If It's Wednesday, This Must Be...
Who: Conor Austen, Aamir Khan
Where: the stockade, near the well
When: early morning
Aamir woke, sprawled on his back, wide sky above tinted rosy pink. Sky. The sight drew one corner of his mouth up in a smile. This was already better than the last place. His memory was hazy, but there had been fluorescent lights. An arch of plastic flowers, fake windows... Caél!
He scrambled to his feet, limbs flailing, reluctant to cooperate. Oh yes--he'd been drugged. He remembered the jab of the needle, right after Caél had punched him. Then darkness. At least he'd drawn first blood. Aamir smiled again, a twisted, sardonic leer. He did not have to worry about Caél Desmarais. Not for now. The scientists had moved him, taken him away from the kafir. It was a victory, of sorts.
But where was he? He set out across the enclosure, walking slowly on shaky legs. The crude fence enclosed sheds, a house. He was not alone, then. Briefly, Aamir wondered who else would be here. Kaori? Rain? Laila? The sight of the well drove all speculation from his mind. Water! Memories flooded back; the pit. The grave! Nightmare images. Drug-addled dreams--buried alive, unable to move, unable to scream. Trapped, wrapped in a corpse's embrace.
Aamir doubled over, dry heaved. The spasm passed quickly; his stomach was already empty. He stood, leaning against the edge of the well enclosure for support. He didn't expect to have privacy for long. No time for the ritual ablution required after contact with a dead body. But he could wash up. It was better than nothing. He hauled up a bucket of water, quickly immersing his arms to the elbows, splashing water over his face.
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...
An early-morning smoke was the thing to settle his irritation. He had awakened yet again in the stockade, after a nightmarish, nearly-sleepless night in the barn. The horses had been crazed by the nearness of the wolves, and Conor's security in his knowledge that the creatures could not get beyond the borders did not help him to accept the dumb animals' loud compulsions. He was going to have to remember to request sedatives for the fucking horses, if he got the chance.
He had familiarized himself with the area well enough the night before that he could walk around comfortably, and since he had no interest just yet in fixing the damage the horses had undoubtedly caused, Conor took a walk around the stockade, pausing as he noticed someone at the well. He hadn't seen the man before, and he thought he had essentially met -- or at least seen -- everyone that had been placed with them. Exhaling smoke, he lifted his chin. "Morning. How'd you get here?"
...
Aamir scrubbed at his face, wiped the water from his eyes, bringing the newcomer into focus. The man was completely unfamiliar. Were the scientists still bringing in new participants? Or had they seen fit to place him with an entirely different group of people?
"Good morning," he said, dipping more water from the bucket. "I hope you don't mind if I wash up a bit. I had no chance to, yesterday. And I'm not sure, but I expect I was drugged and moved here during the night. My name is Aamir," he added by way of introduction.
...
The phrasing indicated that the man intended to wash up regardless of what Conor thought, so he supposed it was a good thing he didn't care. He shrugged, flicking the ash from his clove as he regarded the other. "So long as you don't dump what you use back into the well," he said with a sly grin, knowing that it wouldn't be likely to happen anyway. Still, with the people he had met, he could never be certain. Introductions again, and of course that would be the case. He cleared his throat to cover the sigh; there was no getting out of it, naturally. "Conor," he returned. "Where were you? With others?" He narrowed his eyes; if this outsider had been transferred, maybe he would know what Conor wanted to find out.
...
"Oh, no, I wouldn't do that," he replied quickly, taken aback. Of course, Caél was probably the type to foul a well with his bath water. In fact it was just the kind of thing the kafir would do. Aamir kept scrubbing. It would be good to have some soap. Maybe later, insha'Allah. He was beginning to suspect that it would be a long time before he felt really clean--soap or not.
"I was with some of the others," Aamir said. "Caél, Calvin, the priest, the nurse, Esmé," he recited. "Torlin... One or two others. Maybe. I'm not sure." As for where he'd been, that question was even more difficult to answer.
"What is this place meant to be? The wild west?" he hazarded. Was this enclosure meant to represent the old American frontier of cowboy movie fame? Knowing might help put the strange place he'd been yesterday in some kind of context.
...
