by Keri Lake
This isn’t a place of science. It’s a place of death and torture without rules, and I’m a traitor amongst them. Picking apart their carcasses like a vulture in the desert.
The ones from my hive are the worst. If they could speak, they’d undoubtedly call me a liar. A girl. They’d surely spill my secrets in those moments of recognizing my face.
The sound of voices moving into my space stiffens my spine, and I turn to see three boys taking a seat at the table behind me.
“They took James and Andy last night. And three the night before that,” one of them says.
Partway through gathering up my bread and bowl to move, I pause to listen.
“It’s called Alpha Project. Heard one of the guards talking about it,” another boy responds. “Ain’t gonna see those two again. I heard, once they go to S block, they don’t come back.”
“What happens in S block?” A third voice joins the first two.
“Bad stuff.” The first boy’s voice is lower, but I can still just make out the words. “They fuck with their heads. Cut off their cocks.”
“Quit talking about it, man.” A sliver of tension rides the voice of the second kid. “The walls have ears.”
When I’m finished, I return the empty tin cup to the bucket for washing, and make my way through the door to the courtyard. A few of the boys’ sit talking, while some sleep. Others pace, and those are the ones you have to watch out for. Stage three and four Dredge subjects are kept in a separate block, so as not to infect the others, but in the relatively short time I’ve been here, I’ve seen a boy spontaneously attack another subject. The bitten are removed, of course. Placed into stage one isolation. No one knows what happens to the biters.
They’re not usually seen again afterward.
Crying catches my attention, and I swing my attention to the right. The familiarity of it brings tears to my eyes, and I run toward the fence that separates me from my brother.
“Abel!” I call out to him, and he toddles over, wearing what appears to be a diaper and a dirty shirt. None of the younger boys’ wear uniforms like the rest of us, but then, none of them wear as many scars, either. Or sport shaved heads. He looks like he hasn’t been bathed in a week, and when he meets me at the fence, the stench of his soiled pants hits my nose. The healthy, chubby little boy I knew has grown thinner in the last month. A red and purple bruise above his eye, and one along his cheekbone, impels me to look him over, and I notice another bruise on the side of his thigh.
He clutches the chain-links with a hysterical cry that’s mingled with laughter. Hands raised up toward me, he tips his head back. “Up-up, Nenny.” Hearing the nickname he gave me brings a slight smile through the tears that fill my eyes.
“I can’t,” I say, crouching to my knees so I’m at eye-level. My hands won’t fit through the chain-links, so I curl my fingers over his, gently caressing his baby-soft skin.
“I want momma!” Abel sobs and snivels, and I feel completely helpless.
“Don’t cry, Abel,” I croak, trying to hold back my own sobs.
Behind Abel, a few other children about his age sit around the yard, their peeking rib cages and bony limbs hard to look at—all of them too thin and dirty. Like feral kids in the wild. When we first arrived here, my brother used the bucket like the rest of us, and somehow over the course of a month, he’s reverted to cloth diapers.
He tries to reach through the fence with his small hands, and I lean closer so he can touch my face. His body jerks and hiccups with cries, and I close my eyes, taking in the feel of his hands against my skin. With a shaky voice, I push out the words of my mother’s favorite lullaby, the one she’d sing to calm him on nights when my father left to scavenge.
“Hush, my darling, dry your tears.
Daylight’s come, so rest your fears
Lay your head upon my heart
And know that we will never part
For I am here, and here I’ll stay
Even when we’re far away
Like peace that soars with the winged dove.
You have my heart and all my love.”
My song has no effect. Abel is inconsolable, and worse, he’s tugging at me as if he can pull me through the fence.
“This one, all he ever does is cry, cry, cry!”
An arm bands around my brother’s chest and lifts him away from me.
I shoot to my feet, watching a soldier rip his arm away from the fence, leaving a long scratch across his delicate skin. “He’s just sad! It’s my fault! Abel!” I cling to the fence, while the soldier ignores me, carrying away my screaming brother, who reaches out for me. “Abel!”
