Page 40 of Juniper Unraveling

“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.