Walking the Ruins

Abductor and abductee

I sit down beside my sleeping bag, without taking my eyes off my hostage, Anna. She still stares at me, wide-eyed.

Yes, just look at me and be afraid! Your folks have taken Jenny and Steve. You're here in my lair, and I'm ready for revenge. You have reason to fear me.

Anna is the first to break the silence.

"What do you want from me?" Her voice is not much more than a whisper, but surprisingly firm. I wonder if it carries a hint of defiance.

I take my time to answer, cultivating my wild stare. "You'll see. In time."

"Are you a villager?" she asks.

My wild stare does not seem enough to make her shut up and to let me think about what I should do now. If anyone is asking questions here, that should be me.

"What do you think? Am I a villager?" I answer, trying to regain control over our conversation.

"No ... I don't think so. You're not from the village." She shakes her head.

"And why not? What makes you think that I'm not from that village?" It feels good to ask questions. Making her tell me stuff. There's so much I don't understand here.

"You ... you're different, different from the villagers. You're angry ... aggressive."

I'm aggressive? Well, I can give you aggressive if you want. After all that has happened I have the right to be aggressive.

But I want to know more. So I decide to continue my questioning.

"Aggressive? Aren't they aggressive, the villagers?" I ask, and I realize that this rings true. They aren't aggressive.

"No, they're not ... not aggressive." She confirms.

"And why not?" I ask, feeling close to something important here.

"They're chipped." She shrugs, her voice sounding like a parent's, explaining the obvious to an obtuse child.

What is she talking about? I search her face for clues, but there's nothing there.

"They have a chip in their heads," she explains, enunciating the words slowly, obviously recognizing that I don't get what she's talking about.

"What kind of chip?" I ask.

"It's technology," she answers, making the word sound ponderous, weighted. "We have an old machine that makes them."

"And what does it do, that chip?" I ask. "When you have it in your head?"

"It makes you calm ... it makes you obey."

My thoughts are racing. It's so frustrating. She answers, but her answers just beget more questions. I don't know which one to ask.

"Are you chipped?" I ask her.

She shakes her head. "No, 'course not."

"'Course not." This fits. The parasites from the bunker are making sure their cattle from the village is obedient. How convenient. "Why's that? Why don't you have a chip, but the villagers do?"

"The members of the government aren't chipped." Again, the melody of her words tells me how obvious this is.

"And you're government?" She seems a bit young for being government.

"No, 'course not. But I'll ..." she answers, haltingly. "But maybe I'll be, one day."

"And who decides? Who decides who's to be chipped?" I have a vague idea what she will answer.

"The government. The government decides on the chipping."

"How convenient for the government," I comment, reaching out for my most acid tone of voice.

Anna's eyes are studying the ground before her.

"How many of you are there, in your bunker? I mean in the mountain ... in your cave ... or whatever you call it?" I ask, my voice adamant. I want to get the full picture now.

She hesitates. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm asking the questions here." A dry, cold statement. I hope.

She does not reply, her eyes now somewhere on my belly.

Slowly, I pull my knife from its scabbard and start cleaning my fingernails with it, taking my time, checking its blade. It may help her remember who's in charge here.

She does not move, and her mouth remains closed.

"So, how many of you?" I repeat, moving a fingernail along the edge of the blade. It's dull, but she does not need to know.

Anna's lips have become thin, her jaw is clenched. 

She's a stubborn one. I wonder how to make the message of my knife more explicit, without proceeding to the act itself.

"What's your name?" she asks.

Anna's unexpected question interrupts my bloodthirsty but not so serious thoughts.

"Leona," I answer, automatically.

I look at her. She stares back. Her face has lost its fear. It speaks of defiance. For a moment, we lock eyes, and then I start to hate myself for it. For all of this.

Finally, I sigh and put my knife back to where it belongs. My tension ebbs away, I welcome its absence. I felt sick of it. But it's replaced now by a vague sense of shame.

"Are you hungry?" I ask, digging for two apples in my pack, offering her one of them.

Her features seem to relax.

"Thanks", she says, taking it. Then eyes it suspiciously, and wipes it on her sleeve.

We eat, not saying anything. The abductor and the abductee.