by Keri Lake
“Then, I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Dark hair grins and exchanges a glance and a nod with the blond.
The blond grips Abel’s shoulder, guiding him forward.
Instinct kicks in. I lurch toward him and bite down on his arm.
His curses bounce inside my skull, and a sharp pain hits the side of my neck, along with a thump that sounds like air pushed through a tube. I stumble backward, my muscles cold and weak, while my surroundings spin too fast for me to keep up. The view around me reduces to a pinprick with Abel’s screams echoing inside my mind.
Chapter 4
Wren
Of course I come back.
Peering through the hole at the bottom of the wall, I search on hands and knees as far as my limited view will allow. I have to know what happened to him. Nightmares plagued most of my sleep, which leaves me tired and frustrated when I don’t see the boy.
“Why did you run, then! It was your fault!”
Propped on one palm, I thunk my temple with the other, drumming the dull ache that’s since blossomed there. “Go away,” I whisper. “Not today. Not today. Not today.”
My head tells me to give up and find a place to hide where I can chide myself for scaring him off. My head tells me he’s dead and that it’s my fault. I try not to listen to my head, if I can help it, though, because it doesn’t always tell me to do the right things. Sometimes, it tells me to hurt others, or myself, and right now, my head wants me to find the roughest bark in this forest and rub my wrist against it until it’s bleeding and raw. Punishment for frightening the boy.
If I do, though, Papa will start asking questions, and I don’t like to disappoint him, because he’s the only person in this place who doesn’t look at me like I’m crazy.
I’m not crazy. I can’t help the thoughts that run through my head, and it’s not as if I think about them all the time. It’s only when I feel hurt, or sadness, the way I’m feeling for that boy.
It’s the black moments that scare me most, though. When I can’t remember anything I’ve said, or done. Only the voices fill the void, telling me I’m still alive, and to wake up. When I do, there’s usually a cold, sick feeling in my gut, my skin covered in sweat, and a blankness hanging behind my eyes. I’ve kept the blackness away for a while now, but the ache means the darkness is coming. My head feels light, along with my stomach.
I sit clutching my head for what seems like an hour, waiting for that black hole to suck me in, when I hear the gravel shift over the low hum of the Ragers on the other side of the wall.
On hands and knees, I crawl closer to the opening and peer through. My heart suddenly feels bigger, pushing against my ribs. I don’t even understand the relief washing over me at the sight of the boy’s profile.
Inked below his shaved head, right at his hairline, above the band of his collar, is the sequence of numbers that I noticed before, only this time, I see they disappear around the base of his skull. From this angle, I can make out a large scab behind his ear, and the zigzag of another poorly-sewn scar on the edge of his nape, below his hairline. His jawline is sharp and strong, in spite of the frailty of his body, as he sits with his knees tucked into himself.
When his eyes find me, my heart leaps in my throat at how I forgot their striking effect. I’ve never seen the ocean myself, only in books, but I imagine it so vividly in those eyes.
“I thought you were dead. I thought the Ragers had killed you.”
As usual, he doesn’t answer, but his glance toward the Ragers and back tells me he isn’t ignoring me on purpose.
“Are you hungry?”
He nods in response, and just like the day before, I gather up figs and berries, more than yesterday’s, shoving them through the small hole. When he reaches for them, I recoil at the odd shape of his finger, which looks as if it’s been broken. Yet, the boy scoops up the fruit, untroubled by the deformity, and devours the proffered food.
So many questions swirl inside my head, but I’m hesitant to ask most of them, for fear he’ll run off again. Instead, I watch him eat, admiring the way he looks at the food before every bite, as if he’s grateful for it.
Minutes pass, and I gather more fruit, sucking on the flesh of a split open fig.
Once again, I lie on my stomach, musing over the oddity that I could watch him eat for hours without boredom.
“You still can’t tell me your name?”
He shakes his head, smashing a handful of berries into his mouth.
“Can’t, or won’t?”
Shakes his head.
“Well, which is it? You won’t?”
At the third shake of his head, I begin to think he’s patronizing me.
“Can’t?”
Then he nods.
“Surely, they must call you something there. The others. Do they have a name for you?”
He nods again.
“What is it?”
Abandoning the fruit in his palm, he lifts his hands—five fingers on one, the broken index finger on the other. Six. He gestures a sequence of numbers that strike me as familiar.
“The number on your head?”
He nods and goes back to eating his stockpiled fruit.
“That’s way too long to remember. I’ll just call you Six.”
His broken finger catches my attention, the way he favors the others around it, and I know it must hurt. I merely twisted my ankle a few months back and could hardly walk.
“Did the others do that to your finger?”
He holds his hand out from his face and bends the digit that’s begun to turn black and blue, squinting at an undoubtedly painful movement. He nods.
What kind of hospital breaks bones?
“Are they doctors there?” I tread carefully with my questions, not wanting to frighten him again.
His nod only drums more confusing thoughts inside my head. Ones I know the boy won’t answer. Perhaps if I frame the question right, I can ask Papa without rousing his suspicion.
