Juniper Unraveling

by Keri Lake

  I can’t breathe.

  Lifting a trembling hand to my mouth, I capture the first break of a sob into my palm.

  He died alone, on a cold, metal table. No warm embrace, like my mother and Sarai. No one to tell him not to be afraid. He was surrounded by strangers, prodding him until his last breath. Without a hand to hold onto.

  The pain drags me deeper into tormenting memories.

  Abel lies beside me in my bed, as we stare up through the window above us at the stars that glitter the night sky. Mother says, when she was younger, the stars didn’t shine near as bright, with all the light in the cities. I point to them, smiling when Abel follows the path of my finger, as if he hopes to pinpoint the very star I’m looking at. “There’s grandma, and Aunt Jess. And there’s Emilia and Garrett.”

  “And Daddy?” he asks.

  “Yep. Daddy’s a star, too.”

  “Someday, I wan’ fly to da moon an’ see him.”

  Hands clasped together, I curl my fingers into my brother’s small, baby hands and squeeze. “Maybe you will.”

  I stare down at the picture of him, distorted by my tears, and brush my finger over his innocent face. “Say hello to them for me, Abel,” I whisper, and close my eyes to weep.

  For the first time in my life, I’m completely alone.

  Minutes pass. Maybe hours. I push up from the floor and gather up my brother’s file. Before placing it back into the drawer, I snap Abel’s picture from the front and stuff it into my pocket.

  I don’t care if they catch me with it. I no longer care what they do to me.

  Everything I had left to fight for is gone, leaving nothing but an empty shell. And shells don’t feel pain, or fear being broken.

  My whole body is numb, locked in a state of shock as I exit Davis’s office. I don’t even notice the sweep of the flashlight at first, until it flickers in my periphery.

  I twist to see the guard from before standing at the end of the hallway. Spinning on my heel, I push through the door beside me, looking for a place to hide and take cover in a dark stairwell. A minute later, the guard passes the window, and I blow out a breath, sagging against the wall. Clicking on the flashlight, I edge toward the bannister and peer down the spiraling stairwell.

  Perhaps the buildings are connected in their basement level as well. The apartment we lived in was connected to the next building over. It was supposed to be an escape route, in the event Ragers managed to get in.

  One we never used.

  I scamper down the staircase, rounding each floor, until I’ve reached the lowest level where a B is stamped onto the door panel. Pushing through brings me to an open area, where a variety of equipment and appliances are stored. The area is vast, and when I come upon a hallway, the surrounding darkness has me completely turned around until I’ve no idea where I am.

  I keep on, anyway, and catch the shine of something in the beam of my light. A black gloss off in the distance. As I approach, it comes into clear focus, and I can make out the shape of a body propped on a chair, completely covered in some kind of rubber suit that shines. The face is covered by the rubber, as well, but a wide rusted pipe sticks out from the mouth, and I follow the path of it to one of the large structures beside me.

  Is he alive?

  I reach out and push my finger into the suit.

  It squishes unnaturally, casting a shiver down my spine, and I rub the pads of my fingers together as they carry the lingering sensation.

  I lean toward it a second time, catching a burnt smell that crinkles my nose, and once again, I glance upward toward the structure attached to the pipe.

  What is it?

  Arms wrap around me from behind, at the same time a hand covers my mouth.

  With waves of terror washing through me, I scream into the palm.

  “Shhhh,” the voice whispers in my ear, but I squirm and kick, trying to break away. “Do you know what this is?”

  At his question, I still in his arms. I’ve no idea who’s captured me, but he’s strong, stronger than me, and fighting him is proving useless.

  Shivering in his grasp, I shake my head.

  “Ever heard of an autoclave?”

  I have. It’s the large, refrigerator-looking thing in the lab, where instruments are set on the shelves inside and pressurized steam sterilizes them. I nod in response, and he points a finger toward the pipe.

  “Same concept. That pipe is connected to a boiler, and steam is sent into the suit.”

  The horror of what he’s describing crawls over me, and bile inches up my throat.

