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                “Which brings me to another question: You broke out, let me see if I can get this straight, you went down the incinerator chute, on the mine car, through the tunnels to the power plant, under the steam engine, that was really cool by the way, and into the cistern through the intake pipe, but how in the name of Zeus’ BUTT HOLE did you get out of your cell? I only because in our current situation, well, it could prove to be useful information MAYBE!”

                                Stanley Goodspeed, The Rock

                Slate moves her hands a bit, feeling around her handcuffs. She looks over at me, staring at my free wrists. “You really don’t present yourself as much of a danger, do you?” She says.

                “It’s the innocent-looking face.” I smile.

                “This isn’t a joke, Sam.” She snaps at me, sitting up. “We need to get out of here. When Morcean comes back, if we’re still here, he will either kill us or torture us. And if he tortures us, he’ll kill us afterwards.”

                “Slate, there’s no way out of here.” I say, motioning to the tiny, pantry-sized room we’re in. “Its bitch black, there’s only one way in or out and it’s locked from the outside. There isn’t even a keyhole on this side of the door. I’m sorry to sound defeatist. I really do, but whatever escaping we’re going to be doing, it’s going to happen once we’re on the other side of that door.”

                Slate leans back against the wall, her hands between her legs. She takes a frustrated breath and just sits. I sit back opposite her, my back to the wall by the door. I can barely make out her face as she stares down at nothing. “So, you’re from New York, I’m guessing.”

                She looks up at me, then just stares back down. “Born and raised.” She says, as if sounding bored and annoyed. “My parents were iffy about raising a little girl in New York, but I think I came out okay.”

                “How’d you end up here?” I wonder, leaning my head back as I listen. My vision goes, but I hang on every word. It’s something normal.

                “My parents got freaked out when I got into a knife fight at school.” Slate says. “This bitch was going off about how I stole her boyfriend because I was a slut and how she was going to kick my ass and that kind of stuff. So she tried to jump me after school. I pulled out a fist full of hair and she pulled a knife. I got cut, nothing serious, but my parents freaked. By the end of the month, we were already moving.”

                “And the Ever-After Project got you then?” I ask, trying to add the whole story up. “That doesn’t make sense.”

                “This place isn’t the project’s first controlled population.” Slate says, lookup at me. When she looks up, her hair whips out of the way and the light falls near her eye. And I can see her thoughts, see her determination.

                “Ever-After, for a while, was setting up these big controlled-growth estates across the US.” She explains, looking back down. “They give you all these incentives to move into this community and they provide you with health care and all sorts of stuff. They had dozens of these communities and my dad was nuts about them. He wanted to go live in one, and I guess my fight was the perfect excuse.”

                “So we move out to Pleasantville USA and the next thing I know, it’s like I’m stuck in the fifties.” She complains. “All the houses look the same, all the people seem to be the same. It’s creepy. But I’m stuck there, and it is really cheap. So I end up going to the community college and getting my associates in exercise and fitness. And I end up working at the gym near my parents’ place.”

                “And they recruited you from the gym?” I ask.

                “Yeah. About two years ago.” She says. “I normally wouldn’t have come, but they offered me just an obscenely good deal. And it was only for three years. I figured, sure. I go, live in here, get all the perks, which include a hella lot of money once the three years are up, and go live in some ratty little town in the middle of nowhere and be that weird lady that everybody wonders what’s her secret. You know, let everyone believe I’m some CIA assassin that’s hiding out from the KGB and MI-5 and that kind of thing.”

                I look over at Slate, smiling, almost laughing. “You’re really weird.” I say with a chuckle.

                She laughs as well. “What?” She defends. “Every girl’s got to have her dreams. Mine is to scare a whole mid-western town purely by my presence and affluence. Besides,” She says, standing up, her opened handcuffs dangling from her right wrist. “I do know a thing or two worth being afraid of.”

