Page 52 of Blood We Steal

The coppery scent of fresh hot blood cut through the ever-present stench of rot, and the mix had my stomach clenching.

The man was pale, but somehow managed to look up.

“Come along, Simone,” Rubin said.

I was too stunned to do anything but follow, watching as Rubin walked the bleeding man out into the rec room. The area went silent again.

“I think there’s a misunderstanding, but I want to make sure we’re all on the same page,” Rubin called out to the men. “Don’t steal, and don’t lie. The penalties will be severe.”

“Sorry, Rubin. It won’t happen again,” Roderick choked out.

“No, it won’t,” Rubin responded. “Besnik, go throw him off the catwalk. His hand, too.”

Besnik nodded and dragged a screaming Roderick out of the rec room.

I knew what was down there. Zombies gathered, a few more every day, the dead milling amongst the trash that some of the men had thrown down until Rubin had put a stop to it.

A grunt and a scream told me Roderick had gone over.

I didn’t hear the thud of him landing but heard the shuffle of feet, then screams that got louder, then louder, until they cut off completely.

There was a moment of pristine silence, and then the ambient noise of the prison started again.

“Simone, go finish your inventory,” Rubin said.

I went back and counted cans I’d counted dozens of times before.

My hands didn’t shake once.

TWENTY-FOUR

Simone

“You’re disgusted,” Rubin said.

I shifted my gaze over to him. We were back in the warden’s office, and I had thrown myself into creating the inventory. Ignoring his statement, I lifted my notepad. “This isn’t complete, but it’s a good start. At some point I want to take a look at other potential areas for storage. But based on the calculations now, we have about eight more days of rations.”

I extended my arm with the notebook to Rubin. He reached forward, and I thought he was going to grab the paper.

He didn’t.

He pulled it from my fingers and then wrapped his hand around my wrist and pulled me closer. He tossed the notepad to the side. I heard the papers flutter and then land on the ground. But that sound barely registered. Too much of me—all of me, in fact—was preoccupied with Rubin.

He held my gaze, looked at me with an intensity that bordered on a caress. “You’re disgusted,” he repeated.

“Why do you keep saying that, Rubin? Because you amputated his hand over canned goods? Is that why you think I’d be disgusted?” I asked.

“All that blood. The screams,” his eyes narrowed dangerously, “the needless death. You don’t think that’s reason enough?”

He hummed with anticipation of my answer. I refused to give him the satisfaction of my fear. “Answering a question with a question, Rubin?” I said.

“What’s your answer, Simone?” His voice was edged with ice.

I still refused to engage. “Disgusted? No. And I probably should be. After all, what you did is disgusting.”

I studied him, seeing if he would react, but it was his turn for a nonchalant shrug. His fingers were still wrapped around my wrist, his touch heavy, almost burning.

“You think you’re hardened,” he said.