Juniper Unraveling

by Keri Lake

  I slide out of the truck, keeping my eyes on the tree as I approach it. The spiraled roots on the outside weave around the hollow base of it, forming what looks like a cage inside the trunk of it. It’s the most unusual tree I’ve ever seen, enormous and sturdy, yet so broken at the same time.

  There’s a carving in the wood, and rough bark passes beneath my fingertips as I trace the words there. Sam was here.

  Something about the tree is somehow familiar, and as soon as I think that, a flash of memory strikes my head.

  Hands reaching in through the bark. Growls. Blood. Pain. So much pain.

  “There’s a story about this tree.” Papa’s voice breaks the images passing through my mind, and I turn to find him standing beside me. “They say children wandering the desert would take shelter from the sun inside the trunk of it, and hide here at night from the Ragers. It’s twisted and bent over from carrying the horrible stories of things that happened to those children.”

  “What kinds of things?” It’s strange to think this battered and knotted tree, with its branches propping it up from the ground, could offer such safety, and yet, as I run my hands over the thick trunk of it, I believe him.

  “That’s just it. No one will ever know.” He crouches down to the base of it and points inside. “Have a look.”

  Past the ruined bark, I peer inside, where packs have been set out along with weapons and bottles of water, buried deep into the recesses.

  “The packs hold cans of food. Some medicine. Enough to get by for a few days. Each time I come out here, I check on it to make sure no one’s stolen the supplies.”

  “Supplies for what?”

  A presence at my right has me swinging my attention to Six, whose eyes scan over the desert as if he’s watching.

  Always watching.

  “In the event something happens. If Szolen is overrun, or our safety is somehow compromised, I want you to come here.”

  “There are only two packs in there, Papa.”

  “I’ve not had the chance to stow away a third, yet. Promise me you’ll come here, if ever you’re in trouble.”

  “Of course, but why would our safety be compromised?”

  “Because safety is merely an illusion, Wren.” He straightens to a stand and heads back to the car, while my mind searches for the images from just minutes ago. Ones I’m certain held some meaning, some small bit of memory, but they’re gone. As fast as they arrived, they’ve disappeared to the blankness.

  Six’s hand slides into mine, breaking my thoughts, and I squeeze his fingers to let him know I’m fine. “Just looks familiar to me for some reason,” I tell him.

  We both head back to the truck and continue on.

  Kneeling in the dirt beside Papa, I set the tongs onto a prickly pear and snap it from the thorn-riddled pad, tossing the fruit into the bucket. To the left of us, Six keeps watch at the perimeter, kicking a rock in boredom. We’ve filled one of the buckets and the other is half full already.

  Papa cuts a few of the pads off, setting them atop the fruit. “I’ve been meaning to plant some of these. Insulin is running dangerously low.”

  I give another glance back toward Six. “What’s S Block?”

  “Nothing that should concern you.”

  “Six is from S Block, though. Isn’t he? That’s what Arty was talking about.”

  “You ask far too many questions, girl.”

  I chuckle at that, tossing another fruit into the bucket. “And you never answer my questions. What can it hurt? I’ve not returned to the woods since I found Six. I’m just trying to understand him. For my safety?”

  “As if you’ve ever been concerned for your own safety.” He snaps another pear and tosses it, then straightens, gripping his lower back with a groan. “I’m getting too old for this shit.” Tugging a cigar from his shirt pocket, he lights it up, watching me gather the last of the fruit. “S-Block is an experimental ward in Calico.”

  “The hospital?”

  “Yes. The hospital.” The cigar sticks out from his crossed arms. “Young men like Six are taken there if they … express certain genetics.”

  “What kind of genetics?” I glance over at where Six stands with his feet set apart, his back to us, a stream of fluid between his legs as he takes a piss.

  “Second generation can be carriers of the Dredge protein. It’s passed down through the mother. If she was exposed, as many mothers were during the beginning of the outbreak, the protein gets passed down to the child.”

  “You’re saying … Six is a Rager?”