                She steps over to the door and starts to look at the edges. She tilts her head, her eyes captured in the light from the outside world. She reaches down to her pants and undoes the metal clasp on her military belt. She looks at me as she slides the belt off and then looks back to the door.

                She slides the narrow end of the belt into the line between the door and the frame and she glances up at me. With a fast shove, she pulls up on her belt. The fabric length whips out at her, slashing through the air. She steps back, almost laughing.

                “You get off on this, don’t you?” I ask.

                She turns and looks at me, then looks at the door. “No I don’t.” She says, already looking back at the break in the light. “I just, we’ve got to get out of here.”

                “No, you’re enjoying this.” I say, sitting up. “You’re getting into this whole James Bond crap.”

                “Look.” She says, standing up, glaring at me. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

                “I’m not arguing you there.” I say. “But admit it. You enjoy this. I don’t know if it’s the life and death struggle or what, but you’re enjoying this whole situation.”

                She takes a deep breath, then turns back to the door. “I will admit that it beats my usual day.” She says. “Besides, I like picking locks a lot more than avoiding zombies that want to eat my face.”

                “I can’t argue with you there.” I admit.

                She slides the belt clip through the door again and starts to slide it up. It stops moving and she considers it for a moment. “Okay.” She says, lying down on her back. She puts her foot right against the belt clip. “I’d move back if I were you.” She cautions.

                I shift on the bench and pull my legs up, watching. She pulls her left leg back, then slams it upwards into the belt. There’s a loud crash, but nothing happens. “Crap.” She says, sitting up. She looks through the lock, then starts to jiggle the clip. “If we make too much noise, they’re going to hear us.”

                “There might be someone outside.” I whisper.

                “Then start moaning.” Slate says, focusing on the lock.

                “What?” I say.

                “Moan.” She says. “After that crash, make him think we’re having sex.”

                I look down at her, considering her in that fashion for the first time. I feel like I’m staring at a sister. I look back at her. “No.” I say simply.

                She looks up at me, then down at herself. “What?” She glares. “Am I not your type?”

                “I, it’s,” I look her up and down again. “No.” I finally say.

                She looks back at the door, then looks at me. “What?” She says. “Why not?”

                I hold up my hands, at a loss. “Is this a conversation we really need to have right now?”

                “Yes the hell it is.” She says. But before I can protest, she turns around and slams her foot into the door. The belt kicks up from the impact, but the light on the side of the door widens. She grabs up one of her hard plastic baton holders and slides it into the narrow line of light. With a fast shove, she pries the door open, sending it crashing against her.

                Light rains in on us, blinding me for a moment. But as Slate scrambles to her feet, I sit still and listen.

                Nothing

                I sit up and rush through the door while Slate still gets her orientation. I slide to the side of the hallway, looking through the light-stained delirium to see who’s coming at us. But I see nothing. And more over, I hear nothing.

                I look back as Slate comes out, covering her eyes with her hand. She looks over at me, then smiles. “Don’t ever tell a girl you wouldn’t sleep with her. It’ll make her mad.”

                “I’ll keep that mind.” I say, starting down the hall.

                “Don’t try to tell me that guys aren’t the same.” She says harshly.

                “Oh, come on.” I say, looking back at her. “After years of being conditioned through rejection, most guys can handle anything like that.”

                She steps up next to me. “You don’t get laid much, do you?”

                “More than I’d ever admit to you.” I chide, turning back to the hallway. I stop at one of the doors and try the handle.

It opens.

                A small closet appears, filled with cleaning supplies and other materials. I look at Slate and shrug. “Hey, it’s a start.”

                “Yes it is.” She says, grabbing the broom. She takes the wooden rod and snaps it over her knee. She breaks the remaining rod and twirls them in her hands. She looks at me. “They’ll do.”

                “You need help.” I say, looking for a weapon of my own. But I freeze.

                Slate stops as well. Both our heads turn at the same thing, our attention locking on the hall just beyond the closet door.

                The sound of running footsteps, coming towards us.

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