Some stand stiffly against the wall and on each other, half a dozen deep. Some sit propped up against the wall and against the legs of the other children. And some lie on their backs and stomachs, stacked on top of each other like cords of wood.
They range from toddler size to about ten or twelve years old. They are all naked, stripped of anything that might protect them. All have distinctive autopsy stitch marks in a Y shape starting at their little chests and going down to their groins.
Most of them have additional stitch marks along their arms, legs, throats, groins. A few have stitches across their faces. Some of the kids' eyes are wide open, others closed. Some of their eyes have yellow or red instead of white around the irises. Some only have gaping holes where the eyes used to be, and others have their eyes sewn shut with big, clumsy stitches.
I almost lose the ongoing battle with my stomach, and all that rich food I ate earlier comes up in my throat. I have to swallow hard to keep it in. My breath feels too hot, and the air feels too cold on my prickling skin.
I want to—need to—close my eyes, to blot out what they see. But I can’t. I’m searching. Looking at every brutalized child for my little sister’s pixie face. I start shaking all over and I can’t seem to stop.
“Paige.” My voice comes out in a broken whisper.
I can barely whisper her name, but I say it over and over as though that will somehow make it all right. I drift toward the pile of mangled corpses like a dreamer in a nightmare, unable to stop myself and unable to look away.
Please don't let her be here. Please, please. Anything but that.
“Paige?” There is horror in my voice as well as a thread of hope that maybe she’s not here.
Something stirs in the pile of stitched flesh.
I take a shaky step back, all the strength seeping out of my legs.
A little boy rolls off the top of a pile and lands face-down.
Two bodies below his original position, a small hand reaches out blindly and braces itself awkwardly on the fallen boy's shoulder. The bodies above the hand rock back and forth, gaining momentum until they tumble on top of the fallen boy.
I can finally see the child that belongs to the fumbling hand. It's a small girl with disproportionately skinny legs. A curtain of brown hair hides the girl's face as she crawls painfully toward me.
She has a cruel cut above her bottom that intersects with another one sliding up her spine. Large, uneven stitches run up her spine, holding her bruised and slashed flesh together. Stitches run up both arms and down both legs. The red and blue of her cuts and bruises contrast sharply with her corpse-white skin.
I am frozen in my horror, aching to shut my eyes and pretend this is not real. But I’m incapable of anything but watching the girl's painful progress across the pile of bodies. She pulls herself forward by her arms, her legs a pair of dead weights dragging behind her.
After an eternity, the girl finally lifts her head. The stringy hair slides back from her face.
And there is my little sister.
Her tormented eyes find mine. Huge for her pixie face. Filling with tears as she sees me.
I crash to my knees, hardly feeling the slam of the concrete.
My baby sister's face has stitches running from her ears to her lips as though someone had peeled back the upper part of her face and then put it back together again. Her whole face is swollen and bruised in angry colors.
“Paige.” My voice cracks.
I crawl to her and take her in my arms. She is as cold as the concrete floor.
She curls into my arms like she used to when she was a toddler. I try to hold all of her on my lap even though she's too big for that now. Even her breath on my cheek is as cold as an arctic breeze. I have a crazy thought that maybe they drained all the blood out of her so she can never be warm again.
My tears drip down her cheeks, mixing our anguish together.
CHAPTER 38
“Touching,” says a clinical voice behind me.
The angel walks toward us with an expression so detached that nothing human can be detected behind it. It's the kind of look a shark might give to a pair of crying girls. “This is the first time one of you has broken in instead of trying to break out.”
Behind him, the delivery guy pushes through the double doors with another load of cadaver drawers. His expression is all human. Surprise, concern, fear.
Before I can answer, the angel jerks his gaze up toward the ceiling and cocks his head. He reminds me of a dog listening to something far away that only dogs can hear.
I hug my sister's scrawny body closer as if I can protect her from all things monstrous. It's all I can do keep my voice working, if not steady. “Why would you do this?” I force out in a whisper.
Behind the angel, the delivery guy shakes his head at me in warning. He looks like he wants to shrink behind his cadaver drawers.
“I don't need to explain anything to a monkey,” says the angel. “Put the specimen back where it was.”
The specimen?
Rage boils through my veins. My heart screams for blood. My hands tremble with the need to squeeze his throat shut.
Amazingly, I rein it in.