“You’remy business.”
I stalk away, leaving him, and shove my door open, letting it slam, not caring if I wake everyone in the block. There’s barely anyone left. It’s just the five of us, and Cook and Teacher and that old man who cleans.
We’re the only ones left.
I strip off my clothes, leaving on just my boxers, my head swimming, and lie down on the bottom bunk. My skin feels overheated. My bones hollow. I feel hollow. Empty.
Reaper’s deadly expression follows me into sleep, and I move in and out of consciousness for most of the night. Restless and uneasy. I must have fallen asleep for a bit because I’m woken by a scream.
I bolt upright, and my head crashes into the underside of the bottom bunk.
“What’s that?” Breaker asks, climbing down from the top bunk. He must have sneaked in here when I was out.
“Fuck if I know,” I say, rubbing my head. “Cook probably found another rat.”
Breaker rushes to the door and peeks out, then looks at me, smoothing the wrinkles from his uniform pants. “I don’t think so.” He pulls the door open all the way and slips into the hall.
I take a minute to sort myself out. My head pounds, and my stomach feels like I drank battery acid, but I grab my pants and slip them on and pull on my shirt as I reach the door and spot Striker walking to the end of the hall.
“What’s going on?” I ask, but he just shrugs and keeps moving.
Pulling my boots on, I rush through the door. I grip Striker’s shoulder and shove him back toward my room. Another scream echoes through the hall.
“Wait in my room,” I tell Striker, then reach for Breaker, grabbing his shirt by the collar, tugging him back. “Both of you wait here while I go look.”
“Come on,” Breaker whines. “That’s bullshit.”
More shouts echo down the hall, and Striker’s head snaps in that direction. “It’s got to be something good if Father is yelling like that.”
“Wait in my room,” I bark out, pointing at the rusted metal door. “Now.”
Breaker sighs, and Striker shoots me a stern glare but tugs our little brother with him into my room.
“If you come out, I’m taking your food for a week,” I call over my shoulder and stalk down the hall.
As I round the corner that leads to the cafeteria, I hear Fallon barking orders and Teacher screaming something unintelligible.
Then I see it.
Red. Everywhere.
It splatters on the wall, gathers in a thick puddle around bare feet.
Feet I recognize.
“Who did this?” Fallon asks, his voice echoing down the hall. He looks at me and then at the pool of blood next to his boots.
I inch forward, my heart hammering. Bile rises in my throat, because I already know what I’m going to see.
WhoI’m going to see.
My head spins. I shift slightly so I can see past Fallon’s body blocking my view, and the second my eyes land on him, I freeze. My hand shakes as I press it to my stomach, willing the contents to stay down.
Cook’s body slouches against the wall, his arms loose at his sides, his head drooped off to the left. He could be sleeping one off, like he has many times before, if it weren’t for the blood. It covers his pants, soaks his shirt.
And the fact his throat has been slashed.
And his hands are cut off and sitting in his lap.
