by Keri Lake
Supper is welcome, but less appetizing today, while I lift the bowl to my mouth and drink the broth. Tucking the bread into my sleeve, I head out to the yard and look for Abel.
He’s nowhere.
“Abel!” I shout, trying not to draw the attention of the guards at the opposite side. All the familiar faces look back at me, as I scan the yard, and when my gaze falls on Sammy, I crook my finger for him to come over to the fence. Wearing a dirty diaper and scratching his sunken belly, he hobbles over. It’s not natural for a toddler to walk so harshly, as if it physically hurts his legs, and I cringe for the way he doesn’t hesitate to follow my command, in spite of it.
“Where’s Abel?”
His downturned lip accompanies a shrug, and he looks back to the yard. “I d’know. He wadent ewe.” His speech has worsened in recent weeks, and the spacey look in his eyes sets my stomach at ease a bit. The kid is losing his grip, becoming more detached from his surroundings. It’s better that way. They cry less. Fear less.
“Okay, thanks, buddy.”
He nods and toddles off, aimlessly wandering the yard.
“If he’s not out here, he’s gone.” The voice draws my attention to a boy sitting against the fence. I haven’t noticed him before, but I look around to see if it’s me he’s talking to. “When I first got here, my brother was assigned that cell block, too. Every day, I came out to talk to him. His name was Shawn.” For the most part, the boys here look the same, with shaved heads and frail bodies, but this one has a long scar up the side of his head that reminds me of the Frankenstein books my mother had. “One day, I came out here, and he was gone.”
“Might’ve got transferred. You don’t know.”
He sneers at that and shakes his head. “He’s gone. And he’s better off. ‘Least he gets to sleep.” When the boy turns toward me, I jump a step back. A scar that looks as if he’s been burned frames his eye. The skin is stretched over the corner, giving it a squint, and I try not to stare.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
Thing is, this boy doesn’t know I work in the morgue every day. I’d know if there was a body taken down. And if Abel has been transferred, I’ll find out from Falkenrath.
“Two years.”
Jesus. He must’ve been here the longest, because most of the people don’t last that long.
“I’m … Danny.”
“You don’t sleep where everyone else sleeps. Why’s ‘at?” He doesn’t look at me when he asks, probably not wanting to rouse the guards. The last time a kid asked me that, he disappeared from the yard.
“I’m assigned to the surgical suite.”
“Didn’t ask where you were assigned. We’re all assigned somewhere.”
“I sleep there.” The others have obviously taken notice, so it’s not like I can lie to him.
“With all them bodies?” He shivers and shoves a cigarette into his mouth, taking a drag.
The bodies are taken down to the morgue, but if he thinks that makes my sleeping arrangement less appealing, I’ll go along with it. “You get used to the smell.”
“They do shit to you there?”
Each question is increasingly difficult to answer, and I worry that I’ll say too much, but he’s the first boy I’ve spoken with so casually since my arrival. Falkenrath’s comments about favoritism run through my mind. “Like, if I don’t do what I’m supposed to? Yeah. I get hit.” In truth, Doctor Falkenrath has never hit me, not even when I spilled formaldehyde all over the countertop, or cracked the lens of his microscope when I focused too close.
The kid chuckles and blows out a cloud of smoke. “We all get hit. Ain’t talkin’ ‘bout gettin’ hit.” He reminds me of the boys in the Deadlands—hard living and sarcastic. They smoked and cursed and clipped their words, too. “So what’d they make you do? Suck ‘em off? Jack off in front of ‘em?”
I frown, not knowing how to answer. Is this what they’re subjected to here? Is that part of their torture?
“How y’think I get a pack of smokes in this place?” With a snort, he takes a long drag and closes his eyes, before exhaling. “Ain’t as bad as S-block, so there’s that.”
“What’s S-block?”
His eyes slide open to a cocked brow. “You ain’t heard of S-block, yet?” The sudden grim expression on his face settles to the pit of my stomach, as I shake my head. “Military unit. Think we have it bad here? Poor bastards in S-block get trained using Ragers. Most die. The ones that live become attack dogs out in the Deadlands. They’re trained to kill.”
