by Keri Lake
My pack carries the rope and an extra set of Papa’s casual clothes—a pair of lounge pants and a T-shirt, so as not to set off a manhunt, should we run into any guards along the way. I woke Papa, who fell asleep in his study again, before I left and sent him to bed, waiting until I was certain he’d resettled before heading out. I also brought my sling in the event of trouble. Though, with the kind of trouble I’d anticipate from something like this, a measly pile of rocks won’t stand a chance against a firing squad.
Only the moon’s light shines down from the sky, when I reach the electric barrier to the woods, and I nab a stick, tossing it onto the fence. At the lack of sound, I hover my hand over the metal and take a deep breath. With the electricity out for the night, the fence should be shut down.
Closing my eyes, I grip the wire and blow out a sigh of relief when it doesn’t shock the hell out of me. I climb through the gap, but pause on the other side, at the sound of voices.
“Shit,” I mutter, darting for the cover of trees. Ducking low, I hold my breath as two Mediators sweep a flashlight over the trees. One tips his head, making a slow trail across the brush. If not for only the faint light of the moon, I might recognize them. Or worse, they’d recognize me.
The two of them keep on, and I exhale a shaky breath. I’ve no idea what they’d do if they found me. Aside from a few of the adolescent boys, sons of high-ranking officials here, no one’s ever broken the curfew law. And those boys walked away with nothing more than a slap on the hand.
Papa might be a respected family physician, but I doubt he has that kind of pull.
Twisting on my heel, I track through the woods, careful of the branches and fallen logs that seek to trip me up as I go. It’s one thing to traipse through the woods in daylight, but my skin crawls with thoughts of kangaroo rats and other critters that could pop out at me. Once I’m deep enough in the trees, I flick on the flashlight, and up my pace.
Excitement rushes through me, the anticipation trembling my muscles. When I reach the wall and find Six pacing on the other side, his steps almost in time with the Ragers’, the thrill that hums through my veins is so intense, it could light a spark. After propping the flashlight on the ground to give just enough light to illuminate my steps, I slip the rope over my shoulder and set my foot against the tree trunk. It takes what I estimate as five shaky minutes to climb high enough to reach the branch. Scanning the yard beyond the Ragers, I can make out a light bouncing in the distance, one I assume belongs to a pacing guard, but neither of the two in the tower can be seen from my position, so I’m assuming no one can see me in return.
Besides, the guards would never catch sight of me, not with the wall cloaked in darkness and the trees acting as a shroud. I tie one end of the rope to the branch, double-knotting it for good measure, and give a hard tug. With a gentle toss, the rope disappears over the edge of the wall, and the rising sounds of the Ragers moans momentarily squeeze my chest.
The rope jerks and tightens, and I hold it at the knot, to be sure it doesn’t slip.
Within minutes, Six’s face appears over the edge of the wall, and when he grips the branch stretched out before me, the buzz of excitement has me smiling as I reach for him. Once close enough, he grabs my arm and pulls himself up, bumping me forward.
His strength hasn’t wavered with his hunger, and at the scratch of my arm, I try to hold back the look of surprise and pain at the bruise that will surely be left there. Straddling the branch, he gathers up the rope from the other side, and I untie it from the branch. Once it’s tossed to the ground, we begin our climb back down the tree.
It’s not until our feet are safely planted on the forest bed that I realize how misleading it was peering into the small hole. Six towers over me, I’m guessing by a good six inches, which would put him over six-feet tall. His shoulders are broad, and his form is intimidating, yet my excitement doesn’t wane.
Across the small space that separates us, we stare at each other.
“Hi,” I say, choking back the ridiculous girlish giggle tugging at my throat.
His lips lift with a half-smile that damn near makes my heart leap right out of my chest, before his attention diverts toward the wall beside us.
Reaching out a hand, he glides his fingertips down the brick, holds his palm there, and drops to his knees to look through the hole, as if he can’t believe he’s on this side of it. There’s a sense of wonderment and curiosity that seems to guide his every move.