  “See, we can’t have one of our own becoming infected and spreading the disease. Unfortunately, the prion can’t be destroyed by much of anything, really. So we contain it in the suit. Kill off the virus that carries it, and discard the whole damn thing after. Here is where we test the suit. To make sure there are no leaks, or mishaps. Only the older subjects are used for testing, though.”

  A whimper leaks from my mouth, still captured in his palm.

  He releases me, allowing me to turn, and dread burbles in my gut as the halo of my flashlight shines on Doctor Ericsson’s son. The one who walked in on us.

  Close up, I can see he’s much older than me, but still carries the features of a boy—youthful skin and little facial hair that places him at nineteen, or twenty. The black suit he wears shows his broad shoulders, which taper down to a small waist, telling me he’s far stronger than I am, to even consider fighting him.

  “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

  “Please. I … I just got lost, is all.”

  “I’ll take you back after.” The promise in his voice is the only measure of comfort that compels me to do as he says. We wade through the darkness, and I shine my light on objects that seem unfamiliar to me. Relief washes over me when we finally reach a staircase, and I follow him up flight after flight, until we reach a door with a large red S stamped to the panel.

  S block.

  “Sir, I’m actually from cell block B.” I glance back down toward the stairwell, convincing myself to run and sort the mess out with Doctor Falkenrath tomorrow. Something tells me Ericsson’s son would sort it out for me, though.

  “This will only take a minute.” He pushes through the door that opens to yet another dark corridor. “My apologies for not introducing myself,” he says over his shoulder. “I’m Ivan.”

  “I’m Dann … Daniel.”

  “I know. I remember you from last week. In my father’s office.”

  The memory sinks to the pit of my stomach, and I have to swallow back the lingering scent of the doctor’s manhood still clinging to my nose. Those thoughts are quickly tamped down by the droning sounds that reach my ears, and fear needles my muscles.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Why were you in my father’s study that day?”

  I wish he’d stop asking me about that day—something I’ve wanted nothing more than to forget. “He … wanted to show me his laboratory. I’m an assistant for Doctor Falkenrath.”

  Ivan chuckles and shakes his head. “And what makes you special enough to be anyone’s assistant?”

  “I can read. And write.”

  He stares down at me, shrinking me. “Well, that is special. But you’ll never be an assistant. You’re a savage. A slave.”

  I open my mouth to slap him with a snarky comeback, and he swings open the door behind him.

  The room opens to something that looks like an auditorium, like the old abandoned theater where the kids in the hive would sometimes play. Chairs are set up in a row, and six older boys, perhaps Ivan’s age, sit restrained in them, their hands strapped down to the arms, heads secured to the high backs of the seats. Multi-colored wires stem from their shaved heads, attached to white patches taped to their skin, and at the other end they’re plugged into a black box on the outside of the chair. Like some kind of monitor. More wires hang out of the band of their pants, and those are attached to a separate box that leaves me questi
oning its purpose.

  “These are S block subjects,” Ivan says beside me. “Essentially, they are savages who carry the Alpha gene. Ragers, in a sense, but they haven’t yet turned. Still boys, as you can see. They seem to control their infection, unless provoked.”

  A wooden box, similar to the confessionals used in church, stands off to the side, in front of them, but instead of being completely enclosed, there’s a window. Through the window, two men stand naked, one slamming his hips into the other from behind, and the boys in the chairs watch them. I turn my head to keep from looking at the men in the booth, squinting my eyes for some reprieve, before I open them again. The knuckles of the boy closest to me turn white as he clutches the arm of the chair, his head propped by metal guards strapped across his forehead to keep him facing the men in front of him. His eyes skate to mine, chin trembling, spilling drool, while he struggles to direct his attention away. A terrifying screech echoes inside the room, as his eyes squint, and his whole body convulses in the chair.

  Hands grip my head and urge my attention back to the men on stage.

