apple seed

::Edit:: It seems like, the LENGTH of the story is what is making it not appear. So I temporarily cut out
my A/N. When I find out how to fix this, I'll put it back up :(
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Desert Boy Blues

Roland let Khenbish shove him away and after a few tense, poisonous minutes of minor grappling, the Mongolian disentangled their bodies and crept out into the night after kicking a cloud of sand at the huddled, shivering, little Frenchman. Eyes screwed together, Roland waited in trepidation. As the other man slunk away into the night, he began counting the seconds in the fear that the horrible monster would return to finish what he had started. When his breathing had slowed, and still Khenbish had not returned, Roland let out a heavy, hot sigh from behind gritted teeth and slowly sunk his face into the cool, rough sand. He lay there, exposed, tired and wounded in more ways than he even knew himself. He started to count the seconds in between each shaky breath he took, trying to get his wound muscles to relax. Trying to put himself back together. Trying not to be /weak/.

Harsh bubbles spluttered out from his throat, sounding like half choked coughs. A stream of tears fell from his eyes, as uncontrollable as his barked sobs and he hated himself for it. Everything, anything, he had was left behind with their flight from prison. Again! He screamed wordlessly into the sand, his back straining with tension and despair. Already he had had no past, ripped from him in the form of amnesia. He had already grappled with dark thoughts like rancid smoke set to devour him in his tumulus childhood. Who was he? Who had he been? Was the ‘Roland’ he was now the original? He had battled them, he had overcome them. He had decided he would survive; he would make a new life and cling to it. He could not afford to be /weak/. Letting go of strength, succumbing to weakness would drive him insane, would kill him. His naïve, child logic had driven him, restored an essential part of him he had perceived to be missing. Now he was stripped from even that much.

He was no longer child and could no longer convince himself that sheer determination and wishful willpower would erase the rent in his heart. Being an adult made the hurt of being bereft of his ‘self’ all the more acute. He was no longer a free man, no longer ‘Roland’, no longer any of the things he had built for himself. The mission, the fake identity was his only reality, and it felt much like it did when he had woken up not so long ago in a hospital. When his adoptive mother and father had told him that he was ‘Roland’, that he would be their son. The only difference was that the sting was greater this time. It felt like he had stepped off a precipice, falling farther away from his own soul, so much that he was a stranger inside of himself. Sand clung in lumps against his cold face, his arm a lance of pain and fire. He felt like he was dying.

“No!”

He was surprised to hear his voice, rough and bitter. Didn’t even realize he had spoken. This time was different. He tried to sell that line himself, repeating it over and over on his tongue. The end of the mission was a chance to become ‘Roland’ again, to become the person he had created and to regain his freedom. This time he could return! Khenbish coughed outside in the night air and muttered. Though the words were stolen by the wind, it had seemed like the Mongolian was criticizing Roland’s hope, reminding him that it was futile.

Cold filled Roland, as if his bones had frozen into ice from desolation. He’d never escape this. The chance to go back was like a succulent, sweet fruit that dried and turned to dust on his lips. He knew. Not only was his body and purpose desecrated, but so was his name, his emotions. All because he was, had become, impossibly /weak/. He wiped the sand off his sticky face, tasted salty tears on his lips; he had nothing else to give but his life. That, he decided with a fierceness that he didn’t know he could possess, he would not give them.

For a minute more he lay there, listening to the slight howl of the wind rushing over and through the sand trench. A sliver of moonlight crept into the hollow, the only other companion with Roland as he lay still, looking at the rocky slab that covered most of the entrance. Setting his mouth in grim determination, he dragged his underwear and bloodied pants back over his hips, suppressing a shudder. /Mustn’t let it get to you/, Roland muttered like a mantra. /Keep going, that’s a good lad./

If he allowed himself to sit there any longer he’d be sucked into misery and mire, a prisoner of his own madness. Painstakingly, despite the burn of his arm and the crushing weight of hysteria on his shoulders, he tucked in his stained shirt, righted his belt and tugged uselessly at his hair. /Order, repetition, the normal swing of things. You might not have the same name, but you’re the same creature. Habit proves that much./ That would keep him sane he told himself. Sucking in air between his teeth, the cold of it hurting sensitive nerves, he braced himself to go out into the night. To face the man who he wished he never had to see again. The man who came to embody all that Roland hated and feared. A sob escaped him before he could strangle it in his throat.

It was so hard. So difficult. He just didn’t know if he had the strength.

While Roland struggled with himself in the sand wall, Khenbish had nosed around their surroundings a little before stretching out under the slender crust of a waning crescent moon. Rubbing his neck, a crazed half smile bubbled onto his face in smug satisfaction. Gathering a fistful of sand from the floor, he ground it over his belly, letting it stick to the evidences of Roland’s release. Again, he scooped up the sand, rubbing and brushing it off until nothing of his crime remained. The desert cold was just beginning to set in but he didn’t seem to mind it yet and began to hum quietly, listening to the still night air. All he heard was Roland’s ragged breath and a sob. A huge, face-splitting grin erupted as he felt a sharp sense of satisfaction wash over him.

