Page 39 of Juniper Unraveling

“How goes it, Danny boy?” Mike calls me Danny boy, which always strikes me odd, no matter how many times I hear boy. He’s the operator of the ovens, the one who burns the bodies and scared the ever-loving crap out of me the first time I came down here.

“It goes. Fewer today, huh?”

“It seems. Some docs transferred to another building.”

“That’s a relief.”

“For us? Yes. For the poor bastards who get ‘em next? No.” Donned in his usual apron and mask, he sets his hands on his hips, drawing my eyes to the blood I try not to look at, spattered across the front of him, and the white bandages wrapped around his hand.

I jerk my head toward it, noting the shoddy wrap job that tells me it wasn’t one of the docs upstairs. “What happened to your hand?”

“Ah, this?” Lifting his hand, he examines the dressing, and sets it back on his hip. “Splashed stew on it.”

“Stew?”

“Some kinda chemical cocktail. ‘Swhat we dip the bodies in before burning ‘em. Kills off the infection, so it don’t spread through the air.” He tips his head and hides the bandaged hand behind his crossed arms. “Can I ask you somethin’? Why d’you look under all the sheets?”

I glance back at the two-dozen, or so, beds lined for the incinerator. “I’m looking for someone. You see a boy down here, blond curls, blue eyes. You’ll let me know, yeah?”

“Sure thing, kid.” He jerks his head. “Get outta here. You don’t need to be down here in all this.”

A request that doesn’t require prodding on my part.

With a nod, I scamper back to the elevator and press the door to the second floor. When I reach the surgical suite, I discard all of my gear into the bin, wash up, and push through the doors into the anteroom, en route to the commissary.

Supper is welcome, but less appetizing today, while I lift the bowl to my mouth and drink the broth. Tucking the bread into my sleeve, I head out to the yard and look for Abel.

He’s nowhere.

“Abel!” I shout, trying not to draw the attention of the guards at the opposite side. All the familiar faces look back at me, as I scan the yard, and when my gaze falls on Sammy, I crook my finger for him to come over to the fence. Wearing a dirty diaper and scratching his sunken belly, he hobbles over. It’s not natural for a toddler to walk so harshly, as if it physically hurts his legs, and I cringe for the way he doesn’t hesitate to follow my command, in spite of it.

“Where’s Abel?”

His downturned lip accompanies a shrug, and he looks back to the yard. “I d’know. He wadent ewe.” His speech has worsened in recent weeks, and the spacey look in his eyes sets my stomach at ease a bit. The kid is losing his grip, becoming more detached from his surroundings. It’s better that way. They cry less. Fear less.

“Okay, thanks, buddy.”

He nods and toddles off, aimlessly wandering the yard.

“If he’s not out here, he’s gone.” The voice draws my attention to a boy sitting against the fence. I haven’t noticed him before, but I look around to see if it’s me he’s talking to. “When I first got here, my brother was assigned that cell block, too. Every day, I came out to talk to him. His name was Shawn.” For the most part, the boys here look the same, with shaved heads and frail bodies, but this one has a long scar up the side of his head that reminds me of the Frankenstein books my mother had. “One day, I came out here, and he was gone.”

“Might’ve got transferred. You don’t know.”

He sneers at that and shakes his head. “He’s gone. And he’s better off. ‘Least he gets to sleep.” When the boy turns toward me, I jump a step back. A scar that looks as if he’s been burned frames his eye. The skin is stretched over the corner, giving it a squint, and I try not to stare.

“How long have you been here?” I ask.

Thing is, this boy doesn’t know I work in the morgue every day. I’d know if there was a body taken down. And if Abel has been transferred, I’ll find out from Falkenrath.

“Two years.”

Jesus. He must’ve been here the longest, because most of the people don’t last that long.

“I’m … Danny.”

“You don’t sleep where everyone else sleeps. Why’s ‘at?” He doesn’t look at me when he asks, probably not wanting to rouse the guards. The last time a kid asked me that, he disappeared from the yard.

“I’m assigned to the surgical suite.”