As they disappear inside the building, a coldness sweeps through my chest.
I can’t break down here. Not here. Crying is for darkness. That’s when I cry. Not in front of the other boys.
I clear my throat, stamping away the thoughts of what will happen to my brother for crying. Are there consequences for the younger ones?
Don’t. Don’t cry.
The horn sounds, alerting me that lunch is over and to return to the lab. Keeping my head low, I amble across the yard toward the door.
A thump against my chest halts my steps, and I look up to see a taller boy, older than me, flanked by two others. “You seen where this one sleeps, Iggy?” he asks over his right shoulder.
All three of the boys carry the same haggard appearance as the rest of them. Somewhat dirty. Covered in bruises. The same observations they’re undoubtedly noticing I lack, as they eye me up and down.
I can’t help but feel sorry for the boys I see walking around, because I know what ultimately happens to them. And these ones, as rough as they look, will undoubtedly undergo some form of experimentation that tests their grit.
The one to the right of him crosses his arms and shakes his head. “Nah. Ain’t seen this one. Must have a penthouse room, yeah?”
“Where you sleep, shithead?” the first asks, prodding a finger into my chest.
I push at him, kicking him back a step. “Get out of my way.”
The big one snarls, and a strike comes from the left, sending pain radiating through my cheek bone. Another blow to my temple rattles my teeth, and a third sends flames across my lip. The yard spins in my periphery, and pain hits my spine as the ground slams into my back.
A man in uniform stands over me, his gun pointed toward the ground.
Will he shoot me? The question smothers my thoughts while I wait for him to pull the trigger.
And I welcome death.
Sitting upright on the hospital bed, I try not to flinch, as Doctor Falkenrath dabs the alcohol onto the wound across my cheek. A sharp burn travels up my nose, squinting my eyes, and I curl my hands into tight fists until it fades.
“You say one of the boys did this to you?”
“Yes. I don’t know his name.”
“Then, you will eat in here from now on. I’ll find out who it was.”
It’d be a relief, if not for my brother, who I intend to visit again. “I’ll be all right.”
He pulls away the gauze and tips his head with a smirk. “I don’t doubt that.”
Casting my gaze toward my fidgeting hands, I clear my throat. “Doctor, I saw my brother today.” My mind races for the right words. Ones that won’t incite his stony responses. Ones that might appeal to the small bit of empathy he’s shown me in the last month. “He doesn’t look well.”
As I suspected, my words have no effect on his expression, which remains as unmoved as usual. Cold and detached. “Diseased?”
I shake my head, and the sting in my nose shoots to the rim of my eyes, threatening tears. “He’s dirty and smelled like pee. And I don’t think they’re feeding him enough.”
“And you expect me to do something about this?”
Just like the fist to my face, his words sink a harsh blow to my gut, yet they put it all in perspective, and it sounds almost foolish for me to think he could change anything. I shake my head and slide from the
table, not saying another word about it.
“Doctor Davis is a very arrogant man. Approaching him is a very delicate dance of dominance, and I’m afraid I don’t enjoy playing those games.”
“But you would step in on my behalf? When he had a gun to my head?” The tone of the question is enough to have him telling me to skip supper tonight, but I don’t care. The tears have risen to my voice, and my eyes can hardly see through the blur. “Dying of starvation is slower, but no different. I think we’ve seen enough skeletons to know that.”
“Enough!” His bark echoes through the room, loud enough to climb my spine and shake my nerves. “Have I not been a gracious host to you?”
A brief flashback to the photograph he showed me on my first day stomps the argument cocked at the back of my throat. “You have. I meant no disrespect.”
Silence hangs on the air, and I busy myself by wiping down the countertops that hold syringe boxes, swabs and different sized gloves.
Even if Doctor Falkenrath can’t help me, it won’t do Abel any good if I’m thrown into the experimental wards and never seen again.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says from behind, and I close my eyes, surrendering to the first ray of hope since I arrived here. “Here.”
