DMV, page 33
Passing between two of the buildings, they walked to a gigantic parking lot located past the end of the cul-de-sac. While the white lines of designated parking slots were still visible on the very black asphalt, the area seemed to have been converted into an obstacle course, with orange cones, wooden cutouts shaped like people, and various road signs transforming the space into a driver training area. A red sports car was revving its engine at the start of the course, waiting for a much bigger luxury car to slowly make its way through. At the beginning and end of the track were small groups of orange-clad internees.
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Mr. White said. “Watch this.”
They stood where they were as the oversized luxury car exited the course, pulling past the last two cones and coming to a stop. At the same time, the sports car took off, accelerating quickly, knocking over cones and crashed into the cutout of an old lady with a cane—
Before a diesel truck appeared out of nowhere and t-boned the vehicle.
Jorge saw the driver, a young man clearly not wearing a seatbelt, fly sideways out of the suddenly smashed sports car in a shower of blood and glass.
Both of the recruiters burst out laughing.
“They never see it coming,” Mr. Black said.
“No, they never do. This way,” Mr. White told him, and Jorge followed the two around the edge of the parking lot to a long building with a tall entrance resembling that of a barn. Inside, behind velvet ropes, were automobiles the likes of which Jorge had never seen. Some appeared old-fashioned, others startlingly futuristic, but none were even remotely familiar to him. Were they cars that had appeared in movies? He had no idea, but a man standing before one of the nearer autos—a sleek vehicle with domed top windows that reminded him of a Hot Wheels car—was describing it to a group of ten or fifteen individuals in orange jumpsuits who were taking notes as though they were going to be tested on the information later.
Mr. White and Mr. Black waved to the man giving the lecture as they walked in, and the man waved back. The people in the group turned to see who had entered the building.
One of them was Todd.
His brother-in-law was standing between a teenager and an old man, and he was close enough that, despite the prisoner’s uniform, Jorge recognized him instantly. The fact that he was here at all was shocking, bewildering, and almost stopped Jorge in his tracks. The two of them locked eyes, but neither let on that they recognized one another. He wanted to ask about Beverly’s death, wanted to ask how Todd had ended up here, wanted to ask…so many things. But it was safest for both of them to ignore each other. For all Jorge knew, this was just another test.
And yet…
He was almost certain that the DMV really did consider him one of their own now, a new hiree, one that they believed had been properly brainwashed.
The last thing he wanted to do was let on that that wasn’t the case. So he kept walking and let his gaze wander away from Todd as he followed the recruiters through the large room, past the collection of cars, into a smaller connected office. Here, an entire wall of television screens showed surveillance footage from different angles of the adjacent room with the car collection, and the obstacle course in the parking lot outside. It was the sort of place that he would have expected to be manned 24 hours a day, but the seats behind the three desks were empty.
“If you did come over to Re-Education,” Mr. Black said, “you’d probably start off in a security office like this, doing surveillance. It might seem boring—and it is, to a certain extent—but the work is necessary.” He grinned at Jorge. “There are also perks.” Using the palm of his hand, he rolled a black control ball set in in the top of the closest desk. The camera in a center screen zoomed in on the face of an attractive young woman in Todd’s group who was looking at one of the cars. Mr. Black slowly rolled the ball in a different direction and the camera panned down to her ample chest. “It would be better if they didn’t wear those stupid uniforms, but still…”
“Try heat signature,” Mr. White suggested.
His partner pressed a button on the desk, and the jumpsuit disappeared, replaced by two cartoonish but clearly delineated breasts colored in shades of red and yellow, large nipples visible at the tips. Using the ball, Mr. Black panned down the woman’s body, and Jorge saw, at the meeting of her legs, the bright red triangle of her crotch.
“There you are!”
The clear sound of a musical chime rang out, and Mr. White pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “White.”
He listened for a moment, looking over at Mr. Black, and said, “Of course.” Putting his phone down on the desk, he edged the other recruiter aside and began pressing buttons. One by one, the television screens winked off. He nodded to Mr. Black, who walked over to the back wall and flipped a series of switches.
The lights in the office dimmed.
“We’ll be back in a minute,” Mr. White told Jorge. “Stay where you are. Don’t touch anything.”
“What’s happening?” Jorge asked.
“We’ll be right back,” Mr. Black said.
The two of them left the room, closing the door behind them. There was the metallic click of a lock being engaged.
Jorge stood in the half-light, confused. What was going on? His gaze alighted on the cell phone that had been left on the desk.
Surely this was a test. There had never been a slip-up so blatant in the entire time he’d been here, and it would be naïve of him to think that they’d start making such obvious mistakes now. Whether this was a setup or not, however, Jorge didn’t care. He had a chance here, and he damn sure was going to take it. Hurrying, before the recruiters came back and caught him, he picked up the device, which luckily remained on. Beverly was dead and Todd was here, so his sister was his only hope, and he quickly texted Rosita. He had no idea where he was, but he still remembered the number of that form, and he texted:
Still alive. Todd at camp 2.
