Day 73 in Fort Black: I came across a transcript today of a conversation between Doc and one of the guards, a man named Ellis Lawson—Tank. Doc recommended I take him on as a door guard, but his file is too disturbing. I have requested another guard with a less troubled past.
A few loose sheets of paper are tucked inside these pages. It’s a psyche-eval of Tank, and a lot of it is him talking about how much he likes Fort Black and wants to keep a place there. Eventually Tank mentions Jacks’s sister, Layla. I nearly rip the paper as I read.
I guess the one thing I’d complain about is I ain’t seen any action in a long while. Not since that sweet thing Layla got herself killed in that fire. Now, just between you and me, it wasn’t the fire that done it. I’m only telling you this because I’ve taken care of people for you before and you know that if you want someone gone without a fuss, I’m the one to come to.
I know some things about this place. Some nasty things. So I know if I unburden myself a bit, it stays between us. Just don’t tell the Warden, because he had a talk with me about how I was to leave Layla alone and the importance of family and whatnot. I wasn’t going to cross him—I know better than to go against the Warden—but everything worked out so perfect. I don’t see how you can put a glass of water in front of a man dying of thirst and tell him not to drink. And that Layla, she sure was a sweet thing. Not like all the women around here now, all tough and worn from hard living. No, she was soft and fresh. I’d just stare at her sometimes when no one else was looking, just drinking her in.
Well, Jacks had her locked up real good and, like I said, I didn’t want to piss off the Warden, so all I could do was look—that is, until the night of the fire. Jacks let her out then, and I saw her in the crowd. . . . Well, I waited until it was all chaotic-like, and took my chance. I pulled her behind the cellblock and, well, let’s just say I showed her what it meant to be a woman. And that part was amazing, but it was nothing compared to what came next.
I can still feel her neck in my hand, the way she struggled for breath.
I stop reading then, my own breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Tank, not the fire, killed Layla. I force myself to read the rest, to learn what happened.
I didn’t let her go quick. I’d ease up a little and let her have a bit of air, then squeeze again. There’s nothing like the feeling of having a life in your hand, but it ain’t the same as killing a man. Killing those girls is like every good thing that ever happened to you happening again all in that moment.
When I was done with her, I threw her body in the Yard with the others who died and the fire did the rest. Jacks and the Warden never knew it was really me who killed her. No one ain’t never going to know about this, right? It’s just between you and me? Good. I wouldn’t want the Warden to know. He wouldn’t like it. It’s nice to tell someone, though, someone who understands.
With shaking hands I fold the papers up again and stick them in between the pages of Ken’s journal, placing it in my pocket.
I sit back and stare at Brenna’s still form. She was right. Tank deserved to be devoured by the Floraes. He’s more of a monster than they are.
I try to rest, but broken images flash through my mind. Fire. A young girl’s body, beaten and broken. Tank’s evil sneer. Jacks’s pained face whenever he mentions his sister. Eventually I drift into a fitful sleep.
When I wake, Brenna is moaning. I jump up. She’s shaking, sweat beading her neck and forehead. I put my hand on her head; she’s burning up with fever. I check my watch—twenty hours since she was bitten. I feel more confident that she won’t change, but I still can’t be sure.
I wake her to give her more pain medicine and a sip of water. Her eyes flutter open for a moment and then close. What she really needs is antibiotics. Her wound is probably infected, and this auto lot office isn’t the best place to recover.
Suddenly Brenna opens her eyes wide and stares through me. “They’re gone now. All the Floraes. There ain’t any around for at least a mile.”
“Shh—you need to rest. Besides, how do you even know they’re gone?” I whisper, stroking her head, trying to calm her.
“I can’t hear them anymore.”
I pause, my hand resting on her head. “What do you mean?” I ask slowly.
“Since I was bitten, things have gotten . . . clearer. I can hear things outside really well. It doesn’t make sense.”
I study her for a long moment. “What can you hear?”
“There’s a stream about a half mile that way.” She motions with her eyes. “And the wind has picked up. Can you hear it, through the leaves?”
I shake my head. “I can’t,” I say.
But I know who could.
Baby.
Chapter Twenty-six