  “No. He’s merely a carrier. But some carriers, known as Alphas, have certain traits, and the physicians in S Block seek to exploit those traits.”

  “I know you’re going to kill me for asking, but what kind of traits?”

  Instead of answering, Papa lifts his chin, as though listening for something.

  I hear it, too. A low hum, that seems to be getting louder.

  The click click click sets my nerves on edge, and I climb a nearby boulder to get a look beyond the plateau that overlooks a shallow dip in the landscape. About a hundred yards off, dozens of Ragers approach.

  “Papa! They’re Ragers!” The sight of so many walking freely crystalizes my spine, paralyzing me where I stand. “Six!” I call out to him, where he still paces the perimeter, and when he spins around, the first Rager barrels toward him.

  “Oh, God! Six!”

  Half of me wants to run to him, protect him. The other half of me can’t move. My breaths hasten, and a cold sweat takes over me, the dizzying fear turning everything into a muted silence.

  Papa tugs at my arm, and I break into motion again, gathering the buckets of pears. “Six, c’mon!”

  A dozen more on the heels of the first rush toward us, but stop short mere feet from Six. Instead they pace, growling and reaching out, their eyes set on Papa and me.

  Though, as if an invisible barrier stands between them and us, they don’t come any closer.

  We toss the buckets of fruit into the back of the truck, and Six walks the perimeter, pushing the occasional Rager backward. They growl and bare their teeth, but don’t attack him. Some swipe out at him, but they keep their distance.

  Once the fruit is loaded, I scramble to the cab of the truck and, pausing at my door, watch in awe. “Why do the stay away?”

  Gaze glued to the windshield, Papa nods toward Six. “Him. We have to go. Now.”

  With one hand on the passenger door, I whistle for Six, but a force strikes me from behind. The ground smashes into my face, and I claw at the dirt to get away. A sharp yank drags me back.

  “Wren!” Papa’s shout hardly carries over the terrified scream that gurgles in my chest, as I reach out for anything to hold on to. Gripping the tire, I resist the pull of my legs and kick out, finally catching sight of the mutilated face scrambling toward me.

  I can’t reach the blade at my hip while buried under the body of the Rager.

  It bears its teeth, chattering them, as they do before they kill. It lowers its head as if to bite me, and in the next second, the creature is thrown into the air on a hearty growl. Arms slide beneath me, lifting me from the ground, and I wrap my trembling arms around Six’s neck as he carries me, setting me back inside the truck.

  Ragers have surrounded us, getting closer. A thump against the window behind me stiffens my already rattled muscles, and Six throws the mangled figure out of the bed of the truck.

  “Six! Get in!” Papa’s stern voice carries the slight wobble of fear.

  Squeezing in beside me, Six slams the door on a charging Rager, at the same time Papa floors the gas, and we plow through the bodies, turning back onto the main road.

  Strong arms pull at me, and I nuzzle into Six’s chest, mentally willing myself to calm down.

  “Are you all right? Did they bite you?” Papa asks beside me.

  “No. No bites.” The horror of the final moments replays inside my head, though. If Six hadn’t been there, the Rager would’ve bit
ten me. I would’ve become one of them.

  “They’ve begun to roam farther out from the cities.”

  I lift my face from Six, examining his arms, his clothing, looking for any bite marks. There’s nothing. “How did they not bite you?” The incredulous tone in my voice doesn’t reflect the lingering fear still pulsing through my body. I clutch his arm, taking deep breaths, willing my head to settle.

  At the first sight of tents, Papa pulls off and directs Six into the bed of the truck, beneath the tarp, so as not to be seen by the guards. Once he’s out of earshot, I swing my attention back to Papa.

  “Why didn’t they attack him? It’s almost as if they feared him.”

  “Probably smelled it when he took a piss.”

  “Smelled what?”

  “Pheromones.”

  I frown, trying to imagine how something I’ve only come to know as an animal trait might apply to Six. “How?”