Get DMV form A131/2B. Find us.
Jorge.
Exiting the screen and placing the phone back where he’d found it, Jorge moved to the other side of the desks, closer to the screens, so there wouldn’t be any suspicion, hoping that what he’d texted his sister would be enough for her to figure out what to do. The recruiters did not return for several more minutes, so he probably could have written more, but he was nervous enough as it was. In his mind, he went over the message, thinking he should have added this or that, not sure if he’d made himself clear enough or provided Rosita with enough information to find him, wondering if he should have advised her to call the authorities—or not call the authorities; they could be in on it, too. His sister was smart, he told himself. She would know how to handle it.
Jorge hoped Mr. White didn’t look over his sent messages, discover what he’d done and then track down Rosita.
He knew that was a distinct possibility.
Or maybe the DMV already knew what he had done.
Maybe they’d wanted him to do this.
He couldn’t allow himself to go down that path.
There was a click as the door lock disengaged, and the recruiters returned, acting as though they’d left the room to get a cup of coffee. Mr. Black went over to the wall and flipped the switches that brought the lights up to their former brightness, while Mr. White stepped behind the desks and started pressing buttons, bringing the screens back online. He pocketed his phone.
Todd’s group, Jorge noticed when the screens came on, was no longer in the chamber with the car collection. In fact, he didn’t see the internees on any of the televisions.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Mr. White said. “Normal protocols.”
“Perfectly routine,” Mr. Black added.
That was almost certainly not true, but Jorge didn’t push it. He followed the recruiters out of the office as they retraced their steps. The obstacle course was empty now, too, he saw as they made their way along the edge of the parking lot, although three wrecked cars were burning unattended at different points on the makeshift track.
They headed back between the buildings and out to the cul de sac, walking up the road.
“It’s a solid assignment,” Mr. Black said. “Re-Education.”
From somewhere came indistinct shouts. Suddenly, from around the corner of a building, an African American woman in an orange jumpsuit came running up the road toward them. The expression of panic on her face was mingled with a grim determination, and it was clear that she was attempting to escape.
“Got a live one,” Mr. Black said, grinning.
Seeing them, the woman veered off the road, and Mr. Black went after her. She was fast, but he was faster, and he tackled her on the narrow stretch of grass by the side of the asphalt, the pursuit ending almost as quickly as it had begun. She hit the ground hard, and along with her harsh grunt of expelled breath, Jorge thought he heard the subtle crack of bone.
The woman lay there groaning as Jorge and Mr. White walked up. Mr. Black stood, brushing off his pants. He nudged Jorge with an elbow and pointed down at the woman, who was on her stomach, legs spread. “You’re a Department employee now. You want to Trump it? You can grab her by the pussy, do whatever you want.”
Jorge shook his head. “Not really.”
Mr. Black shot him a disappointed look. “I don’t think he’s Re-Education material.”
“He’ll find his niche,” Mr. White promised.
Two other employees ran up, taking the woman by her arms, picking her up and carrying her away.
“The cage,” the recruiters said in unison. Both laughed.
Mr. White clapped Jorge on the back. “I think that’s enough fun for this morning. Ready to head home?”
“Home?” he said pointedly.
“Your side of the wall. Your camp.”
“That’s not my home,” Jorge said flatly.
Mr. White stopped walking. He motioned to Mr. Black. “Give us a minute, will you?” Mr. Black continued on, and Mr. White turned to Jorge. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but here at the DMV, the real DMV, there are very few people of a minority persuasion. But things are changing. The DMV is expanding. And that’s one of the reasons I recruited you. Do you understand me?”
There was a veiled threat in his voice, and though Jorge had been about to automatically say yes, he instead remained stubbornly silent.
The recruiter sighed heavily. “All I’m saying is that you could be a little more appreciative of the opportunity you have here.”
“Okay.”
Mr. White put an arm around his shoulder. “People like us, we have to stick together.”
There is no us, Jorge thought. I’m nothing like you.
But he smiled and nodded and followed Mr. White as the two of them strode up the road to catch up with Mr. Black.
THIRTY FOUR
Rosita awoke in the morning to find that her car had been impounded. Next to her on the bed, on Todd’s pillow, was a pink receipt for the seizure. She instantly sat up, reaching for the slip. There was a line of checked boxes enumerating the reasons, but she didn’t bother with the details, because there was a much bigger issue here.
Someone had come into the house while she was asleep.
Into her room.
Rosita had never felt so violated, and she was grateful that it had been a cool night and she’d slept in heavy pajamas rather than just her underwear. She tended to mummy herself up under the covers, rolling the blanket under and around her until only her head protruded, and she was thankful for that as well.
Where else in the house had the intruder been besides the bedroom?