The pure pleasure and excitement that he obtained from tormenting and crushing others ran through him like a medicine. He had been weak and wretched once, just like everyone else, like Roland, and when that man had abandoned him, abandoned the clan, abandoned…/Checheg/, Khenbish had resolved to become stronger. And he had. After everything Khenbish had come to love and know dearly had been destroyed, he had learned to become stronger. The weak died. He had learned that digging a grave to bury his very heart when he was sixteen. Killing, agony and abuse had justified him, solidified him. He was strong, there was no one stronger, and he could destroy anything and everything that he wished. Weakness was death but strength… that could control death. A nasty sneer stained his handsome face, he controlled death.

Yes, the violence of hurting Roland emotionally gave Ken almost as much satisfaction as snapping the little tart’s legs in half would have. In fact, it might have given him more. He hadn’t been able to put his penis near another living thing in a long, long, fucking long ass time, and if he had anything to say about it, he felt pretty fun-fucking-tabulous. Freedom coursed through him, rampant, wild with need and excitement, threatening to overpower and consume him. But, just barely, he managed to keep a tight choke-hold on it. Later he could afford to play but not now, not so close to the risk of being imprisoned again. A powerful hand rubbed his stomach again, now smooth and clean, and he decided that he should hurt Roland a little more slowly, gently least the cunt snapped in half before he became of any use. No Roland meant no bartering with the Reaper over information on /him/. The man who had abandoned Ken.

Turning a deaf ear on a pathetic hiccup from the shit-hole Roland was haunting, Ken ran tan hands over the trench wall, looking for places to grip. With minor difficulty, a bit of swearing and a minute later, Satan-incarnate clamored back up the ravine and let his hawk eyes sweep over the desert . Alkedema could barely be seen, a winking star in the blackness, like an oppressive ghost that refused to stop haunting Ken. Scowling, he swung his vision the other direction.

Miles of natural trenches and small drops, no deeper than what had to be twelve feet for at least a good one hundred and twenty feet, filled much of what he could see. Farther past them lay dunes, rising like giants in the ever distant horizon. How they’d cross it, especially with a wounded and utterly useless deadweight, Ken couldn’t begin to guess. Squinting in the faint moonlight, he tried to catch any signs of movement, for a shadow that moved just a smidge, anything that could result in a potential threat, but black just stretched on forever. And in it, he knew, waited dangers even he couldn’t afford not to keep a watchful eye out for.

Cursing lightly, he fingered the pistol. He still had that, though there were only three rounds left. The sheer violence of the weapon comforted him. There was another mincey pistol, magazine and a nightstick he had pilfered off a body and stuck in the duffel. Thumbing the handle of the gun that was tucked unceremoniously into his waistband, he thought momentarily of Roland’s belt. There was at least a taser and some cuffs. He’d seen those. Not to mention the duffle he had left with Roland, which he was sure held some bigger assault weapons. Those could blast any ‘minor irritations’ off his field of vision. Just, he didn’t want to use them till things got ugly. Well, trusting that Grimsby actually got him some quality, high-grade weapons that is.

Tired of seeing nothing but a bleak sand-scape, Ken slide back down the slope and mildly burned his side from the coarse sand. When the jarring force of impact stung his ankles, he looked up and came face to face with Roland. The smaller man pushed unruly chestnut hair from his eyes, attempting to keep them behind his ears, and allowed a disgusted snarl to curl on his delicate lip. Khenbish’s reply was a smug smirk; he hadn’t missed the terrible tremble of those small, clenched fists. Locked in some sort of silent contest of wills, neither moved or spoke. Honestly, Khenbish was surprised the coward wasn’t still sniveling and cowering pathetically in the hole he’d left the little maggot to rot in. Roland had done a good job of it earlier. Ken had been in the mind that he’d have to drag the snot out by the hair. His smirk returned as watched Roland’s eye tick dangerously.

He decided he wouldn’t have to kill Roland… yet.

“You were pathetic back there. Don’t you ever become a set back again,” Khenbish threw like a slap to Roland who winced, “Or I’ll see fit to kill you myself.”

A particularly strong gust of wind shrieked past them, blowing sand down over their heads, making Roland shiver with cold and pain. Ken watched him unsympathetically, a tight line of disapproving distaste forming on his face. Such a /weakling/.

“Be thankful I’m being even this generous.”

“I…” Roland shook all over with anger. He knew Ken also thought of him as nothing but a weakling, a worthless waste of space, and it made him all the more contemptuous of what he had become. He hadn’t asked for it! He wanted to scream. What about Khenbish? He was no better! He fought desperately for something to say, to formulate words for the tumult of emotions that churned inside him, but all he could manage was a frustrated gargle. Clenching his teeth, he just looked away angrily, ashamed; he couldn’t risk saying anything or he’d break down. He’d be /weak/ in front of /him/.

“Come over here.” Khenbish ordered, starting down his nose, lips furled at Roland. Half his face was washed in shadow, and to the slighter man he was a chilling sight to behold, under any circumstance.

“Fuck you.” Spat Roland, half in anger and half in terror. It didn’t sound convincing, even in his ears.

“Oh, so the lady does have a voice, does she?” Khenbish mocked callously, “Do come, the fuck, again?”

“You heard me.” Roland managed to spit out this time with a steady voice.

“Now listen here /slave/, you’ll come as you’re told, you pussy lipped mongrel, or I’ll make you see fit to never speak again,” the Mongolian snarled, “Well? The fuck you waiting for?”