  “As with all Ragers, sexual aggression is a common trait among the Alphas. Their minds are somewhat primitive, in that they seek to mate. Male. Female. It doesn’t matter, the little faggots.” Releasing me, he tips his head toward the boy nearest to us. “Is it any coincidence that faggot rhymes with maggot? Disgusting insects that infest and feed on shit?” Hands clasped behind his back, he paces. “They’re driven by pleasure and pain. The docs in S block seek to modify their behaviors. So, every time they become aroused, they receive a very painful shock. After all, we wouldn’t want them distracted out there in the Deadlands. Trying to fuck the very thing they should be killing.”

  “Why are you showing me this?”

  “You like boys, don’t you? Are you not turned on by watching two men fuck each other?”

  I shake my head, the anger welling inside of me spurring tears in my eyes.

  “Then, why would you seek out my father for sex?”

  “I didn’t seek him out. I told you. He invited me to his lab.”

  “My father is a respected man. An honest man. A God-fearing man. He doesn’t need some faggot twink like you destroying everything he’s built.”

  “I want nothing to do with him. I didn’t ask to be there that day. He came on to me!”

  “You’re a liar!” He juts his chin toward the box. “If you like men so much, maybe you can be of use. Get undressed.”

  I shake my head, tears streaming down my face. “Please.”

  Pulling a gun from his holster, he points it square at my head. “Remove your clothes. Now.”

  In the seconds that follow, I contemplate the choice, if it’s a choice, at all. Abel flashes behind my shuttered lids, and the hopelessness from before settles into my skin again.

  I do as I’m told.

  I lift the shirt of my uniform over my head, exposing my small but budding breasts.

  His brows pinch to a frown, still holding the gun to me. Prodding the barrel, he urges me to remove my pants.

  Growls echo in the room, and the thud of movement tells me the boys in the chairs have taken notice. Their chasing cries of pain make me cringe.

  I push my pants to the floor, and straighten, crossing my arms to cover my breasts. Tears stream down my cheeks as his eyes wander my exposed body.

  “Well, what the fuck have we here? It’s a girl.”

  Cold and bare, I shiver, as he circles me, and flinch at the first touch against my arm.

  “This is a pleasant surprise, indeed. Don’t see any girls in this place.” Coming to a stop in front of me, he pushes away one of my arms, tipping his head as he brushes a finger over my sensitive flesh beneath. “You’re a clever one, yeah?”

  I don’t answer, dropping my gaze while I let him fondle me.

  “Do you know what they’d do to you here, if anyone found out?”

  “Please.” I shake my head and another round of tears fall down my cheeks. But my plea is weak. I don’t care if he kills me. As long as he kills me.

  The screams from behind heighten, seeming to grow more intense, and I clamp my eyes shut to tune out the sounds of suffering that crystalize my spine, leaving me paralyzed and terrified.

  “Do you hear them? Do you know why they’re in pain? They want to mate you. Their instincts tell them to impregnate you. I’ve heard the docs chatting about it. Rounding up young girls like yourself to produce third generation subjects. But I can help you.” His lips are at my ear, his hot breath fanning my skin. “I can keep a secret, if you can.” His fingertip drifts down my arm, raising the hairs on my skin. “Can you keep a secret, Danny girl?”

  I flinch at the sound of my name and nod in response.

  Chapter 17

  Wren

  The creaking sound that echoes through the room draws me out of sleep, and I smile, rolling onto my back as Six slides into the bed beside me.

  Earlier in the evening, Papa trimmed his hair and shaved the bit that’d begun to flourish across his face, leaving Six’s skin smooth. I think he’s grown on Papa, who seems to include him in everything now, except sleeping in the house.

  There’s still a small part of him that doesn’t trust him, I guess.

  I snuggle into Six, breathing in the delicious masculine scent of cedar wood and metal, under notes of mint soap.

  Hooking a finger beneath my chin, he tips my face to his, staring down at my lips.

  “You want to kiss?”

  He gives a nod, dipping his head and pressing his soft, pouty lips to mine. I dare say he enjoys kissing more than target practice with the sling.

