by Keri Lake
I look up to the ceiling to stifle the tears that won’t stop, and shift in the seat, clearing my throat.
“Will I … will I ever see him again?”
“Carriers are not permitted on the other side of the wall.”
A harsh swallow fails to push away the lump in my throat, and I drop my gaze to where my hands fidget in my lap. “He’ll be ha-happy, there.”
“He will. As I said, he’s none of your concern now.”
Both a sense of relief and sadness washes over me, and I can’t decide which feeling carries more weight.
Abel is safe and happy, and even if he forgets me, even if he forgets our mother and Sarai, I’m glad. He’ll live. He’ll be cared for. That’s all I want for him. I’ve kept the promise to my mother—staying alive for Abel—and now I can focus on myself.
“I’m … thank you.”
He doesn’t bother to look up, ignoring me for his study.
My eyes wander the walls in search of distraction, and I find it in a plaque that hangs below the clock, a plaque that reads Dies Irae.
“What does it mean? Dies Irae?”
“It’s Latin. Day of wrath. Mass for the dead. It’s the day of judgment, when all men stand before God, and those who are saved will be delivered into heaven.”
“And the ones who aren’t?”
“Cast into hell.”
“Do you believe that heaven exists?”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I think it does.” And this is hell, I don’t say. “Do you believe in God?”
He pauses his twisting of the knobs only briefly and huffs. “I did. But God stopped believing in me.”
“Josef?”
The foreign voice draws my attention, to where a lanky man is entering the lab, with sandy brown hair and a thin face. The lines in his skin put him somewhere around fifty, or sixty, but his eyes, as small as they are, are naturally wide and excitable. He tips his head as he approaches, and those eyes fall on me. “You didn’t tell me you’d taken up an assistant.”
“I don’t tell you many things, Doctor Ericsson.” Doctor F finally looks up from the microscope and sits back in his chair.
“And what talents does this one possess to work so closely with you?”
“Daniel can read and write.” It’s strange hearing him say my father’s name, and for a split second, I want to correct him, but I don’t dare.
“A savage that reads? Seems rather unlikely.”
Savage. That’s what they call us here. I’ve gathered it’s how they refer to those who live and survive out in the Deadlands. Animals, basically.
“I was surprised, myself, but … he’s proven to be quite useful.”
“Indeed.” The way the man looks me up and down sends the hairs on the back of my head on end.
I’m relieved when he turns his attention back on Doctor F.
“I wonder if you might be familiar the strain phenomenon? I’m seeing a variety of phenotypic traits that lead me to wonder if the nucleic acid theory might stand true. The Dredge prions themselves have affected various parts of the brain that differ from subjects co-infected with Creutzfeld-Jakob and Kuru.”
I’ve no idea what he’s saying, but I listen intently just the same.
“They are constantly folding,” Doctor Falkenrath says. “An ever-changing surface that adapts with the host.” The boredom in his tone carries like a weight around his words.
“An evolutionary prion?” Doctor Ericsson chuckles, folding his arms. “I’ll be curious to know the results of your work.”
“Likewise.” Doctor Falkenrath is far less enthusiastic in his responses, and when he leans forward to peer through the microscope, the message is clear that he’s no longer interested in conversation.
And Doctor Ericsson’s focus falls on me once more.
“What is a prion?” I ask, to avoid any of the probing questions while his eyes seem to silently examine me from head to toe.
“A rather fascinating organism,” Doctor Ericsson answers. “It is a protein that is essentially misfolded. When it comes into contact with other proteins, it induces the same misfolding, creating holes in the brain that resemble a sponge.”
“That doesn’t sound fascinating, at all. It sounds frightening.”
An obnoxious laugh bounces off the walls in the lab, and Doctor Ericsson strokes his chin. “Would you like to see my laboratory? I can assure you it’s far more exciting than this.”