There’s a haunting quality to his words that cast a dark shadow behind his eyes. He nods toward the Ragers at the back of the yard. “Some days, I wonder why I don’t jump that fuckin’ fence and let those bastards eat me alive. ‘Least somebody in this shithole would eat good.”
I turn my attention toward the Ragers, who aimlessly pace in their small pen. I once asked Doctor Falkenrath how they managed to stay alive. He told me that, once the non-infected organs have been sampled and studied, they’re discarded into the pens, where the Ragers feed on them. In some cases, they’re given the entire body. Everyone knows the Ragers don’t eat their own kind, those who are infected, so those bodies get sent to the morgue, and eventually, the incinerators. Every day, dozens of organs feed the Ragers, who ensure that we don’t reach the wall and what lies on the other side.
“Hard to believe people are going about their day on the other side of that wall. Don’t know a thing about us, or what happens here. Life never changed for them, not after the bombs, or the destruction. They live in homes. Drive cars. Eat dinner around a table with their families. Half of ‘em probably ain’t never seen a Rager.”
It is hard to believe, a thought that manages to momentarily distract me from my thoughts about Abel. My whole life, to this point, has been a game of survival—always moving, because staying in one place too long can get a person killed out in the Deadlands. It’s all I know. Hard to imagine a life so untouched by the harsh world.
“Some say there’s underground tunnels into Szolen, but I ain’t never seen ‘em. There’s another fence at the front of this place, though. Where you came in. Free sailing beyond that one.”
“I saw it.” A smaller pen set off from a building where we first came in, which I understand was once an airplane hangar. “So, you get past those Ragers, you can make it out of here?”
“There’s no getting past those Ragers. They’ll smell you coming.” He juts out his chin and sniffs the air. “Like dogs. They sense pheromones, d’you know that? One whiff, and they come runnin’. Just like a pack of fucking wolves, waiting for the lamb.” He flicks the cigarette butt away. “Ever watch them eat someone alive?” At the shake of my head, he lifts his gaze past me. “I have. Scary shit.”
The horn blares, pulling me from my musings, and the kid pushes to his feet.
“You never told me your name,” I tell him.
“Nobody has a name here.”
“You did. I want to know yours.”
“It was Raymond. Named after my grandfather.”
“I’ll see you around, Raymond.”
Chapter 12
Wren
“Get behind me, Wren.”
Papa’s gun is trained at Six’s head, finger on the trigger, but instead of doing as I’m told, I step in front of Six, shielding him. “Please. Listen to me.”
“Get. Behind me. Now.” There’s a determined look in Papa’s eye, one I’ve never seen before.
Even though I’m scared shitless, I do my best to see the situation through his eyes. After all, Six is frightening, with his scars and the one eye that’s bloodied with a dilated pupil. He looks like a Rager, in some ways, aside from the pure blackness of their eyes and the soulless depths of their stare.
“No. He’s not dangerous. He’s not going to hurt anyone.”
“Get away from him!” Papa’s fingers dig into my arm as he yanks me away, before steadying his gun, and Six jumps to his feet.
> With his chin propped in the air, Six reminds me of a dog backed into the corner, his lips peeled back into a snarl.
“He saved my life today.”
“I’m sure he did.” The air of disbelief in Papa’s voice angers me, and teeth clenched, I tromp across the kitchen, nabbing the set of tongs set out beside the stove, and lift the long body of the snake that I’ve been boiling.
“It nearly bit me. He killed it.”
With a frown, Papa’s eyes slide from me to Six. “He could’ve easily taken your life, as well. You’ve no idea what he is.”
“Then, tell me. What makes him so dangerous that you’d take his life?” Setting the snake back into the pot, I keep my attention on the gun and take slow steps toward Six. “You told me never to kill unless threatened. He’s not threatened anyone.”
“How did he get here?”
“I brought him.”
“What?”