  His hand slides down my shirt to the hem, slipping beneath the fabric. Warm skin brushes over my belly and higher, to the small peaks that stand erect at his touch. The tickle of his hand massaging my breast and him rolling my nipple sends a shiver down my spine, and I tip my head back into the pillow, dizzy with want.

  “I love when you touch me, Six.”

  His lips find my jaw, teeth grazing across the bone, and he moves to my throat.

  Sensations collide inside of me. I arch into his touch and let out a soft moan that seems to excite him, shown in the growl that rumbles into my collarbone. My hips grind against the mattress, and I capture my bottom lip between my teeth.

  “My birthday is tomorrow,” I whisper.

  He nods in the crook of my neck.

  Papa already announced that he’ll be home early to make my birthday supper.

  “Do you have a gift for me?” I stroke my finger along the edge of his hairline, above his ear, and his lips still against my skin. “I just want to go a little further. Just a little, I promise. That’s all I want.”

  Lifting his head from mine, Six stares down at me with a serious expression, one that doesn’t wane when he pushes up from the bed until straddling my thighs, allowing the sheet to fall away from us. In nothing but a T-shirt and panties, I lie before him, watching him as his finger drifts down the front of my shirt, over my belly to the hem.

  I roll my head to the side to see more of him, and to wait for what comes next.

  Hands gripping either side of my waist, he dips his head and the first blast of warm breath scatters across my skin as he lifts my shirt. Higher and higher, it glides up my belly, and he feathers a kiss across my navel, glancing up as if to ask for permission.

  Licking my lips, I nod and run my hand over the top of his head, letting the short spikes of hair dance across my palm.

  He plants another kiss, low, just above my panties, before the fabric glides down, over my hips, my thighs, and when they reach my ankles, he slowly slides them off. Eyes riveted at where he removed them from, he pushes my knees apart, like the wings of a butterfly, spreading me open for him.

  In the moon’s light, I’m completely exposed, and I stare down my body, as he settles himself between my thighs.

  A tremor of nervous energy hits my stomach for some reason. I trust Six, but I feel on disp
lay. Exposed. Every flaw, every insecurity laid out across the white sheets below me.

  I want to push him away, tell him to stop, and as the nervous vibration heightens in my belly, I open my mouth to do just that.

  At the first touch of his lips, though, I suck in a sharp inhale.

  His hot breath fans my flesh, and the desire to close my legs pulls deep inside my stomach.

  Oh, God.

  His big hands grip the backs of my thighs, keeping my legs held apart, and I watch as his eyes shutter.

  A soft wet glide of his tongue follows.

  My chest leads a sharp arch of my body, mouth gaping as he drags his tongue over the slit. Up and down, up and down, painting me enraptured with this delicious invasion.

  I open my mouth to a silent scream, lifting my head just enough to catch the crown of his head, which dips with each dizzying stroke of his tongue. Like an artist, focused and savoring his work. His lips close over my flesh, and he sucks.

  I slam my head into the pillow, and cover my face with it to muffle the outcry that erupts from my mouth. I’ve never felt anything like this before. A knot in the pit of my stomach coils tight, begging me to feel shame for what he’s doing to me. It tells me that this is wrong, that a man’s lips and tongue don’t belong there, that they shouldn’t bring so much pleasure that it physically leaves an ache and an intense craving for more.

  My knees tremble with the urge to clamp together, to force him out of that sacred and dirty place.

  I can’t. Oh, God, I can’t. It feels too good. So good, I have to stifle the urge to cry.

  The way he feasts on me like a ripened fruit, sucking the juices from me.

  Keeping the pillow in place, I moan and writhe with the wonderful commotion I can’t see happening below. Something probes lower, and when it pushes up inside of me, I arch up again, whimpering into the pillow. In and out, in and out. Up and down. Head rolling against the mattress, I try to focus on one sensation at a time, but they collide, wickedly stirring inside of my body. Until I’m dizzy, drunk on the feel of whatever he’s doing.