I turn to see him holding out a piece of crumb cake wrapped in paper, one of his usual gifts that’s kept starvation off my bones in the last few weeks, and shake my head. They were appreciated before I got a look at my brother and realized how partial they were. “I don’t want it.”
“It’s for your brother,” he says, slapping the cake into my palm.
The offer surprises me, since he forbade me to take the extra food outside of the lab. Favoritism is not only frowned upon by the other boys, but by the guards, as well. He assured me each doctor has gifts for those who behaved well, and up until today, I assumed that was the reason I haven’t seen much of my brother. That he’d been tucked away in Doctor Davis’s lab, the same way Doctor F took me in. I should’ve known better.
“Be careful and don’t let anyone see it.”
I give a nod, and tamp down the appreciation that I know will make him uneasy. “I’ll be careful.”
I finish supper quickly and push through the doors to the yard, eyes scanning for the three boys who attacked me earlier. They’re nowhere in sight, and as much as that brings me some relief, I have a feeling I’ll be seeing them again. With milky white eyes and large black pupils that accuse me, while I gather their body parts in small jars.
The aggressive ones don’t last long here. They’re taken for observation and the kind of testing that keeps me awake at night.
I shuffle across the yard, to find Abel wearing a clean, white diaper. Dirt still coats his skin, but I don’t care. He isn’t crying, when he approaches the fence carrying a ragged-looking bunny beneath his arm, which he holds up for me to see. It’s not Sarai’s—that was probably the first thing they stole from him.
“Hey, you found a new toy?” I ask, noticing the red-stained tail hair sticking up in clumps, plastered in what must be the blood of the last child who owned it.
“Deebis give me him.” Davis.
“I have a gift for you, too,” I whisper, and push closer to the fence, glancing around for anyone who might see us. The guards in Abel’s yard stand off to the side, smoking cigarettes, and the ones on my side are occupied with a Rager that’s got caught up in the razor wire. The other boys don’t so much as look at me, and I have to assume that’s based on what happened with the ones who attacked me.
Abel’s eyes light up, and though the dimples in his cheeks aren’t as deep as usual, they’re a welcomed sight.
I pull the cake from my sleeve, where I tucked it, and break off a piece, handing it to him. “Don’t let anyone see you. It’s just our secret.”
He nods, accepting the cake through the fence, and hides behind his bunny to eat it. One thing about my brother, he’s always been stealthy about food. When my mom made fig jam, she often found a half empty jar in Abel’s bed blankets, where he snuck it away to at night.
When he finishes the small bit of cake, I offer another piece. And another, until the cake is finally gone.
I stroke his thumb and kiss his little fingers poked through the fence. “Is Doctor Davis nice to you, Abel?”
“Him nice. But sometimes him not.”
Frowning, I swallow the lump in my throat and dare myself to ask the question burning a hole in my head. “Has he … hurt you?”
Abel tucks the bunny up under his chin and casts his gaze from mine.
“Abel? Does he hurt you?”
His eyes almost cross as he focuses all his attention on my finger in front of him, and he picks at my nail there. “Sometimes, him turn the lights off and tell me scary things.”
I squeeze the chain links, mentally willing myself to keep the anger in check. “Does he hit you?”
“Not him. Da other man. Him tells me I’m bad.” His lips curl to a pout and tremble, as if he might cry again, but he doesn’t. “Him says he’s tell Deebis dat I’m bad and for to lock me in the monster room.”
Heat fills my cheeks as the anger rises to my face, stiffening my jaw. “The monster room?”
He points to the left, and I follow the path of his finger toward the Ragers pacing behind the fence. “It’s where dem sleep.” Clutching the bunny tight, he shakes his head with a shine to his eyes. “I telled him I won’t cry anymore.”