“I went into the forest. There was a hole in the concrete. That’s where I found him. That’s where I saw the hospital. And the Ragers. And the Legion guards. They hurt him.”
“I forbade you to go into that forest, Wren! You disobeyed me!”
“You lied to me! You said there was nothing outside of those walls! But there is. Look at him! Look at what they’ve done to him!”
“He’s not what you think. He’s … not a victim.”
“How can you say that? How can you tell me those scars weren’t inflicted? Look at them, Papa. They’re no different than mine!” I shove my scar into his face—the one that seems to settle him whenever he gets worked up, and like always, he turns his gaze from it. “What is it about my scar that affects you so much?”
“I’ll return him. Finish supper, and I’ll be back before dark.”
“No!” Once again, I stand in the line of the barrel, acting as a human shield. “You will not return him to that place of torture. I won’t allow it!”
“You have no choice.”
“If he goes, I go.”
“You don’t even know this man, Wren. You don’t know what he’s capable of, to sacrifice yourself for him.”
“I know enough. I promised him I wouldn’t let them hurt him. And I intend to keep that promise.”
Papa’s cheek twitches with the anger that he’s undoubtedly fighting back. “If they find him here, he’s dead. We’re all dead.”
“They won’t find him. I promise you, I’ll not let them find him.”
His cold eyes settle on me, lips pressed to a hard line, as if he wants to argue, but won’t. “He’s not to sleep anywhere near this house. He can sleep in the pole barn. And if they catch him, God help him.”
He relents too easily. It’s a thought that eats away at me, as I fight not to let my emotions take over. Papa never gives up so quickly, and in those seconds that ticked by, I’d mentally prepared myself for a fight.
A fight that never materialized.
Relief washes through me, when Papa lowers the gun, and it’s then I notice the small bit of gauze at his arm.
“What happened?” I nod to his wrapped arm.
“It’s none of your concern,” Papa says and hobbles out of the room.
Six slides his hand into mine and squeezes, as if to say thank you.
It’s strange how in such a short time, I understand him better than Papa.
Frustration pulses through me as I take a bowl of the snake meat and some vegetables, with a glass of water, out to the pole barn. Using blankets from the house, I arranged a makeshift bed for Six and gave him my pillow, the one he slept with the night before. The machinery stored toward the back gives off a strong metallic scent, much like Six did the night before, when I first brought him here. Now he smells like Papa’s cedar wood soap and mint.
He accepts the food, and I sit beside him, watching him eat.
His eyes are set beyond me, and I follow the path of his gaze toward the open door, where over in the house, Papa’s silhouette can be seen behind the curtain as he stands waiting for me.
With a huff, I twist back around to Six, wishing I could somehow convince Papa to let him stay inside. There’s a guest room that he’s used to store vaccines, and such, and it could easily fit the bed I’ve made from old blankets and sheets that probably wreak like mothballs.
“Will you be okay out here?”
Six nods, gulping down the proffered meat, which he washes down with a sip of water.
“I hate him for making you sleep out here, but I’ll work on him. Maybe he’ll eventually let you back in the house.”
As usual, Six says nothing in response, and particularly now, I wish he would talk. I’ve accepted his silence up until this point, learning his emotions through his actions, but a part of me fears that I’ll wake in the morning, and he’ll be gone. I wish I knew whether, or not, Papa’s words had affected him so much that he’d abandon me to appease the grumpy old man.
“He thinks you’re dangerous. He’s scared you might hurt me.”
Pausing, Six scowls and shakes his head. He cups my face and strokes his thumb gently across my cheek, before pushing my hair back behind my ear.
“You wouldn’t hurt me. I know that.” I know that he has some strange ability to heal, and that his reflexes aren’t exactly what I’d call normal, but Six isn’t a danger to me. “Do you remember your home? Where you came from?”
He shakes his head, spooning a heaping mound of vegetables into his mouth, and part of me is relieved by his response.
I won’t ask about his family again and risk that he’ll take off, like before. “So, you’ve nowhere to go. And you can’t remember your name.”