For a second, Roland had half a mind to disobey, but terror flooded through him. A person like his father, the Warden or even Theydon would be hard to believe to make good on that threat, but Ken was uncharted and volatile. Roland couldn’t read him like he could the average person. Taking chances with threats from someone so unstable could leave him dead. Not knowing what to expect, Roland strode, with what he hoped looked like defiant confidence, to the tall Asian, his chin up and eyes hard. Beating in his throat, his heart shook terribly. It was a dangerous game he was playing, like dancing with a cobra with his hands tied behind his back. He didn’t even know the rules. Despite the cold, he was covered in sweat.

A shriek almost leapt out of his lungs when Khenbish snatched his injured arm, but he grit his teeth and withstood the pain as best as he could. Though he couldn’t stop the tears, his restraint on his voice gave him a sort of inner strength. It was as if it that small act alone proved his mettle. The Mongolian peered at it a bit, testing and prodding, and Roland let a breath he didn’t know he was holding jet out of his nose. He had expected worse. Khenbish examined the arm a bit more, squinting in the poor light, before he dropped the appendage and ripped off his flimsy uniform top.

“Clean cut, doesn’t look too deep. We’ll wash out and get it stitched later.” Khenbish tore the thin fabric into strips before wrapping them tightly over the gash. Roland’s labored breathing hissed with each tug of the makeshift bandages. The pain was almost unbearable, and he unintentionally grabbed Ken’s shoulder for support. “Maybe, if you’re lucky, it won’t leave too terrible a scar. Though, I rather hope it does.”

“Thanks, asshole.” Roland bit out dryly. Vaguely, he recalled how soiled Ken’s prison uniform had been and the thought of gangrene and infection seared across his mind like a wildfire. A painful squeeze to his arm quickly scattered the thought to the back of his mind. He hoped it wouldn’t leave a scar at all, because he wanted to forget this night more than anything else he’d wished for before.

“Anytime, fuckface, anytime.” Ken returned. Using the rest of what remained of his shirt Khenbish sopped up blood from the both of them and kicked the ratty thing into the ground. “Hopefully the damned thing will convince our pursuers that we’ve met out end out here in this godforsaken shithole… they’re not a smart lot, those ones. Now, look here you horrible cunt, this is how we’re gonna run this…”

Sharply, Ken cocked his head to the left, mouth still open from where he cut off his sentence. He’d heard something in the distance and it wasn’t just sand sliding down a pitfall. He waited a fraction of a heartbeat before he made up his mind that he hadn’t confused it for something else, tightening his grip on Roland’s arm, constricting as he concentrated.

“Let me go, you fucking bastard,” Roland snapped, jerking at his arm, though the action almost made him swoon from pain. He tried to pull again and sucked in his breath when he felt the gash flare with white hot pain.

“Shut it. ‘Fucking bastard’, real original, nice one, will have to remember it next time I’m getting off you. Another word and I’ll really make this arm useless.” Ken dug his fingers into the seeping bandages.

“F-Fuck! Yea? Well, I’ve got news for you, you shitty…!”

Khenbish snatched Roland’s face, his palm hitting the small man with so much force he broke his nose. The Mongol squeezed the jawbones like a vice, pushing so hard it forced Roland’s mouth to open and his cheeks dug painfully into his teeth. Drool and blood dripped down Roland’s chin as he struggled to breath against Ken’s palm, eyes almost rolling back with pain.

“I said, Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” Ken whispered icily. “Understand?”

When Roland managed a weak nod, he threw the brunette back by the face and kicked him hard in the stomach to start the smaller man down the trench, away from the noise, and whispered acidly, “And if, just if, you stupid cock tease, you make another fucking peep, so help me God, I’ll fucking skin you live and process you through a meat grinder, penis first. Now get the FUCK up and start moving.”

Scrambling up on his feet, and nearly retching with pain, Roland swayed dangerously in the air. Gasping for air, he wiped the blood and tears from his face before he started to shuffle forward as best he could, constantly tugging and rubbing at his screaming belly and bleeding arm. Fear kept him moving, and he sullenly let himself be brutally corralled. He wanted to tear out his hair, scream, and cry and give up but that little, determined voice in the back of his mind said, /Mustn’t let it get to you. Mustn’t appear weak./ He was a man, and by hell, he’d go down like one too.

But even the sheer force of his will couldn’t buffer the pain and he had to pause increasingly to catch his breath. Every few seconds found him leaning against a cold wall or doubled over in pain just to be goaded by Khenbish to start moving again at a brisker pace. The Mongol was behind him like a second skin, listening intently to the quiet sounds of the desert , pushing Roland harder and harder. After a solid twenty or so minutes, they came to a break in the sandy, stone corridor where another trench intercepted the one they were in like a sand rock labyrinth.

Without warning, Khenbish grabbed Roland by the neck and practically threw him into the new hall of sand, not bothering to spare a glance back; already sure that whatever it was that was stalking them was just a breath behind, just beyond his vision. Tripping, Roland lay collapsed against the ground unable to get up from the fatigue and pain. Dismally, he tried to push himself up, but his wrists protested and his body shuddered and refused to rise. A sharp kick to the thigh brought out a muffled cry, but still he did not move. The sand shifted as Khenbish moved to Roland’s side, kicking up a cloud of sharp, fine powder into Roland’s face.

