“Are you hurt?”
No reply and no indication the boy heard or is tracking anything that’s happening around him.
“Izz? Where are you hurt?”
Nothing.
The room is a graveyard of fresh corpses, and tangy blood that is for once a distaste in the back of his throat.
They can’t stay here.
He stands the boy, who animates enough to cling to Sinn'ous’s chest, hands twisting into Sinn'ous’s shirt. He couldn’t dislodge those fingers even if he tried, and he isn’t going to try.
He has never begged, but he begs now.
Please, Satan, let him be unscathed. Let him recover.
Balancing the boy he leans over in an awkward way to pick up the clean, forgotten sheet piled in the bunks corner. Using the old fabric to wrap around Izz’s nude lower half, scooping the boy weightlessly into his arms.
Stepping over bodies to reach the door, he carrieshispossessionout of the cell. Kicking the wet mess of sheet out of the way. Where it finally dislodges and splats to the floor, soaked in blood it becomes a grotesque sponge painting on the concrete floor.
The Wing is dead quiet, every inmate hidden in the backs of their cells. Eyes follow them. At the same time that they don’t. No one is going to say shit. No one is going to admit to seeing anything. They will all play the blind man.
And if not. They will all die.
Sinn'ous rearranges his grip on the boy in his arms, delicately jostling him into a better position. Then he’s striding down the corridor, back to their Wing.
32
ROGERS
“Rogers.”
Rogers turns to the sound of CO Carson Miller’s booming voice. One of the shortest—if nottheshortest—officers. Miller is a stocky loud guy who makes his presence known. An intimidating tornado who commands respect by his mere presence alone, even from the most unruly of inmates.
Next to him is CO Nathan Jones. A quiet shadow who is often hovering close by Miller, leaving the shorter officer to clear the way, and only stepping in if he absolutely has to. He’s well-built for his tall frame, but not in a flashy way to show off muscle.
They’re a pair of polar opposites.
Rogers can already tell whatever Miller wants it’s something he isn’t going to like. “Yeah?”
Miller stops walking in front of Rogers, arms crossing over his broad chest, bunching the radio clipped to his shoulder. He definitely lives at the gym outside of work. “Sinn'ous is carrying someone down to A-Wing. Lot of blood—”
“We think.” Jones cuts in from above Miller’s left shoulder, clearly not willing to take responsibility for it if it is blood, a dead guy, and an investigation.
“You think?” Rogers enunciated each syllable, placing stock in how unbelievable the denial sounds.
Miller shrugs, answering for Jones. “Didn’t really get a close look.”
So they’re standing by their see-nothing do-nothing.
“You handling it?” Miller’s prompts, probing for the answer to a question that even a deaf man can tell is not a question anda polite demand. A push to handle it because Miller’s won’t be caught dead touching it with a ten foot pole.
He isn’t shocked by them coming to him for this. He’s the one they all come to when they need a mediator for Sinn'ous negotiations, because he is the one the satanic inmate tolerates. They’ve built a kind of rapport over the year—if you could take it that far, Sinn'ous isn’t the feelings sharing type. And Rogers will guess everyone else’s reluctance to deal with Sinn'ous stems from understandable fear.
Rogers cusses under his breath, he’s really coming to hate Sinn'ous right about now. “Yeah, I’ve got it handled.”
Just like he had the last mess he cleaned up for Sinn'ous. He’d taken that box out to a secluded place to burn it. He’d checked what was in the box, a quick open-close to make sure it wasn’t something obscene he was about to burn. He’d breathed a sigh of relief when it was only a broken bloody broom and blood smeared gloves. Not a head or hand or something equally unpleasant.