Pointing out that he had been joking was futile, so Conor merely grinned at the quick response, flicking ash at his side. Aamir didn't have the answer he wanted and Conor knew he would no longer be acting carefully enough in the situation to speak the name he wanted to hear aloud, so he didn't. At least he knew Bob was alright; that was promising. But if this was the only way they were going to find out about the others -- by having people randomly placed around -- how could he ever know for certain? Conor snapped his attention back to the conversation at hand and gave the man a grim look. He had kept his clothing out of stubbornness and a need for comfort, but another day and he would have to surrender unless he got his things back. "Something to that effect. We're on a small farm." He grimaced. "Not that much of what we have is useful."
...
A rare flash of humor lightened Aamir's expression. Not much that was useful? He already knew their situation was better than it had been back at the camp outside the chapel: Clean water, sturdy shelters, a fence for security. And he'd barely looked around yet! But of course his standards were different.
"Primitive," was all he said. Back to Conor's original question.
"The place we were in looked like an old military installation. But we awakened in a house. A civilian home," he said, frowning in concentration as he dredged up the details. "There was a garden with a terrace. But all fake flowers. Electric lighting and painted scenery. It was strange," Aamir concluded. He hesitated, hefting the bucket and carrying it to the edge of the palisade to dump the water over some clumps of grass.
"It did not go well there," he admitted, turning back to Conor. Might as well get the truth out now. Aamir had no doubt it would come out eventually. "I fought with one of the others. Caél. I imagine that is why they relocated me."
...
Personally, Conor would have preferred to remain camping outside the chapel, because at least then he'd have the appropriate mindset about everything. Here, he thought it was ludicrous they were expected to live in gingham and tote their own bathwater. He wouldn't complain because it wouldn't do him any good, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Primitive, indeed. It struck him as a surprise that Aamir had originally been placed in a very different sort of environment, and Conor wondered if they would all experience such things or if they would ever be reunited. He wondered what Sarah was going through. He frowned. "You fought," he repeated as neutrally as possible. "Regarding what?"
...
Aamir carefully replaced the bucket before turning back to Conor. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since the day before yesterday.
"I fought to defend myself," he said simply. "As for the rest, you'd have to ask Caél." It was the truth, as far as Aamir was concerned. He'd fought to defend his honor. No matter if witnesses--or the scientists' cameras--told a different version of events. He could always claim to have been confused, addled by the drugs. It might even be so.
"Are there food supplies on hand," he asked, "or are we foraging?"
...
The conversation at hand wasn't exactly putting him at ease. Conor wasn't a nonviolent person, exactly, but he didn't agree with unnecessary confrontation. It just seemed impractical. Whatever Aamir meant by defending himself, Conor hoped he hadn't started it. The last thing they needed in their microcosm of society was a man whose idea of conflict was about needing to wash. He raised a brow. "Hopefully you won't find the need here."
Despite not having eaten much lately, Conor wasn't much bothered. He rarely ate all that much anyway, far too distractible for food unless he was reminded of it. His brother had often told him with disgust that this was an utterly female trait, but Conor figured that was because Dorian was getting fat with age and work. "Zania made stew last night. We have a garden of sorts, apparently, but foraging is key. I'm planning on hunting today, if I can find a suitable weapon." Conor motioned to the fence. "Wolves just beyond it. They'll make a steady meal if we can get them before they get us."
...
"I hope not," Aamir said solemnly. He hadn't expected too much protest from Conor. Still, Aamir was glad to move on to other topics. He really wasn't a violent man by nature. The comment about making a meal of wolves brought a grimace of distaste. Wolves were haraam--not suitable for use as food. Not by the faithful, anyway--but the infidels would eat anything. As for Aamir, he would remain on his vegetarian diet. Allah will provide, he reminded himself.
"Who else is here?" he asked Conor, curious.
...
The grimace was understandable, seeing as Conor wasn't particularly interested in eating the wolves himself. But he would do it, if he could manage, because it was protein and it would also lessen the number of predators in the area. Conor personally liked being the head of the food chain. Roughing a hand through his hair, he shrugged, went through the list in his mind. "Ahh, Zania, Andre, Rain, a guy named Adam, some crazy girl..." He shrugged. "I don't really know any of them well, excepting Zania." Conor bit down on his tongue, the proverbial bullet. "You ever met Sarah?" She was new, he might not know her, but if they'd been housed together, it would at least ease his mind.