A sharp yank on his shirt collar stopped Roland in mid cough, causing him to gag. Snapping his hands up to his neck, Roland thrashed as Ken forcibly lifted him from the ground. Dizzy, light-headed and vaguely aware that he hurt all over and that blood was still seeping down his arm and smeared all over his face, Roland fought with consciousness. His throat was raw with pain and his heart still beat furiously; he had thought Ken had meant to strangle him. Just when he was about to fall back to the ground and give up, Ken jerked him forward by the collar, toppling him into the Mongol’s strong chest. Roland didn’t protest, he didn’t have the strength to. He was too tired, too hurt. None of it mattered anymore.

Khenbish slapped him soundly across the face, “Stay with me. Roland!”

“Fucking… fucking A.” Roland snipped lethargically.

“Listen, something’s following us. Probably a Jack, since I doubt anything else would be in this desert hellhole. Been following us since we’ve been in the trench most likely, and the noise from the jeeps didn’t scare it away,” Ken drifted into silence for a second, “Yea, probably a Jack. Can’t seem to shake it, it got scent of the blood.”

“Are, are you sure? I didn’t…” Roland shook his head, trying to clear it, and tried to listen. Wind howled by, but other than that all he could hear was a distant ringing sound. He was so tired, “Are you sure?”

Khenbish didn’t bother to respond. His hot breath scorched the top of Roland’s head and almost made him gag with fear. Memories of tan, hot hands on his flesh made him shiver and his stomach twist. He tried to move away but it was no use. Khenbish whispered sourly to no one in particular, “Dammit, I only have three rounds left.”

“Let it eat you, maybe I can get away.” Roland offered, testily. His voice didn’t even sound like it belonged to him anymore. It was labored, thin and raspy, as if he’d die at any moment.

“Want me to fuck you real hard after I kill it?” his captor seethed.

Roland went stiff against the hard chest and didn’t say anything for a moment. “…So, what’s the plan?” He asked, deciding Ken didn’t take testy well in this kind of situation.

“You don’t get in the fucking way is the plan.” Ken spat, his hand was firmly cradling Roland’s shoulder, keeping him in place. Roland just sighed. “Good. Now go sit somewhere and look pretty, or whatever it is you gays do. Try not to get eaten.”

“Says the ass raper,” muttered Roland, shrinking back under Ken’s glower. Khenbish moved away suddenly and he reeled a bit before righting. Something was thrust in his hands, and for a moment he stared dumbly at the other. It was the duffel. “Don’t you need it?”

“Don’t need nothing but this shit gun to kill a fucking dog. Now go do what I told you, Boghul.” (Servant).

Steadying himself, Roland started to slink farther back along the new trench, the heavy bag weighing him down. The process was slow and painful, and each time the bag bounced against his arm he froze and had to wait out the wash of pain. Every time he glanced back, Ken became harder and harder to see. After a while, he couldn’t see him at all, despite peering with all his might into the dark.

“Hey, what if it… what if it finds a way over here?”

No one answered. Roland began to fidget. He squinted, sure he hadn’t lost the place where Ken had been only a second before… but really, at this point he couldn’t see much of anything at all. Glancing up, at the open air that lay above the trench walls, clouds muddled over the slim moon slit like an ominous shroud. Determined, he dragged the bag and kept going until he hit a wall. Huddling down, bag protectively cradled against him like a shield, he strained his ears. Everything was black and grey. That dull, disgusting grey. It reminded him of the prison. He shuddered.

He didn’t want to think of the prison. Alve. He shivered and suppressed a sob. Ken, where was Ken? He asked himself, determined to keep his mind off of…. /Don’t think about it!/ He hissed to himself.

“Ken?” Roland whispered into the freezing night air, hesitantly. He listened for an answer. That’s when he heard it, something like a growl. Stiffening, the hair on his arms standing on end, he cast his head from side to side trying to catch the sound again. When nothing but ringing filled the cavern of silence, Roland was left paralyzed with fear. He didn’t know if he had heard it or if it had been a part of his imagination. Sand rained down a from a dune shelf somewhere in the dark, but try as Roland might, he didn’t hear much else. His heart thudded loudly and he willed it to shut up. It’s racing beat and his strained breathing and shivering body sounded so loud in his ears that he was surprised a Jack hadn’t already lumbered down upon him.

Clumsily, he pawed at his belt, making so much noise against the duffel that he almost fainted in fear, until he found and freed his taser. Holding it tightly out in front of him, he waited, ready to fry anything that might jump out of the dark at him. Especially if it was Khenbish. Almost, just almost, he though he heard a grunt… Wait, maybe it was… cursing?

“BAAS!” (SHIT!)

Startled, he jumped to his feet, duffle crashing nosily to the ground. Well, Roland knew what /that/ was. Now he was dancing, shifting from foot to foot, trying to see into the sandy corridor in vain. Was Khenbish alright? Did the monster kill him? Was it coming for Roland next? Something like the sound of cloth ripping pierced the night and Roland pressed himself flush against the sandy wall. Sweat burned as it dribbled into his eyes. He couldn’t even feel his arm, he was so frightened. There was a click, almost like teeth snapping together, though in all honesty, Roland couldn’t be sure if it was just the click of a gun’s empty chamber. A grunt rang out. From who, it was hard to be sure. Then it was quiet. He counted down the seconds; twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two… thirty. Still, nothing, and he let his arm relax a bit, dropping back down to his haunches, listening.

