. One came immediately back, her nightly slip of paper wrapped around it. She stuck her hand, middle finger extended, through the hole.

  25 is telling the truth

  The guilty and the innocent should both be punished

  A woman's shriek woke her in the early morning. The light of the sunrise was still dim, a faint orange glow spilling down into the room. Most were still asleep, or had been until the scream. With that, the prisoners began to stir. As Skye sat up, pulling the blanket off herself, a crowd was gathering across the room.

  She stood, joining the group at bed twenty four. Twenty-four, a man in his thirties, lay dead on the mattress, his throat slashed wide open and blood congealed and dried on the sheets and in pools on the floor. Standing next to the bed was Twenty-five, a pretty young girl with a blonde ponytail. Her gray shirt was smeared with dried blood, as were her bare thighs. Her pants lay discarded but clean at the foot of the bed. Nearby on the floor was a bloody knife.

  "What the hell did you do?" It was Nine, his bald head visible through the crowd. He was pointing an accusatory finger at Twenty-five, who was backed against the wall. There was panic on her face, fresh tears staining her cheeks.

  "I—I just—I just woke up and he was like this. I didn't do any
thing!"

  "It's plain enough you did something," Nine shot back at her, and her cheeks turned red.

  "So what?" she yelled. "We're not the only ones! I didn't kill him."

  "You expect us to believe somebody cut his throat and you slept through it?" There were murmurs of apparent agreement through the crowd.

  "It was you!" Twenty-five screamed, pointing at another woman, a redhead who wore the number Twelve. "I know you fucked him too."

  The two women rushed at each other, hands grappling and scratching. Skye found herself running forward, grabbing hold of Twelve and pushing her backward onto a bed. Another man restrained Twenty-five. The prisoners used bedsheets to tie the two suspects together back to back and left them in the corner as they convened in the center of the room.