I find there’s little room in my heart for compassion, or love, as a general rule, but my soul aches for this boy. “How old are you?”
Finished with his fruit, he glances over at me and reaches beyond my view. With a thin twig, he draws a one and a nine in the dirt. Nineteen. The nineteen-year-olds on this side of the wall are big, with muscles and small minds, dreaming of the day they can wear the black suits and become one of The Legion. Some are only sixteen when they venture out on the other side of the wall—lively, if not privileged, little shits who are never seen again. They occasionally march through town, like a herd of drones, their height being the only distinguishable feature.
A sounding horn startles my muscles.
Six scrambles to his feet and, like the day before, dives through the crowd of Ragers, leaving behind a few fruits.
Only this time I don’t worry.
I have a feeling I’ll see him tomorrow.
Chapter 5
Dani
Heat pours over my face, and I tip my head up toward the bright sun. Abel’s laughter mingles with my sister’s, as they play together somewhere, but doesn’t carry over the melodic sound of my mother’s singing. I’m lying in a bed of orange desert poppies, with the scent of a passing rain shower on the air. I smile, concentrating on the warmth that blankets my skin, and I could stay in this place forever.
A man’s voice filters in, and I focus on it. Dad?
It’s deeper. Foreign.
My siblings’ laughter turns to screams. My mother’s singing becomes a high-pitched wail.
I snap my eyes open.
The bright lamp above me casts a blinding light that begs me to shield my face, but mentally willing my arm to do so leaves me panicked when I can’t move. I can’t raise my head. Or fully open my eyes.
The light dulls at the same time that a silhouette moves into my periphery, and I stare up at the dark-haired man, who stands over me with a mask across his face. Not one of the scary masks the soldiers wore. A white
mask, like a doctor’s.
“You won’t be able to move for a bit.” He tugs the mask away from his mouth and removes the rubber gloves from his hands.
Sickness twists inside my stomach, spreading across my belly, and I heave. My head is turned just enough to vomit all over the crinkly white paper below me. Clear fluids expel on a cough, and a plastic cup is set beneath my cheek, collecting the next round that hurls past my lips.
The acids burn my throat, and when my head is set forward again, the phantom strings of slime cling to my cheek.
Mask back in place, dark-hair twists a cap onto the plastic cup and sets it off to the side, outside of my view.
“You’re very clever.” He rounds the bed, and stands at a counter. A sound reaches my ear, like a steady stream of water.
It’s then I notice how parched my mouth is, and I swallow a harsh gulp, clearing the sticky saliva at the back of my throat, but cough.
A tube-like object is set to my lips that I recognize as a straw.
“Drink,” he says.
The cool fluids are heaven against the scratchy burn, and I don’t stop sipping, until the fluids arrive too fast to swallow, and I sputter a fountain of water on another cough. Alarms beat inside my head when I can’t take a breath. Again my head is slung to the side, while I hack up the small bit of liquid locking up my lungs. I’ve never had so much water without having to share with my siblings.
It’s while staring at dark hair’s chest that I see the badge, with his picture and name printed in big black lettering. Josef Falkenrath.
“Where am I?” Weakness claims my voice with the woozy sensation that has the room tracking after my eyeballs.
“My laboratory. Tell me, what is your name?” Josef sets the glass of water off to the side.
“Daniel,” I rasp, noticing my throat still carries a scratch.
“Daniel, huh? Odd name for a girl.”
Panic blossoms in my chest, clenching my ribs, and I choke back the urge to throw up again. They only take boys. It’s then I notice the cool cotton sheet that dances over my thighs and breasts.
He’s unclothed me.
“Where are my clothes?”
“When the drug wears off, you will be issued a uniform.” His eyebrow wings up, as he crosses his arms, leaning back into the chair. “There’s never been a girl at this facility in all the time I’ve been here.”
“Please. My mother. She wanted me to look after my brother. To keep him safe.”
“And you’ve already failed her in that.”
His face widens and stretches behind my tears, and a tickle hits my temple as the moisture finally leaks from my eye, sharpening my view again. A childish urge tugs my chest, and I gulp down the sob cocked at the back of my throat. “I want to go home.”
“You no longer have a home.” The cold tone of his words as he lifts my arm, while staring down at my skin, bites at my ability to keep it together. “Everyone you knew from your hive is either assigned in a cell block, or gone. There is no other option. And you will find the line between those two thins quickly here.”
“My brother?”
“Your brother is in another cell block. He will be observed. For a time.”
“What is this place?”
“A research facility.” He releases my arm, allowing it to hit the cold metal beneath me with a thunk. “A bit more time, and you should regain muscle control.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“I’m a scientist.” He seems to move about at my side, but holds up a needle, that has me feeling queasy.
A faint sting on my forearm leaves me squinting. I hate needles. Once, I was really sick, and my mother took me to a woman who pushed a needle into my arm. It was attached to a bag that my mother said would make sure I had enough fluids, and they had to strap me down to keep me from pulling it out.
“Are you going to send me back because I’m not a boy?”
