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“Keep them alive,” the other explains, less emotional than her counterpart. If I had to guess, she’s the leader here. Her voice is far too steady to be anything else.
“They’re pregnant,” I observe aloud for no reason other than to cement this is real life in real time.
Fuck.
Positioned on their side, each victim is exposed from the waist up. Each wears a cannula for oxygen, an array of wires, and IVs. I can see their tits, their distended bellies, the stretch marks, the bluish tint to their skin. Nothing more than a thin, white sheet covers their bottom half in a room chilly enough to raise goosebumps to flesh.
“Yes,” the composed one confirms.
“They’re sedated.” A statement, not a question. Bags filled with piss hang down the side of their beds as their eyes remain eerily shut. It doesn’t take a genius to see what’s going down here.
“Yes,” the same woman confirms with cold detachment.
Unable to stop the questions from forming, I ask what I need to know… things that mean fuckall right now. ’Cause what is, is. Still, my brain needs to digest the ugly facts. “How long do you keep ‘em like this?” I watch the rise and fall of chests as their bellies move with life.
“We get them close to delivery.”
Christ.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and breathe before the Zen I’ve acquired goespoof.
“And then what?” I force through gritted teeth, jaw aching.
“He doesn’t like used goods.” More of that matter-of-fact monotone crap from the short-haired brunette.
Behind me, Kade curses and takes a walk to get some space. Can’t say I blame the man.
The squelching of entrails resumes noisier than before from the hallway.
“You’re gonna have to elaborate.” I gesture for the woman to keep talkin’, even though she can’t see me.
“We perform c-sections, and he sells them.”
Sells. Yeah, you heard her as clear as day. He sells babies.
Babies like Dom.
Babies like Leech.
I stow my gun and shove both hands into my front pockets before I punch something. “What about the mothers?” emanates more as a growl, than words.
“They are—” The redhead hiccups on a sob, her body shaking with emotion.
“They’re, what? Say it!”
“W-we cre-cremate them,” she finishes.
“It’s quick. They don’t feel any pain,” the cold-hearted bitch tacks on as if that justifies anything.
I should throw her in with them, still conscious and breathing, as flames scorch her flesh and heat turns her insides to dust.
“And that’s okay?” I seethe.
“We don’t have a choice,” the bitch defends.
Lies.
“Everyone has a choice.”