That’s when it lunged out at him from the darkness. It was huge, almost the size of a bull and shaggy with coarse hair. Roland couldn’t see anything but the big black, muscled form of something dog-like materialize as if birthed from the night itself, a horrible nightmare set loose merely feet from him. Its teeth gnashed terribly and a low keen pierced him like a blade. Dropping the taser as he frantically scrabbled against the sandy wall to his left, he felt as if all time had stopped. The creature stood, unmoving, its eyes shining in the dark, watching him desperately crawl away. In the next moment, when he glanced away from the Jack into the darkness he was creeping towards, stars burst into his sight as his back and head collided heavily against the wall, his left arm pinned against the crushing shoulder of the beast.

A smell like rotting, fetid flesh assaulted him and he jerked back his head to gag, causing the giant maw of the creature to miss his face and clamp onto his opposite shoulder. A gasp was all he could manage before he started punching at the grotesque face. They became a thrashing blur, the Jack dragging him with it before it yelped, releasing him. Quick as lightening, it bayed and was bounding back into the night.

“Fucking cunt, go to fucking… HELL!” Roland heard Khenbish snarl and a round went off, reverberating into the cold, “Fuck, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to use that.”

“Is…” Roland gasped, clutching his wounded shoulder, trying to pushing himself off the ground with his elbows, scooting away from the unmoving body of the beast. “I-Is it dead?”

“It is now. Fucking bigger than I expected.” He still couldn’t see Ken, though he didn’t sound too far off in the dark.

“What, what do you mean ‘than I expected’, huh?” Roland nervously ventured, panting. Adrenaline pumping through him, he suddenly felt wide awake.

“Never seen one so big, and big ones are usually pack leaders. Pack leaders don’t hunt all by their onesies.” Ken muttered darkly and emerged from the darkness by Roland’s side like a ghoul. The duffel plunked softly against the ground at the Mongol’s feet. How he had moved so fast and so silently was beyond Roland. The clouds passed and light filtered down into the trench, as if to illuminate the mass of fur lying stiffly past Ken, as if to remind Roland of death.

“Wait,” he let what Ken had said sink in, “Then, are you saying what I hope you aren’t saying?”

“They’ve either gotten bigger in general or that’s a fucking black sheep. Well, what do you think? Which is it?” Khenbish scoffed, and Roland did a quick scan, sighing with half relief that the Asian seemed relatively fine. Half of him was bitterly disappointed. “And we’ve got two bullets and a useless gay.”

“…” Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Roland pointed at Ken’s feet, “The duffel. What about the duffel? There are plenty of weapons in there.”

“We’re going to need them for where we’re going. What about what’s out there, outside these fucking trenches? UEL camp, reconnaissance squads, and Asrun are all waiting for us. That’s just the tip of the iceberg too. These are just fucking dogs. I’m worried about the people, who’ll also have weapons.” Khenbish started to check Roland’s bite wound, “We’re going to need them.”

“What do we do?” In all honesty, Roland was depending on Ken’s answer. Much as he hated it he knew he wouldn’t survive without the Mongolian. He could strategize, out-think and out-maneuver the best in the safety of his military dig, but out here he was helpless without Ken who had real-world experience. Fear and inexperience left him crippled. It was a fact; cold, hard and plain.

“We need to keep walking. Can’t get above the trench, that’ll leave tracks, plain as day unless there is a sand storm, and I’m not betting on one of those. We’d be back in prison before midday. You’re pathetic, and even if I could carry you and run all the way to Asrun, I can’t outrun a jeep. I’m not a fucking magician. Sand rains from above, so we’ve got some hope in the trenches of losing them. It’s a fucking labyrinth, and they’d have to navigate it by foot. Haven’t got any choppers. But, the Jacks know the trenches; we’re at a disadvantage there. I’d be fine alone, but you… They’re after you at any rate.” Ken scratched his chin, “You’re a sitting duck. Can’t have you in front or back, you’d be snatched away, can’t carry you cause it’d hinder movement. Staying here isn’t an option. One or the other will get us.”

Roland opened his mouth; he wanted to say, well, anything, something. Ken was a maniac killer! He was a psychopathic genius! In the movies, stories, these types could do the unimaginable. Slice down whole armies, manipulate the multitude, disappear and appear at will, never die… ‘I’m not a fucking magician’. Roland snapped his mouth shut. Ken wasn’t a fictional super-villain. He was a man, just like Roland. There were things even he couldn’t accomplish, things no human could accomplish.

“What do we do?” Roland wailed, “We’re going to die!”

A hand slammed against his mouth.

“Shut up if you don’t want something to occupy you mouth, Checheg!” Ken glanced around, frustration coiling up inside him, “If you weren’t so fucking useless…”

The sound of something lurching not far off above the trenches stilled them both. It was a lot like the jeeps, but Roland knew instinctively that it wasn’t a jeep at all. There was a strange whirring to it, almost like fans. He went so stiff even his bones hurt and fear was upon him again. The prison! They’d been found because of the gun shot! He saw his chance at freedom, redemption, slip away like sand between his fingers. The mechanical whir droned in the night like an impending vehicle of doom, and Roland shivered with desolation. Subconsciously, Khenbish pressed closer to Roland, almost protectively. His face was upturned, wrung with tension. The grind and squeak of metals long exposed to and ill prepared for the desert was unmistakable.