“No. Don’t cry Abel. Every day, I’m going to come visit you. Every day. You meet me here after you eat, okay?” I muster a smile, in spite of the urge to implode. “You meet me right here. I’ll try to bring a gift again, if I can. Okay?”
“Okay, Nenny. I meet you here.”
I press my finger to my lips and poke it through the fence, as the horn blares that supper has ended. “I love you.”
Abel does the same, pressing his finger to mine. “Yuv you.”
Chapter 10
Wren
A soft tickle at my temple draws me from sleep, and I open my eyes to Six pushing the strands of hair from my face. Between us, our hands are still clasped together, as when we fell asleep.
His face is stoic, unreadable, as he studies me, but the sunlight filtering in from behind frames him in a soft glowing halo.
A knock tightens my muscles, but it’s not at my bedroom door. It’s from below. Voices bleed through the floor, one of them Papa’s, and I lift my head to listen, rapping it on the underside of the bed.
“Ouch. Shit.” I rub at the ache and glance back to Six with remorse for cursing. Remaining still and quiet, I hear Papa’s mumbling through the floorboards. Talking to someone.
I twist back around to Six and place my fingers over my closed lips for him to stay quiet and still.
He nods, pulling my pillow and clasping it to his chest, while I slide out from under the bed. Padding quietly across the room, I crack the door and stare down through the bannister, to where I can see the front entrance.
Two Legion soldiers, dressed completely in black, stand at either side of Arty, one of the guards from the gate, who’s dressed casually. He’s a pudgy man, with thinning hair and tired eyes, and looks small and insignificant beside the other two, but he’s the one who does the talking, as the other soldiers lift their gazes, scanning the interior of the house. There’s a vague familiarity to one of them—a stout blond who stands stiff as a board with his chin angled high. All Legion soldiers carry themselves with a certain proud arrogance, but his is almost haughty, reminding me of the boys I run into at the market sometimes.
They like to tease me. Call me a freak. Savage. I don’t attend their schools, so to them, I’m different, and different is frowned upon here.
One asked me to accompany him to Third Street a while back, a block made up of brand new, empty homes in the Phase Three neighborhood. When I refused, he ended up butt-hurt about it and knocked me backward into one of the fruit stands behind me, spilling all of the potatoes I’d collected
onto the ground. He and his friends have been cruel to me ever since.
“If you see anything, be sure to let me know right away,” Arty says, removing his worn cap and rubbing his skull. “I know you got Wren to worry about.”
At that, the blond lifts his gaze up, toward me, and I duck down, out of his view.
“Who’s Wren?” This deeper voice reaches my ears, and I concentrate on it.
I know I’ve heard it before. Oddly though, it skates down my spine like a bad kind of déjà vu. Something I might’ve heard in a dream.
“She’s his daughter,” Arty answers.
“Oh?” The pitch of intrigue in the stranger’s voice tingles my spine, and I glance back toward Six, whose feet poke out from end of the bed. “I’d no idea you had a daughter. I’d like to ask her some questions, as well.”
“I’ve never offered the information. And she’s asleep.” Papa’s stern voice tells me he’s irritated for being held up so long, and when he clears his throat, I’m certain of it. That’s the same sound he makes when I ask too many questions. “I’ll let you know if I see anything. Thank you, gentlemen.”
I peek over the balcony, keeping low so the stranger doesn’t change his mind and decide to interrogate me.
The Legion soldiers stiffen, offering a salute that Papa half-heartedly mimics, before the three men turn for the exit. The blond gives one more glance back toward the bannister, and I just catch his eyes as he leaves.
Once they’re gone, I slide across the floor to the side of the bed and lift the skirt, beneath which Six has peeled away the gauze at his palm, examining the gash.
The gash that’s healed.
Entirely way too fast.
I pull at his fingers, tugging his hand for a closer look. Only the puffy red line of a scar remains where the cut had been wide open the night before.
Setting my thumbs at either side of it, I gently push at the edges, creating a thin sliver of a channel, but it seals together again.
Odd.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, releasing his hand.