Getting out of bed, the first thing she did was peer through the bedroom window and check the driveway to make sure the car really was gone. It was. Next, she went into Todd’s office. With a queasy feeling in her stomach, Rosita saw that the room had been ransacked. The desk had been overturned, books had been thrown off shelves and onto the floor at random, papers were scattered everywhere. It looked like—
A car had crashed into the room.
Rosita had no idea where that thought had come from, but it was accurate, and the only surprising thing was that there was not an accompanying hole in the wall.
Quickly, she surveyed the rest of the house. Nothing else appeared to be out of order…until she reached the kitchen. Here, it appeared from evidence on the table, someone had made and eaten a sandwich. Stuck to the refrigerator with one of her fruit magnets was a piece of stationary with From the Desk of the DMV printed at the top. On the square of paper was scrawled: “You need more milk!” An empty milk carton sat on top of the adjacent counter.
She was calling the police. The DMV might be a governmental agency, but this was America, damn it, and there were laws against trespassing and breaking into houses and vandalizing people’s homes. She turned on her phone.
And saw a text from Jorge.
Pulse racing, all thoughts of calling the police instantly forgotten, Rosita read what her brother had sent:
Still alive. Todd at camp 2.
Get DMV form A131/2B. Find us.
Jorge.
Rosita sucked in her breath. Todd was at the DMV training camp with Jorge? It didn’t make any sense, but, then again, what did make sense these days? The important thing was that after all this time, her brother had somehow sent a message to her. And he was asking for help. She wasn’t sure, since the details were so skimpy, but the way she read it, this DMV form A131/2B would somehow help her find out where he was.
She saved the text, then wrote down the message, just in case, and called Beverly. It took three rings, and for a moment she thought she was going to have to leave a message, but then her sister-in-law picked up.
Rosita didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Jorge got a message out. He texted me. I think I know how we can find him.”
“Jorge?” She could hear the excitement in Beverly’s voice. “What’d he say?”
“It’s literally a two-line text. ‘Still alive. Todd at camp, too. Get DMV form A one-thirty-one slash two B. Find us.’”
“Todd’s there, too, now?”
“I guess so.”
“Why didn’t he text me?”
“I don’t know. We’ll figure that out later. Right now, we need to get this form and find them.”
“How’s that work?”
“I have no idea. That’s all he texted.”
“It sounds like we fill out this form, turn it in and they tell us where the camp is.”
“That’s how it sounds to me, too.”
“What then? Do we call the police?”
“I’m thinking we just go over there and get them out. After that, we call the cops, go to the press, whatever.”
Beverly was quiet for a moment. “You know what they’ve done, what they’re willing to do. You really think they’re going to just let us walk in, and let them walk out?”
Rosita was getting frustrated. “I don’t know. But we’re wasting time. Jorge actually got a message out to us, and we need to act on it. Now.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“They confiscated my car. Can you come by and get me?”
“Sure.”
“Then we hit the DMV.”
****
The parking lot of the Department of Motor Vehicles office was empty as they pulled in. Rosita remembered seeing police tape blocking the entrance several weeks ago, and realized she’d never learned what had happened there. Was the office still closed? She wasn’t sure.
With no other vehicles in the parking lot, Beverly pulled in close to the building, taking the first spot past those reserved for the handicapped. Getting out of the car and looking toward the office, Rosita was still not sure it was open. The few windows in the low brick structure were dark, but they were also heavily tinted, so even if things were bustling inside, she wouldn’t be able to tell. Rosita shivered. She didn’t like the building, felt an odd discomfort just looking at it, and while that might make sense under the circumstances, she was pretty sure she would have felt the same way even coming in cold. Her reaction was instinctive, and the fine hair on her arms bristled as her gaze swept over the face of the DMV.
The face of the DMV.
It was an odd phrase, and as she looked at the building, she thought she almost could see a face in the configuration of doors and windows.
That was stupid. She was being melodramatic, and when Beverly came around the side of the car, both of them walked through the empty handicapped spots and up the sidewalk to the office.
In front of them, the doors slid open automatically.
Had they always done that?
She was just being paranoid.
But when they went inside, she found out that she wasn’t.
The interior of the DMV was slightly hazy, almost as though a thick fog had just lifted, or a fire had been put out and the last of the smoke was dissipating. Unsourced illumination bathed the entire office in a soft yellow light—which made the redness of the blood stand out more clearly.
For there were dead bodies everywhere. At first, Rosita thought they were customers, people who had come to the Department of Motor Vehicles to renew their licenses or get ID cards or conduct other business, but it was clear from the nametags and uniform attire that these were the corpses of DMV employees. Slumped in a chair just inside the door was a gutted security guard, his viscous innards spilling onto his lap. On the floor, parallel to the wall on their left, was a line of mutilated bodies positioned head-to-toe, creating a pathway that led to a white door marked TESTING. The door itself was covered with bloody handprints.