  “The mind of a Rager is something like an early reptile.” Papa doesn’t look over at me, just focuses on the drive. “Some hypothesize that they are reduced to the reptilian brain. A very primitive mind. They’re driven by three basic needs—eat, mate, and survive. And they survive by instinctively avoiding what they perceive as a much bigger threat.”

  “They’re afraid of Six, then.”

  “We should all be a little afraid of Six. He’s driven by the same needs, Wren. The second generation has a more symbiotic relationship with the protein, and he can function on a higher level. But he has urges. Some he can’t control, as much as he may want to.”

  Staring out the window at the families scattered across the land in tents, I absorb his words, but they’re not entirely true. Six can control himself. During both of the attacks on me, he stopped himself from hurting me. “Will he die of the illness?”

  “Naturally? I don’t know. Their life expectancy is much longer than the first generation Rager. But they’re not designed to live a long and happy life. They’re designed to sacrifice themselves for the good of the whole.”

  “Six was trained to die?”

  “He was trained to kill. Death is more of an occupational hazard.”

  “This hospital. How do they get away with this?”

  Papa keeps his gaze forward, but I catch the tight curl of his knuckles around the steering wheel. “By making us believe that Ragers are the biggest threat.”

  Chapter 16

  Dani

  An envelope is set in my palm, and I glance up to Doctor Falkenrath’s stern eyes. “Please deliver this to Doctor Salisbury for me.”

  At the doctor’s name, I breathe a sigh of relief and nod. I don’t mind Doctor Salisbury so much as some of the others in this place. He’s a bit like Doctor Falkenrath, only more ornery, however that’s possible. He curses, too, but his lab work is strictly third stage subjects—ones who are full-stage Ragers, so it doesn’t trouble me as much to pop in on him.

  Not like C block, where Ericsson’s lab is.

  I exit the room and head toward the experimental wing.

  “Well, well. Look what we have here.” At the familiar voice, I turn to see Raymond coming up behind me, walking with a limp. It’s somewhat odd to see another subject walking around the halls so freely, but perhaps he was sent to deliver something, as well. “Where you off to?”

  “I’ve been asked to deliver a package to Doctor Salisbury.”

  “So, you’re a gofer for them, too, eh?”

  “Keep your voice down!” I chide, as we pass a section of offices.

  “I’m sorry.” His hobbling hastens to keep up with me, as I try to ignore him. “Hey, you seen your brother?”

  “No.” I slide a glance to him and back. “Not that it’s any of your business …”

  One of the doctors approaches us, one I’ve seen chatting with Doctor F before, and I nod in passing, catching the frown on his face.

  Once he’s out of earshot, I continue, “My brother was sent out for adoption. On the other side of the wall.”

  “Who told you that?” The smile in his question grinds me, immediately setting me on defense.

  “Doctor Falkenrath. Who happens to have a better idea of what goes on in this place than you do.”

  The grip at my elbow flinches my arm, and I drop the envelope. With an irritated huff, I kneel down to fetch it, and Raymond kneels too. His head scans left then right, and he leans in. “Listen to me. He lied to you. After Shawn went missing, I searched the building. Found his limp body in a trashcan. Whatever they told you isn’t true.”

  A zap of pain hits my skull from my clenched teeth, as I scowl back at him.

  “There’s a file on your brother, I guarantee it. They document everything here. Find that file, and you’ll know the truth.”

  “Why are you doing this? Are you jealous? Is that it?” I don’t want to look for a file, or hear any more of his suspicions. I want to know that my brother is safe and happy, living a good life on the safe side of the wall.

  “Of a gopher?” He sneers and shakes his head. “Not even.”

  “I may be a gopher, but at least I’m not their guinea pig!”

  His eye twitches, and he pushes off the floor to straighten himself. Standing before me, I notice the slight lean in his stature, an observation he seems to pick up on. “Beginning of the week, they removed a section of bone from my leg. I just got out of the surgical ward. One more piece. Small pieces at a time.”

  The remorse gurgles in my stomach, and I push up from the floor. “I’m sorry. For what I said.”

  “When you decide to wake up, go look for that file.”