Part of his fear thawed. All the prison’s equipment was well maintained against and equipped to fight against the harsh terrain. Vehicles that weren’t meant for the desert often took sand into the gears, got bogged down with debris and became stuck in sand pits. But, why anything but search teams from Alkedema would be out here in the middle of nowhere, Roland couldn’t even begin to guess. Crawling by, the machine came directly above where they were and the murmur of a rough voice drifted down to them, though its words were unintelligible, at least to Roland.

“Ken!” Panic filled his voice but Ken seemed almost excited.

“It’s a Sand-ski!” Ken whispered, almost in a daze. “They’re talking about /Mysthrell/! Do you know what that means?” Ken broke away and darted up the trench before Roland could blink. Mysthrell? What the hell was that?

A clamor broke the silence. The machine came to an abrupt halt and Roland recognized the sound of someone cocking a semi-automatic. A wash of voices, too quiet to make out, conspired above the trenches. If Ken was one of them, Roland didn’t know because the wind and the thrum of the vehicle swept the voices away. Panting, he strained to hear.

“Who are you?” Rang a clear voice out into the night, it didn’t belong to Ken. It had a thick, burly accent to it, and it spoke as if English was a bitter taste.

Suddenly, pandemonium was all Roland could hear. Yelling echoed into the night, a sole weapon’s bite burst out shortly, more yelling and abruptly the load roar dulled down into the quiet of a thrumming engine. Feet padded back to the trench, the sound of dragging filling Roland with fear. Had Ken been eliminated? Were they coming for him? He started up when something heavy hit the ground not far from where he sat. The feet scurried back, returned, and two more heavy objects fell into the trench noisily near the first. Khenbish slid down the trench on Roland’s other side and approached him, his mood almost bright, “A Sand-ski! Filled with Mysthrell!”

“Oh… uhm. Well, that’s good?”

Not bothering to answer, Khenbish was already pushing Roland up, helping him scale the wall. It took an unbearable five minutes, but Roland was finally thrust over. Rolling over, he lay on his back on the icy sand, staring at the mute sky, panting from the exertion and sting of his wounds. The thrumming was almost directly ahead of him now, though he was too tired to look at it. Closing his eyes, he sucked in as much air as possible and listened to the sounds of Ken scaling the wall. Roland’s sigh reverberated loudly in his ears and for a moment that was all he could hear, but he concentrated and finally heard the Mongol as he padded by Roland. Cracking his eyes open just a bit, he let his head fall to the side, feeling the sharp chilled touch of the sand, and watched as Khenbish started to pluck weapons up from the ground and stuff them into the duffel. Before long, he had moved out of Roland’s field of vision and the Frenchman rolled over to see where the Mongol was going.

In front of him, hovering not more than a foot from the sand was a vehicle that looked very much like a raft. It was rickety and even in the dim moonlight Roland could guess that it was comprised primarily of scrap metal painted a stealthy, chipped black, a relic of older times. The humming was coming from it. It was only about five feet long and looked no more than three feet deep. From inside the strange craft a slumped body stared back at Roland. Khenbish threw the bulky bag of weapons into the Sand-ski, making the craft rock a bit, and dragged the body out. Roland stared, transfixed, as the Mongol drug the body past him and threw it over the sand cliff. The audible crunch of shattered bones made Roland gag on reflex. Ken stalked back, hefted Roland to his feet and half dragged him to the vehicle. Roland almost felt as if he were the same as the corpses Ken had dragged over to throw down the trench.

“We can get safely out of here long before morning.”

“It’s floating.” Was all Roland bleated. He had only heard about machines like this. Before the war there had been many of them, but they’d all been destroyed. There were a lot of things that had been destroyed. Turned to scrap metal or damaged or lost. There weren’t enough resources or even the technology to make them anymore. Isn’t that what he had been told?

“Oh, yea, people like you wouldn’t know about these. Pretty popular with the smugglers, virtually no tracks left to follow. Real hard to come by these days…” Ken frowned, “Judging by the cargo and the guards, must be a drug route, probably moved farther south due to the UEL camp. Awfully close to the prison. Never thought we’d get this lucky. Stocked full with Mysthrell too. Got to be a dig somewhere farther down, or a store house or something… but so close to the prison?”

“You don’t think smugglers would come this close?” Roland asked, leaning tiredly against the machine, feeling its thrum reverberate through his body. He glanced at Ken under his lashes, throat tightening at their closeness. The Mongolian was also leaning against the floating machine, merely a hand touch away, casually responding to Roland in light of this mini-miracle. How much longer before he snapped?

“With a shipment this rich, no way in hell would they come this close, not when I was in business. Shits hard as hell to make, losing even a bag of this stuff costs a lot more than you could imagine.” Ken shrugged, “But it’s been years. Lots of things can happen in the matter of days, let alone years.”

“…I suppose. But, the sweeps? Don’t you think they’d have noticed?” Roland asked, peeking into the ship. He was surprised to find another body lying sprawled in the cramped floor space. It was breathing.

