Page 17 of Juniper Unraveling

His jaw shifts, and I catch the twitch of his eye. With a glance to his side, he lifts a photograph, holding it to my eyes. In it, a teenage boy, maybe sixteen, is stretched out on a table, naked. I’m taken aback by the explicit view of his penis and all four limbs tied at each corner of the bed. His body is marred by cuts and bruises, and scars of all shapes and sizes. Four men in white lab coats stand close to his head, evil smiles on their faces. “Provocation test. It is believed that this boy harbors the second generation Dredge disease. He tested positive for the prion antibody. My colleague, Doctor Ericsson, believes that this disease remains latent in the body. He believes that, through painful stimuli, it can be activated. Would you like to be transferred to his lab?”

The horror of his words settles over me, as I stare at the boy. Every humane bone in my body tells me that I should rebel against these monsters, for the sake of victims like this poor soul. The blond who took my brother is one of the four in the photograph, and the choke at the back of my throat stifles the sob waiting to break free.

“My brother. Will he … will they do these to him?”

His expression is unreadable, as if he’s untouched by the emotion brimming in my tears. “The younger boys are merely studied for aggression. Blood samples, bone structure. Observation. Should he demonstrate the traits of a carrier, he’ll be kept for these sorts of studies, yes.”

His blunt honesty sits heavy in my gut.

“And … if he doesn’t?”

“Then, the study is over for him, and he’s set free.”

Free? A part of me doesn’t trust the word here, but for now, it’s all I have. Just like the old man in the truck told me—you have to believe in something.

“And me?”

“When we no longer need you, you’ll be set free, as well. In the meantime, you are alive because you are of use. Remain that way, and you will survive.”

“The others … will they kill me, if they find out I’m a girl?”

“Yes. They most certainly will. Therefore, you will sleep and bathe here, in the research complex. There is a room where I sometimes sleep, when I’m here late.”

“My brother … I have to sing him to sleep, sometimes. He gets scared—”

“Your brother is no longer your concern. Had your mother known what fate she’d sent you to, I very much doubt she’d have placed the burden of a child on your shoulders. Your only concern, from this day forward, is your own survival. Do as I say, and you can prolong that here.” He stands up from the chair, staring down at me.

I’m ashamed to say there’s some relief in that, but also sadness and anger. So much anger, he must see it on my face.

“What you did earlier was cause for death. Know that no one will save you in this place. I’m not your ally. I’m not your friend. And I will not step in on your behalf again. Should you disrespect an officer of The Legion, you’ll be left to face the consequences. Is that clear?”

I muster a somber nod in what little neck movement has begun to return. “Why did they kill my mother and sister?”

He lifts his chin, staring down his nose at me, and his eye twitches. “Simply because they had no use for them. You’re only alive because you possess a skill that most do not. Remember that.”

* * *

It takes an hour for whatever had left me paralyzed to work its way out of my system. In that time, I’ve thrown up and urinated on more occasions than I care to remember, grateful for the facilities that I’m not accustomed to. In the hive, we defecated in buckets that were used to fertilize the gardens. Once a week, I had the nasty chore of emptying them into what we called the ‘hot pile’, for compost. Doctor Falkenrath, as he’s asked me to call him, calls these toilets, and unlike our buckets, these have a suction system that does it itself. He says they’re only found in the doctor’s quarters. The other boys defecate in buckets that are collected in bags and burned.

Once I’m finished, I kneel down to the clean, white floor and spin what he referred to as the agitator, which works to compost the waste. When I open the lid, the fluids have disappeared.

Tenderness lures my fingers to my shaved head, and I probe the source of a raw burn there. It feels like the time I was scratched by a cat while climbing the ruins—itchy and fiery. A scant amount of blood returns on my fingers, and I push to my feet, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

A blackish marking, framed by an angry red swell, peeks out from my nape, and I can just make out the number eight. Tattooed in my skin. Forever. In an awkward twist of my torso, I manage to make out a five tattooed beside it. I probe the wound, to find the tenderness extends across the base of my skull.

I’m guessing it was put there while I was out cold, though I don’t recall even a fleeting moment of it.

A sound reaches my ears through the barrier of the skinny door, and I spin toward it, listening. Screams. Horrific, pain-filled screams that have my heart pattering in my chest.

The screams draw me out of the small toilet closet, and I enter the bright white room where I woke up an hour ago. Across the small space is a window, nearly taking up the width of the wall, with a heavy door beside it and a small white box, on which a tiny light glows green. The room on the other side of the window is much larger, with lights at the end of long, bendy arms that remind me of an insect’s legs, hanging from the ceiling.

Lying on a bed is a grown man, though it’s hard to tell his age from my angle. I can only see the sunspots dotting the top of his bald head. Thick straps hold his body to the bed, upon which he writhes as if in the excruciating kind of pain. Blossoms of blood dot the white sheet covering him, and his wails of agony implore me to open the door for a closer look.

As I take a step inside the room, though, a much louder shout skates down my spine. Freezing in place, I glance over to a figure, who stands at a sink, sliding gloves over his bare hands. I can’t identify him, with his head, body and feet completely covered, and the tube sticking out from his mask looks similar to the one the soldiers wear. With a gloved hand, he points to the door behind me.

“Gloves.” Doctor Falkenrath’s voice is muffled behind the mask, and I breathe a sigh of relief at the recognition. “You never touch anything in here without gloves. Is that clear?”

With a nod, I back myself into the room I stood in moments before. Immediately to the left of me is a shelf carrying stacks of folded suits, about a dozen side-by-side, and below them, two sets of masks with the tubes. Beside those are boxes of gloves, small, medium and large—I opt for the small.