My gaze slides to Doctor Falkenrath, who lifts his gaze just enough to give me a sharp nod, and my stomach sinks at the thought of going off alone with this man. For whatever reason, he strikes me as fake. There’s a greasy quality to his voice that I don’t trust, but I rise up from my chair and follow him out of the lab, down the hall to another section of the building I’ve never ventured to before. He comes to a stop in front of a window that takes up the entire wall, and beyond it, there’s a buzzing that sounds like a saw. The body whose back faces me steps to the side, revealing metal contraptions that pinch threads of bloody flesh, surrounding an exposed brain set against a wall of drapes that hide the rest of the body. The top of the skull has been removed, and the organ is prodded and poked by the doctors that surround the table. I take a few steps to the right, where the profile of the man comes into view. His eyes are open, his knuckles white as they clutch the edge of the bed, his feet kicking below.
“They’re awake when you do this?”
“Of course. We like to monitor speech and vision during the craniotomy. Motor skills. These are Stage One patients.”
“Do they feel it?”
He chuckles, and when his eyes slide to mine, the evil brimming to their surface sends a shudder down my spine. “Of course. All facets of the surgery are observed. Including pain reception.”
The conversation with Doctor Falkenrath resurfaces in my mind. Yes, I’m certain this place is hell.
All the more reason I’m grateful my brother is no longer a part of it.
Relief washes through me, when he leads me past the window and into a small room that appears to be his office—one far more elaborate than Doctor Falkenrath’s, with leather chairs and plants. Awards framed to the wall boast of years of experience, but it strikes me odd that many are dated prior to the first outbreak. As if he gathered up all of his belongings and settled long before the first Ragers appeared.
My father told me, all he had when he left the city was a cellphone, a pack of smokes, and my mother. There wasn’t time to grab anything else.
He gestures toward a chair in front of his desk, and I fall into the cushiony leather seat. An uneasy knot sits in my stomach when he slides into the narrow gap in front of me, leaning against the desk with one leg propped on the tabletop. “You’re a very curious boy, Daniel. I like that. Do you have an interest in medicine?”
I don’t, but if I’m to remain useful, as Doctor Falkenrath advised, I won’t bother to tell him that. “Yes.”
He nods and rubs his hand against the top of his thigh, across perfectly pressed black slacks. “Good. Good. Perhaps I’ll bring you in to assist in one of my surgeries.”
The thought spurs nausea in my gut. At least Doctor Falkenrath anesthetizes or, at times, euthanizes his subjects before cutting into them. He’s never intentionally subjected anyone to pain and torture as a means of observation.
But again, I lie. “Thank you. I’d like that.”
“Fantastic.” His words are drawn out and articulate, and I imagine he’s a meticulous man. “I’d like you to do something for me, Daniel.”
I don’t bother to look at him, unsure of why he’s taken such an interest in me. “Yes, sir?”
“Such a polite boy. Can I call you Danny?”
I wish he wouldn’t. It’s too close to my real name, and I’ve done my best to shield myself behind my father’s—keeping a thin layer between this hell and me.
The moment his hands move to his zipper, my gaze shoots to his, and I sit as far back in my seat as I can,
watching in horror as he drops his trousers to expose the erect penis beneath. He strokes his hand along the shaft, eyes studying my reaction. I’m hoping any moment that he’ll burst into laughter, and it’ll be a joke.
The greedy expression on his face tells me otherwise, though.
A cold numbness sweeps through my veins in the uncomfortable seconds that follow.
“Put it in your mouth, Danny.” Kicking a step closer, he places his hands at either side of him, lifting his hips slightly. “And if you say a word to Doctor Falkenrath, I’ll have you transferred to the experimental ward with the other boys.”
Shock clamps down my muscles, and all I can do is stare at his exposed penis. I close my lips to stifle the urge to cry, and my fingers curl around the arms of the chair. I can’t. I can’t do this.
With an upward glance, I catch him staring down at me, head tipped in waiting. Trembles beat out the steady waves of panic washing through me.