“Haven’t heard anything about it. Don’t know what it means.” Ken rolled his shoulders again. It seemed like he didn’t care much, only happy that they had run across the Sand-ski. He bent over and tapped on a symbol painted on the rusty, black metal surface of the Sand-ski. It was a B inside a pentagon in white paint and appeared to have been drawn on by hand. “But this, this I know.”

“What is it? And are we taking him too?”

“Doesn’t matter. Get in.”

Roland gave Ken a long, suffering look, but when the Mongol’s returned glance seemed a little less excited and a little more impatient, he painfully threw himself into the Sand-ski. Even though his mounting of the vehicle wall and subsequent entrance was clumsy, the rustic transport barely swayed in response. Picking his way around the unconscious stranger, Roland noticed big metal boxes on each side of the floor. Curiosity getting the better of him, he nosed around one of the boxes whose lid was pulled off. Inside were heavy bags in hemp-like fabric, each almost the size of a loaf of bread. Picking one up, he noted that it was almost like lifting a sack of flour.

“What’s this?”

“Mysthrell, but you probably know it better by Mythril. We can sell it.” Ken started the machine forward and Roland fell back with the motion. “Can’t believe our luck.”

Roland looked back at the box, surprised. There had to be at least four or five sacks of Mythril for each container! Mythril was a drug, the most volatile, potent and popular of them all. They usually came in thin fabric bags the size of a finger with an even thinner lining of the powder drug. The little bags were usually rolled up, compacting the sheet into the size of maybe a fingertip, and were called Rolls. One Roll alone could cost more than 60 tars (name of worldwide currency). He looked at the boxes in wonder. That was at least a million rolls alone! Roland had heard about the drug, known someone who had died from it, but had never tried it himself. Potent, lethal and pricey. He’d burn the stuff on the spot if he hadn’t of realized that he was sitting next to a cash mind. They weren’t in the business of being picky at the moment, even he knew that, and saw the drug’s worth.

“How do they have so much?” Roland asked, to no one in particular.

“Roland,” Ken turned from his steering to glance back at the small Frenchman, “Do me a favor?”

“…Yea?” The last thing Roland remembered was excruciating pain as Ken’s pistol knocked him senseless.

He woke screaming bloody hell. It felt like his arm was being hacked off and he thrashed madly. In feverish, distorted vision, he saw Ken’s frustrated scowl and someone else he didn’t know, both looming over him. Strong arms pinned him down and disjointed voices seemed to yell shrilly about him, filling him with terror. His arm! It was festering with pain, and when he looked down at it, he saw a needle piercing into the red, raw, bloody flesh of his arm and return from across a gash that was deeper than he remembered. The thick string-like cord that laced across his arm dribbled with blood and next to it was damp, red, pus ridden cloth. So many littered the table top he was on that he feared his arm had rotted from the inside. He flexed his arm and blood seemed to fill his vision and to Roland, it almost seemed like he was watching his life flow out of his body.

“God, he had to wake up right now!” Someone snapped. Roland tried to punch Ken in the face. It was the face that was closer.

“Hold him down, goddamnit!”

“Stronger than I thought, the little fucker!” Whoever had said that had sounded suspiciously amused.

“Checheg! I am Doctor Clayton, you have multiple lacerations, abrasions, we are trying it to stem the bleeding by stitching it shut. So, you need to settle down! You’ve gotten infected, we’ve already dealt with your shoulder wound and gave you a rabies shot, can you understand me Checheg? You need to settle down!” The stranger was hurriedly gushing, his eyes trying to hold onto Roland’s.

Roland roared with pain and with all his might tried to throw them off. All he knew was that his arm was livid with pain, as if they were dunking him into acid, and when the stranger had mentioned his shoulder, he became suddenly aware of it too. Lashing out, he landed a good kick on someone; he was too delirious to see who. Nostrils flaring, he heard his own voice gargling like some fiend, and his eyes raved shaking his vision. Ken kept bobbing into his view, like a specter he could not erase and he howled with despair.

“No!”

“Checheg, we’re going to administer a sedative to you.” Doctor Clayton ground, almost choking Roland with his arm in an effort to keep the writhing man pinned down.

“You don’t need to fucking tell him what’s going on!” Ken barked, “Just fucking /do/ it!”

“No!” Roland screamed again, convulsing. He felt the needle sink into his other arm and then the painful push of fluids entering his body. “No!”

His throat went raw from screaming, and finally, the pain was so intense, so unbearable, his whole body clenched before it slumped as he passed out. When he woke again, his whole body felt light and his vision was a wash of brightness. He felt unexplainably at ease, almost euphoric, and the dull throbs of his arm and shoulder were so distant, he barely even recognized it. There was even a suspicious throb to his head, but he couldn’t recall why that would be at all. Trying to sit up, he watched as the world around him swirled and he laughed, although a baser, more private part of his consciousness went rigid with alarm. But even that small, coherent and aware part of him seemed distant, disconnected. Roland felt like he was made up of clouds. Giggles bubbled out from his lips, uncontrollable, and it took a long time for his mirth to settle down.

“Oh good, he’s up.” Someone said, and Roland tried to turn in the direction of the voice, only to fall helplessly to his bed in a pile of laughter. “Checheg, I’ve drugged you, but it should be wearing out by now. Can you hear me?”