“Sending you back would mean certain death for you.” He holds up a tube filled with what must be my blood, twisting it in front of his eyes, before setting it down somewhere beside him. “No. You read, and you write. You’re useful. You will assist me by taking notes and labeling samples, as you saw me do with the cup.”
Anger gets the best of me as I remember that this is the man who denied my brother. The man who allowed the creepy blond to drag him from me like an infected coyote.
They’re all wolves. Predators. And hell, if I’ll do anything to assist these sadists.
“No. I’m not some slave secretary to a bunch of murderers. Go to hell!” I’d spit in his face, but my mouth is bone dry, even after the water.
His jaw shifts, and I catch the twitch of his eye. With a glance to his side, he lifts a photograph, holding it to my eyes. In it, a teenage boy, maybe sixteen, is stretched out on a table, naked. I’m taken aback by the explicit view of his penis and all four limbs tied at each corner of the bed. His body is marred by cuts and bruises, and scars of all shapes and sizes. Four men in white lab coats stand close to his head, evil smiles on their faces. “Provocation test. It is believed that this boy harbors the second generation Dredge disease. He tested positive for the prion antibody. My colleague, Doctor Ericsson, believes that this disease remains latent in the body. He believes that, through painful stimuli, it can be activated. Would you like to be transferred to his lab?”
The horror of his words settles over me, as I stare at the boy. Every humane bone in my body tells me that I should rebel against these monsters, for the sake of victims like this poor soul. The blond who took my brother is one of the four in the photograph, and the choke at the back of my throat stifles the sob waiting to break free.
“My brother. Will he … will they do these to him?”
His expression is unreadable, as if he’s untouched by the emotion brimming in my tears. “The younger boys are merely studied for aggression. Blood samples, bone structure. Observation. Should he demonstrate the traits of a carrier, he’ll be kept for these sorts of studies, yes.”
His blunt honesty sits heavy in my gut.
“And … if he doesn’t?”
“Then, the study is over for him, and he’s set free.”
Free? A part of me doesn’t trust the word here, but for now, it’s all I have. Just like the old man in the truck told me—you have to believe in something.
“And me?”
“When we no longer need you, you’ll be set free, as well. In the meantime, you are alive because you are of use. Remain that way, and you will survive.”
“The others … will they kill me, if they find out I’m a girl?”
“Yes. They most certainly will. Therefore, you will sleep and bathe here, in the research complex. There is a room where I sometimes sleep, when I’m here late.”
“My brother … I have to sing him to sleep, sometimes. He gets scared—”
“Your brother is no longer your concern. Had your mother known what fate she’d sent you to, I very much doubt she’d have placed the burden of a child on your shoulders. Your only concern, from this day forward, is your own survival. Do as I say, and you can prolong that here.” He stands up from the chair, staring down at me.
I’m ashamed to say there’s some relief in that, but also sadness and anger. So much anger, he must see it on my face.
“What you did earlier was cause for death. Know that no one will save you in this place. I’m not your ally. I’m not your friend. And I will not step in on your behalf again. Should you disrespect an officer of The Legion, you’ll be left to face the consequences. Is that clear?”
I muster a somber nod in what little neck movement has begun to return. “Why did they kill my mother and sister?”
He lifts his chin, staring down his nose at me, and his eye twitches. “Simply because they had no use for them. You’re only alive because you possess a skill that most do not. Remember that.”
It takes an hour for whatever had left me paralyzed to work its way out of my system. In that
time, I’ve thrown up and urinated on more occasions than I care to remember, grateful for the facilities that I’m not accustomed to. In the hive, we defecated in buckets that were used to fertilize the gardens. Once a week, I had the nasty chore of emptying them into what we called the ‘hot pile’, for compost. Doctor Falkenrath, as he’s asked me to call him, calls these toilets, and unlike our buckets, these have a suction system that does it itself. He says they’re only found in the doctor’s quarters. The other boys defecate in buckets that are collected in bags and burned.
Once I’m finished, I kneel down to the clean, white floor and spin what he referred to as the agitator, which works to compost the waste. When I open the lid, the fluids have disappeared.
Tenderness lures my fingers to my shaved head, and I probe the source of a raw burn there. It feels like the time I was scratched by a cat while climbing the ruins—itchy and fiery. A scant amount of blood returns on my fingers, and I push to my feet, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
A blackish marking, framed by an angry red swell, peeks out from my nape, and I can just make out the number eight. Tattooed in my skin. Forever. In an awkward twist of my torso, I manage to make out a five tattooed beside it. I probe the wound, to find the tenderness extends across the base of my skull.
I’m guessing it was put there while I was out cold, though I don’t recall even a fleeting moment of it.
A sound reaches my ears through the barrier of the skinny door, and I spin toward it, listening. Screams. Horrific, pain-filled screams that have my heart pattering in my chest.
The screams draw me out of the small toilet closet, and I enter the bright white room where I woke up an hour ago. Across the small space is a window, nearly taking up the width of the wall, with a heavy door beside it and a small white box, on which a tiny light glows green. The room on the other side of the window is much larger, with lights at the end of long, bendy arms that remind me of an insect’s legs, hanging from the ceiling.