“C’mon, Danny. Put it in your mouth and suck.”
Bile shoots up my throat, and I gulp to swallow it back. Tears blur the organ into a flesh-colored protrusion from his hips, as the musky scent tugs a gag.
“Father?”
The voice comes from beyond the door and has Doctor Ericsson stuffing himself back into his trousers. The sound of his zipper chases the click of the door, and I follow his horrified gaze, to where a younger copy of himself stands in the opening, dressed in the signature black uniform of a Legion soldier.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“That’ll be all Daniel. You’re excused.” Doctor Ericsson clears his throat, rounding the desk to his chair.
At that, I push up from my seat, keeping my gaze toward the floor as I approach the boy, who appears to be about twenty. Only when I slip past do I look up to see the grimace plastered on his face, while his eyes follow after me. Once outside the door, I race down the hall, through the double-doors, to the familiar block of Doctor Falkenrath’s lab. Slipping into an adjacent supply closet, I back myself to the wall and fall into a heap onto the floor, pulling my knees into me.
And I finally break.
Chapter 15
Wren
Papa sits across from me at the table, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth. To my right, Six finishes off his breakfast, lifting the cup of coffee to his mouth, but pauses when I brush my leg against his. Mid-sip, he grunts and sets the cup back atop the table, while I purse my lips to stifle the smile begging to escape.
Since his running away three weeks ago, Papa has allowed Six to eat inside with us. I’ve not yet convinced him to permit Six to sleep here, but then, he doesn’t know that Six sneaks into my window every night, so I don’t push it.
The sessions of singing him to sleep have turned into kissing and touching, but nothing more than that, as I’ve not wanted to provoke him to run again.
The tension between us has been so palpable, like some kind of magnetic pull that draws me to Six whenever he enters the room. I don’t know what it is, but I feel something winding in my stomach every time I see him, a craving that tugs deep inside my belly. With his hair growing in, and his body filling the places where hunger was once evident, he’s become irresistible.
As it is now, we sneak around Papa, stealing away during chores to kiss, and of course, every night, we lie beside each other, exploring the other. I’ve come to know the canvas of his body, his worst scars, and the places he’s secretly ticklish. Six initiates it every time, and he stops when it gets to be too much for him and his aggression begins to surface.
I never push him, and he hasn’t lost control since the day in the meadow.
Papa glances up, brow cocked, and I slide my feet back to their place. “I’ve a surprise for both of you,” he says, and I straighten in my seat, genuinely surprised by this. “Mrs. Johnston is a diabetic, as you know. We’re low on prickly pears, so I’ll be taking both of you with me to gather some for her.”
The community is divided amongst the few physicians we have, and though Papa isn’t a doctor in the traditional sense, he has a good handle on the use of certain medicinal plants and their effects on diseases. Many of the physicians who treated with antibiotics prior to the outbreak don’t generally have a clue how to approach their patients nowadays, so Papa’s knowledge is incredibly valuable.
My breath hitches, and I exchange a glance with Six. “Beyond the wall? But Arty … he knows us. Won’t he ask about Six?”
“We’ll be taking the truck. I’m going a bit farther out than usual. Six can hide in the back.”
A smile tugs at my jaw, the excitement hardly containable as I scarf down another bite. “When do we leave?” My question is garbled around a mouthful of food.
“I’ll pack some supplies in the truck. I want you to gather your sling and knife. Wear your leathers, and be sure to cover your head to avoid sunburn. There is no shade out there.”
Finished with breakfast, I damn near leap from the table, quickly washing dishes that Six dries and sets away. Since Papa is out of the house, I allow Six to pull me into his body for a kiss that lacks his usual fervor, and the way he holds back tells me this surprise bothers him. I pull away, and my thoughts are confirmed by the upturn of his brows, a look of worry darkening his eyes.
“You don’t want me to go, do you?”
He shakes his head, clutching me tighter.
“I’m going to be fine. I’m with the two most fearless men I know. And believe it, or not, I’m a pretty damn good shot with the sling.”