He turns to look at me again, and even in the dim flashlight, I can see his eyes tracking up and down, staring back at me as though I’m completely foreign.
It takes a bit of effort, squinting my eyes, but I break from my momentary trance, anxious to get back home, and kneel down to my pack.
I don’t notice at first that Six has moved in closer, until he kneels down across from me with his nose lifted in the air, as if smelling me. In some ways, he reminds me of an animal, and when he lifts my hands to his face, inhaling, I feel like prey at the mercy of a formidable predator.
It’s in that moment that I realize how little I actually know of him. And now that I’ve seen the full size of him, and felt his strength, a small tremble of fear runs parallel to that vein of excitement from earlier.
“I, um …. I brought you some different clothes.” I swallow a harsh gulp, watching him release my hand and set his gaze on me. The blood in his eye from earlier still gives him a frightening appearance, but certainly doesn’t detract from his chiseled features.
Tugging the shirt from the pack, I hold it up, estimating that it might be a bit snug on him. Perhaps the pants, as well, but I’d much prefer to be seen sneaking about with a half-dressed adolescent boy over an escaped patient.
His gaze falls to the shirt and back to me. Crossing his arms over one another, he lifts the baggy shirt of his uniform over his head, and my next breath catches in my throat.
His skin is marred with all kinds of scars—some long, some short, some sewn, and others that look as if they were left open to heal wrong. What I mistook as frail was nothing more than an illusion beneath the oversized shirt. Muscles far too big for him, far too developed for as hungry as he seemed, poke through his skin. Tight cords that seem so out of place and unnatural. His body is chiseled and lean. I expected a bag of bones, but as my eyes wander, lumps of muscle shadow any evidence of starvation.
It doesn’t even occur to me that I’ve reached out for him, until my fingertips make contact with one particularly gnarly scar, and he flinches.
“I’m sorry.” I retract my hand, stuffing it into my pants pocket, and wait as he slips the borrowed T-shirt over his head. A welcomed diversion, because the sight of his scars is too much, coupled with the other tangle of emotions going on inside of me.
I hand him the lounge pants and twist away, giving him the privacy to change out of his worn and dirty pants. When I turn to face him again, he’s fully dressed, catching me off guard in his normal clothes. Before, he looked like a prisoner over a patient, and now he looks like one of the boys on this side of the wall, save for his scars and bloody eye.
After I’ve stuffed the discarded clothes and the rope into my pack, we hustle through the woods.
“Follow me, and stay close.” I speak softly and take his hand, a gesture that guides his eyes down to our clasped fingers.
His movements, so fluid and full of wonder, make him look like he’s in a dream or something, trying to make sense of the world he’s slipped inside.
Six trips twice before catching himself, and we finally reach the electric fence. I step through first, and hold the wire to accommodate his significantly taller frame. Sticking to the shadows, I don’t say a word, as I lead him along the path, back home.
It must be after midnight when we reach the long gravel driveway, and for the first time, I breathe easy. Six trails my steps, his eyes wandering the surroundings, as if in awe.
“You’ll be safe here,” I say over my shoulder.
We arrive at t
he front door, and I turn the knob slowly, opening the door a crack, to peer into the dark foyer. Even though Papa’s a pretty sound sleeper, I’m not taking any chances. Finger pressed to my closed lips, I signal Six to move quietly, and as he steps into the house, I close the door behind him.
He lifts his head, his gaze skimming everything as we climb the stairs to the second story.
A thud halts my steps, and I freeze.
At no further sound, I keep on, leading Six to my bedroom.
Once inside, I close the door behind Six and rest my head against the panels.
Breathe.
The entire walk was riddled with the terrifying prospect of getting caught, up until this very moment, when the line of tension squeezing my neck finally softens with relief.
When I spin away from the door, Six is holding my pillow to his face, his chest filling with deep breaths, as if he can’t get enough of my smell. Face still buried in the fabric, his head tracks left then right.
