It was a trusting enough town to pick up hitchhikers, but the driver would want to make conversation and ask too many questions.
He’d have to walk.
Moving fast through the next county, he stole two more wallets before three that afternoon with the ease of taking candy from a baby.
He wedged between two businessmen walking down the street and emerged on the other side a hundred and seventy dollars richer.
A man about his age, who’d just finished a transaction at the ATM, provided him with eighty more dollars, a Mastercard, and an ID that could pass as his to purchase a bus ticket.
Taking a plane to Chicago wasn’t an option. Greyhound was too risky, with too many ID scanners and cameras mounted over the drivers’ heads. So he opted for a regional line with a name he’d never heard of and a bus that looked as if it was one missed oil change away from being out of commission.
He approached the ticket counter with a lazy gait as if he didn’t have someplace better to be and sighed, “One way to West Harrington, Chicago.”
The attendant tapped a few keys on her computer with three-inch hot pink nails, squinting at the screen, before she said around a wad of gum, “The one-way doesn’t leave until nine tomorrow morning. The driver canceled tonight’s departure… He’s sick.”
Fuck!
Scar pretended he wasn’t fazed as he slid the ID and credit card under the scratched plexiglass.
The woman didn’t bother to compare jawlines and eye color as she scanned the Mastercard and waited for the approval.
Scar pocketed his ticket and receipt. Head down and shoulders hunched, he walked through the bus station doors.
It smelled like wet coats, nicotine, and bleach.
A few warped plastic chairs were bolted into the stained linoleum and the three vending machines against the far wall were so old he didn’t trust he wouldn’t contract a stomach virus from the contents.
There were fewer than a handful of people waiting inside.
One couple appeared to be actual ticket holders, while the others seemed to be looking for a warm, dry place to hunker down for the night.
Scar quickly counted the exits, and scanned for potential threats, before he made a beeline for the restroom.
His stomach turned in on itself. He was cold, hungry, and ready to be far away from the East Coast and the monsters who’d done whatever it was they’d done to him.
The Ravens said he could do his time on the outside by serving his country. They’d fed him a nice story, backed by an inspirational pep talk about second chances, but he’d looked the director in his eyes and knew it was all a con.
Scar had been reading people his entire life and was smart enough to know not to trust anyone offering him something he hadn’t earned. No one was generous without motive. Mercy wasn’t granted without blood, and freedom was taken, not given.
But he’d been presented with the choice of a few needle pricks and experiments or living in a six-by-eight cell at ADX Florence penitentiary for the next sixty years.
It would’ve been foolish not to take it…and figure out how to escape later.
He washed his face and brushed his teeth at the corroded sink, then checked himself in the mirror, not recognizing the face and eyes staring back at him.
What the fuck have I done?
He pressed his back to the wall and slid down until his ass hit the floor. He let his bag rest between his legs as he dropped his chin against his chest.
He didn’t mean it to, but under the dim lights, his mind drifted to dark memories of prying hands, elastic straps, and the hiss of air through plastic tubing.
Voices talked at him as if he were a specimen, not a human.
“Increase dose by twenty milligrams.”
“He’s not responding.”
“Push ten ccs of adrenaline.”