His sneer accompanies the roll of his eyes, and I playfully punch him in the chest. A chest that has doubled in size in the time he’s been here. He’s grown to the size of an ox, and twice as strong.
“Trust me.” Cupping his face, I draw him to my lips, while my other hand slides across the front of his jeans, and Six stumbles back. Tipping my head, I smile. “You see? I know how to disarm the enemy when I need to.” Tossing the rag onto the countertop, I race up the stairs with Six on my heels, giggling as he chases after me. We reach my bedroom, and he bends into me for the fourth kiss this morning. When he does that growling noise I love so much, I can’t help but smile against his lips.
“Will you ever tire of kissing me?”
His jaw shifts, and eyes glued to my lips, he shakes his head.
Rising up to my tiptoes, I wrap my arms around his neck and press my lips to his one more time. “Me, neither. Now get out of my room, so I can change.”
He shakes his head again, wearing his wily Six smile that’s not really a full-blown smile, and exits my room.
“Careful out there, Doc.” Arty peers through the window at the driver’s side of the truck, stroking his jaw. “Getting some rebel activity about twenty miles out. Legions on it, but there could be stragglers out there. And I hear the Ragers been mutating. Much more aggressive these days.” He nods toward me, where I sit in the passenger seat. “Be sure to keep Miss Wren in sight. Still ain’t found that kid, either, and those S block bastards give me the willies.”
Papa doesn’t bother to look at the guard, instead keeping his gaze focused through the windshield. “Just gathering some plants.” For a physician, he doesn’t have the best bedside manner, barely walking the line of socializing when he comes in contact with others.
Arty taps the top of the truck and whistles to the other guards. Two seconds later, the wall moves slowly right, where guards line either side of the pathway through to the vastness of the desert. I sit up in my seat, taking in the miles at either side of us, dotted with the occasional tent, or broken down car, and a thud against the driver’s side door jolts my attention back to Papa.
A figure passes by his window, disappearing around the rear as we move forward. A woman.
“Who are they?”
“The rejected,” Papa answers. “The ones not permitted beyond the wall.”
“Why?”
“I don’t decide why, Wren.”
As we drive farther out, the tents become mo
re abundant, a colony of them, made up of what looks to be families with small children.
I stare through the passenger window at a little boy, who spits at us as we pass. “They seem … hostile.”
“It’s not so much leaving Szolen as coming back that’s the problem. But they’re not the ones you have to worry about.” He looks out the driver’s side, as we pass a child whose clothes are ragged, hardly hanging off his bony body. “These people just want in so they can be safe. So they don’t starve to death out here.”
“Who are the ones to worry about?”
“The others who want in to take what we have.”
“I don’t understand why we keep these people out. We have plenty of houses in Phase Two and Three. And soon Phase Four will be finished.”
“Civilization has always been divided into those who have everything and those who have nothing. Even when the world goes to shit.”
The tents thin out the farther we drive, and within a couple of miles, there’s nothing at either side of us besides the mountains and cactus plants.
“So, what made you decide to bring us today?” I ask, glancing back to see Six sitting up in the back of the truck, staring out toward the desert while the wind whips at his gray T-shirt.
“I want to show you something. But the place we’re going, with the pears, I could use another set of eyes watching my back.”
I swing my attention back to Papa. “From what?”
“Ragers. The closer we get to the main cities, the more likely we are to see them.”
“City?”
“Las Vegas—or what used to be Las Vegas—is nearby.”
Papa turns off the dirt road, bringing the truck to a stop. Ahead of us stands the only tree I’ve seen for miles, set just short of a plateau of rock, surrounded by shrubs. Twisted in on itself, it lies bent over, with long, thick buttress roots that coil around each other, making for one gnarly-looking tree.
It carries a strange enchantment about it, though, that doesn’t belong with its surroundings. Like something out of the Brothers Grimm fairy tales I once borrowed from the library.