Specks of blood sprinkle the floor, and I follow them to where he stands, scanning him for the source. Blood trickles from his hand and I hold it out, noticing small dots of red on my pillowcase. A long gash sits in his palm, I’m guessing a scratch from climbing, but the severity of it makes me think he might’ve opened an existing wound there.
I lead him to the bathroom, where I already filled the sink with water earlier, before the electricity shut down. Nabbing a washcloth from the closet, I dip it into the chilled liquid and dab his wound, revealing what is definitely an existing gash. I clean it and place gauze over top, securing it with tape.
Dipping the cloth a second time, I squeeze the bloody water into the bathtub, then soak it again, before scrubbing away the dirt on his arms.
Head tipped, with his arms stretched out in front of him, he watches me as I wash away the grime. His scent reminds me of grinding gears and the spark of metal on metal. A slight body odor emanates from beneath the hard iron smell of his skin, and I add a bit of lavender soap to the rag, cleaning his arms and feet as best I can for now. Tomorrow, I’ll help him shower, but tonight, I simply want to wash away some of the grime and dirt. When I rinse away the soap from his arms, he lifts them to his face, sniffing his own skin. He grabs my hands, cupping them to his nose, and closes his eyes, as if lost for a moment.
I take the pillow he grabbed earlier and snatch a blanket from the closet, arranging them on the floor beneath my bed. “In case Papa wakes in the night,” I whisper, holding up the bed skirt so he can climb under.
Six just fits beneath, and when he turns to the side, his shoulder scrapes against the underside of my bed. Lying with his back to me, he curls into himself and I let the bed skirt fall.
“Goodnight, Six,” I say, crawling into bed.
My body is so exhausted from all the stress, it begs me for sleep, but I can’t. Because there’s a boy under my bed. Not a boy. A man.
One who could very well rape, or kill, me in the night. Easily, too, with as big as he is.
One who walks among Ragers, and whose muscles could rival any one of the men on this side.
I could very well be dead by morning, but it doesn’t matter.
Because, tonight, I saved a boy.
***
Quiet whimpers filter into the void of my mind, and as I concentrate, all my senses return to me at once. I open my eyes to the darkness, and a hard thump hits the bottom of my bed, startling me upright. My head snaps back and forth, looking for the monsters I’m certain have breached the wall, and as another whimper drags my attention downward, to beneath the bed, memory trickles in, like a slow drip.
Six.
I slide from the bed and quietly lift the bed skirt. Six is lying turned away from me, his body curled into a tight ball, trembling so intensely, I reach out to still him, my hand only grazing the soaking wet T-shirt.
He gasps, flopping onto his stomach, and slides out from under the bed.
I hop back onto my bed, peering over the edge, and his eyes find me. Deep pools of blue in a blood red sea. They’re filled with the kind of horror that makes the hairs on my body stand on end. A chill spirals down my spine at the sight of him crouched in the corner, as if something evil lurks behind me, and I have to will myself to go to him.
“Six,” I whisper, as I set my feet onto the hardwood floor. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
He shakes his head, tucking it tight into his knees, and rocks. Back and forth. Back and forth.
With careful steps, I inch closer, not wanting to frighten him and wake Papa. “It’s just me. No one else.” When I reach him, his body is so tightly coiled, muscles pulled taut and shaking, that his bones look as if they’ll snap in half. “It’s just a nightmare. You’re safe.”
The rocking stops. He lifts his head, wearing a mask of confusion as he scans the room.
“You’re safe, I promise.” Talking to him seems to calm him, and when I set my hand on his shoulder, he flinches but doesn’t dart away. Instead, his body sags with a long exhale and a lazy blink of his eye.
He snatches my wrist, holding it to his cheek. Three long breaths, and he closes his eyes.
I stroke my thumb across his cheek, curious to know what visuals play behind his eyes. How could such a strong and intimidating boy be frightened of anything?
With a grip of his elbow, I tug him, guiding him back toward the bed. He crawls beneath the frame once more, settling himself on the pillow, and I slide in beside him.