Staring somewhere beyond me, he sits as if in contemplation for a moment, then shakes his head a second time.
“Then, you’ll just have to stay here. Papa will just have to accept you here. I’m not sending you back to that place, Six. I won’t.”
Once he finishes his meal, I take the empty bowl from his hands, and his fingers brush mine, just as they did that day back at the wall. And just as before, his touch disarms me.
I push up from the barn floor, catching another glimpse of Papa, still waiting for me at the window.
“Goodnight, Six,” I say, leaving him there.
Just doesn’t feel right to me, treating him like an animal, left outside, and as I close the door of the pole barn behind me, I can’t bring myself to look back at him.
Darkness settles over the house, and when I wake, the moon is high in the sky. Sitting up from my bed, I listen for Papa’s heavy breathing, catching the cusp of a snore that tells me he’s fast asleep. At the wheezes that bleed through the wall, I slip out of bed, and into the shoes I tucked beneath. I didn’t bother changing into bedclothes, either.
Padding across the floor, I stand in front of the window, looking out over the expanse of the yard, where the pole barn sits in complete blackness, and slide the window open. A cool evening breeze wafts across my face, as I climb out onto the slope of the roof. Before I reach the gutter, I leap over the edge, dropping to a roll as I’ve done a number of times before.
Shaking off the tingle of pain in my shin, I limp across the yard until I reach the door of the pole barn. Muffled sounds from inside spike my curiosity, and I crack open the door to peek into the dark room. Moon’s light shines in through the window adjacent to Six’s bed, and I slip inside.
Curled on the floor, Six writhes and twitches in his sleep. The quiet grunts and moans reach my ear, as I pad across the pole barn and kneel at his side.
I reach out to stroke his arm.
Cold concrete cracks against my back, knocking the wind from my lungs. Pain rockets up my spine, and I gasp for breath. Pressure at my throat intensifies with the throttling at my neck. Circles float in front of me as I stare up at Six, whose eyes are crazed, pupils dilated like a feral animal. Whatever he sees behind those eyes, it isn’t me.
My chest sputters a cough, and I suck in a breath, squinting my eyes to push away the floating objects.
“Six, stop!” I manage between choking, and just like that, he snaps out of it.
His pupils shrink to the stark blue from before, and his brows swing up into a remorseful expression. He releases my neck and scrambles from my body, kicking himself backward until his back hits the wall behind him.
It takes a minute to catch my breath, and I sit up, holding my throat, bent forward with a hearty cough.
Fists beating at his temple, Six rocks in place, but stops to shake his head. A sound like a tortured animal echoes through the barn.
I scramble toward him, careful not to touch him unexpectedly. “I’m okay. Six, stop. I’m okay.”
He continues to hit himself, and at the first sight of blood, I brave the reach and take hold of his flailing arm.
The action stops him immediately, and the shine in his eyes, coupled with the tormented expression on his face, is all the apology I need. “You didn’t mean to hurt me, I know that. You had a nightmare.”
He cradles his head in his hands, tucking himself into his knees.
“Come lie down beside me. Come on, Six. It’s okay.” I tug at his arm, but he resists, twisting out of my grip. I grasp his arm again, holding tight. “Please.”
When he stills, I give another gentle pull, and he allows me to take him down to the floor, where I rest his head against my chest, holding him tightly. His massive body engulfs me, while I stroke his head to calm him, taking in the tremble of his muscles.
Just like the night before, I sing him to sleep.
Chapter 13
Wren
Somehow, a week passes.
Every night, I sneak out to the pole barn, singing Six to sleep and making sure I’m back in bed before daylight. Six hasn’t attacked me since the first night, and in fact, he’s come to expect me each night, sometimes sitting up in bed before I arrive and nuzzling in beside me until he falls fast asleep.
During the day, he helps me with chores, muscling the heavier stuff I tend to avoid. Within a week, his bruises have begun to yellow, and some have already faded into the healthy bronze of his skin.