Only Matt and two other prisoners remain in the container.
Matt hops down from his bunk into the empty gangway. He raises his arms above his head and finishes the last of his stretches. He catches the eye of Cutter Smith, who watches him from another bunk.
Matt taps the thin foam mattress he's just slept on. "Man, these Posturepedics really suck."
Cutter nods. "Your ass gets used to them."
"Not this ass." Matt pauses, then studies Cutter for a few seconds.
"They're standard issue," Cutter explains.
"Where?"
"Rikers."
"Well, I'll sure give that hotel a miss."
A grunt comes from the other prisoner, who remains asleep on the bunk opposite Cutter. The older man is caught up in a dream. He is restless and fidgeting. He is oblivious to all the mayhem that has just taken place within the container. He sleep-talks with an Irish American brogue.
Matt notices the man's strong Celtic features and thinning red hair. "Looks like we got ourselves an old leprechaun."
"Yeah, a motherfucking big one," Cutter says.
The man argues and fights with someone in his dream. His voice becomes louder. He clenches his huge hands into fists causing his knuckles to whiten.
Cutter is intrigued by the man and his nightmare. It takes his mind off his current bizarre situation. Like his fellow prisoners, he has no idea what's going on. He spends several more seconds watching the big man before deciding his next move. A lifetime spent taking on the world and losing on a regular basis has made Cutter wary of making any next move. What the hell, he thinks. He prods the sleeping man on the side of his arm. "Hey you, mister."
The man does not stir.
"Hey, mister!" Cutter prods the man again, harder this time.
The man half opens his eyes and peers at Cutter. He frowns. "This better be good—what?"
"You was having a nightmare."
"Son, politicians, lawyers, and Wall Street traders have nightmares. Distinguished members of the American Association for Thoracic Surgery, of which I am one, sleep well, deeply, and without guilt. And the name's Doc."
"Thor . . . ac—what?"
"I fix hearts. You have any idea what's going on here?" Doc pauses, tilts his head, prompting Cutter to reveal his name.
"Name's Cutter. Nope."
"Well, Cutter, you be sure to let me know when you find out anything. Now, if you'll excuse me." Doc turns toward the container's wall, adjusts the comfort level of his pillow, and goes back to sleep.
Matt shrugs at Cutter, then turns and walks out of the container.
He joins the prisoners outside, who all stand in silence. Dumbfounded, they stare out over a vast sun-scorched, featureless panorama. The barren ground stretches out endlessly in every direction.
Lloyd shakes his head. "Nothing—a whole lot of fucking nothing."
Matt scans over the flat, white, shimmering surface, then looks up at the cloudless blue sky. "Well, at least it's not raining."
The heat from the morning sun, even at this early hour, causes the prisoners to perspire. In an attempt to dry the damp patch of Sophia's vomit stuck to his uniform, Lloyd turns his back to the sun's warmth.
Rita brings her hand up to shade her eyes and gazes out over the arid desert. "What the heck!"
Silence.
The prisoners have no answers. They continue to look out over the desolate ground. They look for any landmarks. There are none. They are alone. They might as well have woken up on another planet.
Some turn back toward the container and inspect their former prison.
The shipping container is pristine. Its bright orange color contrasts vividly against the stark, cracked, white earth it stands on.
Sophia looks down the side of the container. She points at a large American flag that has been professionally spray-painted onto its metal surface. "It's American. We've been locked up in an American shipping container."
Rita notices the small American flags embroidered on their prisoner's uniforms. "We're all Americans—right?"
Some of the Americans nod.
Sophia walks over to the stars and stripes on the container's side and then traces her hand over a string of five random numbers—69147—stamped into the steel below the flag. The numbers are about the same size as those on a car license plate. Next to the American flag is a large white spray-painted number six.
The Americans regroup. They stand in a semicircle and look to each other for some answers.
Lloyd folds his arms, tilts his head to one side, and demands, "So who the fuck are all you people?"
"Hey, mister, watch your language." Rita points over at Sophia and Nevada then clenches her fist and uses her protruding thumb to point at herself. "We got ladies here."
"I don't give a shit. I want some answers, and I want them FUCKING NOW."
"Stop. Just stop." Sophia holds up her hand. "Does anyone know what's going on here?"
Silence reigns as the Americans take stock. They continue to scrutinize each other. Most of them still look confused. Some become aware of the collars locked around their necks. Nevada and Rita tentatively touch the unfamiliar appendages with their fingertips.
A tall, muscular man in his prime wanders away from the group. He has a commanding yet menacing presence about him. He looks like the kind of guy who was born with an in case of emergency–break glass box tied to his umbilical cord. He is called Books Smith.
Books drops to his haunches and rests an arm on one knee. With his free hand, he dabs the ground with his finger, then brings it up to his mouth. He tastes a few of the dirt grains that have stuck to his fingertip. He looks around. He is calm. He thinks.
A lean older man, Jim Smith, spots Books examining the grains and walks over to him. A slight limp gives away his ageing body. Other than that, he looks in good shape for his years. He asks, "Any ideas?"
"We're on a salt pan." Books continues to look out across the void. He rubs the grains of dirt between his fingertip and thumb.
"A salt what?" Rita asks.
"We're in the middle of a desert." Sophia follows Books' gaze out over the endless vista. "Somewhere." Her voice trails off.
Lloyd still bitches. "Somewhere, really?" He mocks and mimics Nevada's Southern accent. "Well, my guess is that 'we sure ain't in no Jackson County.' " He turns to the group and asks, "Cell phones? Anyone?"
Sophia steps away, leans over and retches again, just missing Lloyd's boots.
Nevada rests her hand on Sophia's back to comfort her. "Lord oh Lordy, you're certainly not having the best of mornings."
"Jesus, lady—how much more you got?" Lloyd steps clear of Sophia.
"Hey, you—just lay off—can't you see she's not well?" Rita says.
Sophia dry retches this time.
"Seems to me she's well enough to keep throwing up. For Christ's sake, someone here must have a cell phone?" Lloyd looks around the Americans.
"Mister, I don't know who you are, but you're really beginning to annoy me." Rita kneels down beside Sophia and supports her. "You okay, honey?"
"Look, I just want to get the fuck out of here, so I'm asking again—has anyone got a phone?" Lloyd calls out.
The Americans look blank. No cell phones. No clues.
"So that's a big fat fucking zero, then," Lloyd says. He shakes his head. "Well, that's fucking great. That's really just so made my fucking day."