His brow kicks up in bafflement, and he backs away, but I grip his hand, lying on my side to face him. With our hands clasped between us, I lift them to his face, allowing the lavender scent to calm him.
His chest rises and falls with deep breaths as his eyes shutter.
Tracing a finger down his temple, I hum a soft lullaby, one I occasionally sing while picking herbs in the garden. It’s soothing and tends to put me at ease when the world is too much.
Six pulls my captured hand into his body, while I continue to caress his face, allowing the puffy jagged scars to pass beneath my fingertips. Within minutes, he’s sleeping again.
The welt at his throat slides against the pad of my thumb, and I cringe at the harsh, pocked skin there. “I’ll never let them hurt you again, Six,” I whisper and lean forward to kiss his forehead. “I’ll keep you safe.”
Chapter 9
Dani
A boy who looks to be almost a man hands me a slice of bread and cold coffee in a tin cup. His skeleton pokes through thin skin, that’s dotted with yellowing bruises, and he has a split to his lip. I glance down to his hands, where a festering wound on his thumb nearly touches the bread, and my lip curls with disgust as I accept the food.
Having assisted with resections, as I’ve come to learn they’re called, with Doctor Falkenrath, I can’t seem to find a moment of reprieve from the disgusting visuals of human infection and suffering. In nearly a month, though, I’ve learned one thing about this place—food is scarcer than living on the Deadlands, and no one will encourage you to eat if you refuse. More for everyone else.
Meals are the only times that I have any prolonged exposure to the other prisoners, and only for the thirty minutes we’re given to scarf down the food and get some fresh air in the yards. Each cell block has about a quarter acre yard for about fifty subjects.
That’s what we’re called here.
Not prisoners. Not patients.
Subjects.
I make my way to an empty table, closest to the window that overlooks the yard, and sit alone, as usual. The yards are lined with razor wire, and on the other side of that are Ragers, pacing at the perimeter. Guards sit in watchtowers between the cell yards, each toting a gun. The yards are also separated from each other by fencing, and every day, I’ve searched the adjacent ones for Abel.
Lunch is bread, and a broth made of mostly water, with a few potatoes and beans. Supper is the same. Water is only provided with meals, except breakfast, when cold coffee is served. The boys who perform ha
rd labor are permitted extra water, to keep them from passing out in the heat. They’re the only exception, though. Everything is rationed to one ladleful each.
Food is all I can think about. It’s all the boys in the cellblocks talk about. When they’re working, when I pass them in the yard. Starvation makes a point of not allowing the mind to forget the body.
I’ve learned this block is mostly teenage boys around my age. Many of them sit together—bunkmates, I presume, and they watch me carefully each time I enter the commissary, as it’s called. There are a group of older men, and that’s mostly who we get down in the surgical suite. Those are the ones Doctor Falkenrath studies for the progression of disease. They’re here as a control group—first generation survivors. The occasional teenage boy is sent down, but they’re mostly progressed, or actively dying of something.
I suppose that’s the case with all of us here, though. Actively dying of one thing, or another.
There’s nothing ladylike about the way I eat, so I’m guessing they haven’t caught on to my secret. In here, I carry myself like a boy and keep my head low, as Doctor Falkenrath suggested. Everyday, my goal is to finish eating so I can search the yard for my brother.
I can’t look at the surrounding boys, knowing why they’re here and what will become of them. I feel like a traitor amongst them. A fraud. A sympathizer to the enemy.
In addition to suffering the cruel, and often sadistic, experimentation here, the boys are beaten regularly, whereas I’ve been treated more like a colleague. They’ve formed camaraderie with one another to stay alive. Sticking together in smaller groups. And even when they progress to the point of madness and end up in Doctor Falkenrath’s lab for death and dissection, I can’t help but see a small bit of betrayal behind the milky white eyes. It kills me to know my face is the last thing they see before they die. Doctor Falkenrath assures me that the stage three and four subjects are far too gone to recognize my face, or feel any sort of emotion, but I think he’s wrong. I know he’s wrong.