  He hobbles off down the hall, leaving me standing there, and my mind battles over which of my two evils I can face—keep swimming in what could be a lie, or drown myself in what might be the truth.

  Everything about this is wrong.

  Through the dark halls, I tiptoe toward Doctor Davis’s office. The advantage of not being cooped up in the bunks with the other boys is complete access to the hospital wings at night, when the power shuts down and the majority of the medical staff have left. A few of the rooms still function on backup generators, powered by solar-batteries, but there’s not enough to feed the entire hospital.

  Over the soft patter of my feet against the cold tiles, the sounds of suffering echo down the hall, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. Their agonized wails remind me of ghosts that call out to me, as I slip past laboratories and surgical wards, keeping my gaze forward to avoid seeing inside of them. Each of the blocks is connected by a hallway that bridges the buildings—a harrowing stretch that offers nowhere to hide, in the event guards are patrolling at night.

  Scampering down the hall, I reach the double doors to the next cell block and slip inside. A new set of doors opens up to a whole new surgical ward, where I do glance into the rooms, only to be sure Abel isn’t tucked away in one of them. The knots in my stomach untwist a bit to find them completely empty, and I continue on toward the offices.

  Reaching Doctor Davis’s office, evident in the name plastered to the door, I set my ear to the panel and listen. At the lack of sound on the other side, I twist the knob and enter the dark room. Nabbing the flashlight I brought along with me from my pocket, I shuffle toward the filing cabinet. It’s when I open the first drawer that I see that they’re in numerical order, based on the patients given serial number.

  “Shit,” I mutter, lifting a file from the tight collection of them. Thankfully, a picture is stapled to the front of each—a normal picture of the child that must’ve been taken when he first arrived, judging by the fullness of his face and hair. Not recognizing him, I stuff it back and go for the next.

  Another face I don’t recognize.

  I continue to lift files in search of Abel’s, but there must be at least a hundred of them in this drawer alone.

  A thump from outside the door steels my muscles, and I click off the flashlight, eyes scanning for a place to hide. I take shelter underneath Davis’s desk only seconds befor
e the door opens, and a beam of light trails across the wall in front of me as a flashlight sweeps through. Seconds later, it flicks off, and I peer around the corner of the desk to see one of the guards, dressed in black, closing the door behind him.

  Blowing out an exasperated breath, I crawl out of hiding and return to the file, picking up where I left off.

  Thirty minutes pass. I’ve seen at least six dozen faces before a familiar one pops up. One of the small boys from my hive. The next is another boy I know. Two more files, and I finally lift Abel’s.

  In the picture, he wears a half smile through a shine of tears, holding Sarai’s rabbit in the crook of his arm. I choke back my own tears and tug the file from the drawer. I flip it open to papers, dated notes that detail things like how much he weighed, how long he slept, and numbers I’ve come to recognize as vital signs, from working in the lab. A picture shows an isolated shot of a large red sore on some part of his body. The attached note reads inoculation #1, followed by the date. Another shows him lying on his side, with a doctor knelt beside the bed, sticking a needle into the base of his spine, while a second doctor holds him down.

  The sight of it sends pangs of nausea to my stomach, and thankfully I can’t see Abels face to know if he’s awake, or sleeping, during the procedure. The deeper I venture into his file, though, the more my heart pounds in my chest and a slight tremble hums beneath my skin.

  I flip to a note and pick up on specific words scrawled across the page.

  Child cries incessantly. Suffers from night terrors. Placed subject in sleep observation room. No change in behavior. Non-carrier status. Transfer out of cell block. Terminate.

  I anxiously thumb to the next page. A picture sits atop another set of notes. In it, my brother lies on a stainless steel table, eyes closed, as if he’s sleeping. The irritating shield of tears keeps me from seeing his face clearly, as I study it. I need to know if he’s sleeping.

  I lift the picture to see Autopsy Report stamped on the page below it, and I drop the file, falling to a slump. Clutching the back of my skull, I open my mouth to a silent scream, but nothing comes out. A numb sensation crawls across my skin, at the same time a tight fist clamps around my lungs.