Roland chuckled for a bit, and when he finally managed to gain at least partial control of his body, he looked at the stern doctor standing next to his bed. He tried to frown but a lop-sidded grin was what his mouth decided to do instead. Fear tingled down his spine. The disjointed loss of control was like the final sign that he had become detached from /Roland/ completely. Using all his concentration and then some, he strove to keep his eyes locked on the doctor’s swaying form.

Clayton was only in his thirty somethings, Roland gauged, with striking tufts of white sneaking prematurely past his temples in an unruly, dull brown nest of hair. He had crow’s feet and a genuine set of baby blue eyes. His nose like a rudder, prominent and driving, was steering him and finally his mouth, hard and firm but honest, anchored his looks in a distinct slope. It wasn’t hard to guess that in better days he’d been a laughing youth, but now he looked weathered and tired, as if standing was too hard a task. Blood blackly stained his yellowed jacket. That’s when Roland’s wavering eyes saw Doctor Clayton’s hands. The right one was missing the ring and pinky finger.

“I lost them… when trying to rescue a patient.” Burning with shame, Roland did his best to wrench his eyes back to Clayton’s. “That was a long time ago, don’t look so damn guilty. I’m Doctor Clayton. How are you feeling Checheg?”

His mouth fell open and before he could think about it, he was trying to tell Clayton that his name wasn’t fucking Checheg, it was Roland. A wet gargle was all he belched out before he shrunk back with horror. He’d almost given himself away! Trembles came over him, how much had he slipped out in his delirium?

“That’s alright, sometimes the drug has side affects like that, it’ll pass soon. Just nod for now.” Clayton tried to smile reassuringly, mistaking Roland’s alarm.

Roland nodded tentatively. Once he started it was hard to stop, but Clayton didn’t seem to mind in the least.

“I’ve stitched up your arm with string, sad to say I didn’t have any Dermabond or anything. It’s hard when you’re an illegal doctor, getting supplies, that is. There’s no end to the patients.” He chuckled hollowly, as if his own joke battered away at him, “Ah, but anyway, I did have some Telfa; clean too. I’ve given you a rabies shot and sutured the wounds, not that I expect you to know what I’m talking about… ”

Roland wanted to interject, since he /did/ know. But he held his tongue. He had wanted to be a doctor at some point, but Checheg, a slave probably wouldn’t know these things. Checheg probably wouldn’t even have dreams. Clayton regarded him, like he was a child that he was wasting needless grown up talk on and Roland gnawed on his lip to stop himself from screaming.

“Well, I’ve told your Master all this, but he didn’t seem to be paying much attention, so I’ll tell you. Besides, you’re the wounded one; you’ve got to learn take care of yourself. Most Masters aren’t going to be able to take care of you slaves all the time, or just don’t give a damn to, and plenty of slaves have died thinking that way. And if you’re scared, for whatever reason or whatever perverse rules your Master places on you, man the hell up. Plenty of slaves have died from that too. Neglect kills you, whether it’s intentional or not.” The doctor sat down on an old stool next to Roland’s bed, his face grave, “You may be property, but you’re still a person, still a patient. You’ve still got to survive, the same as the rest of us.”

It took Roland a minute to digest what Doctor Clayton was saying. First, he was offended. No one had spoken to him as if he were nothing but a child who didn’t understand the consequences of taking care of himself for so long that it felt belittling. An adult neglecting an injury so serious, not even knowing the gravity of such injuries was unheard of. Then he felt a wave of revolution. It was unheard of in /Roland’s/ reality, but to a slave like /Checheg/ ignorance was just as real. This was Clayton’s pep talk, one he’d probably given thousands of times to thousands of slaves. He’d probably seen waves of slaves come in and die like subservient cattle. They were meant to do what their Masters’ desired and anything outside of those parameters was foreign and forbidden. Even things that only needed a bit of common sense, things that only needed instinct; they were just property, after all. If you were ordered to die, what choice did you have but do roll over dead? When Roland looked up at Clayton’s almost broken face, he suddenly understood a fraction of burden the man was carrying as a doctor of the underworld.

He could understand, partially, because he had wanted to save people, wanted to make them better and whole with his own hands. The pain of seeing people die, not because you couldn’t save them but because they couldn’t or wouldn’t save themselves must be like watching your own children die. At least, Roland could only imagine that it was like that. The other part of him understood, thankfully not from experience, as a slave. Understood because he needed to in order to survive, needed to understand the hopelessness of his newfound existence. ‘You’ve still got to survive’, Roland wondered if any slave had agreed with Clayton? Choking back his sympathetic tears, Roland nodded. The doctor managed a crooked, sloped smile, a smile that hoped that he had saved another. One of the few.

“Well, first, let’s talk about that nose. You’ll have to place some ice, make sure it’s wrapped in cloth, on your nose. 15 minutes at a time and you can do this as often as you need to during the day but make sure to take breaks. Also, be sure to do it for a couple days so that the pain and swelling go down. Never let the ice touch your skin directly. Ok?” Roland nodded, “Alright. At night, elevate your head. If your nose starts to bleed or drain clear fluids or have red streaks, see a doctor immediately. It’ll take two weeks to heal enough to not bother you, but it’ll only be really 100 percent A-ok in a month. Take care not to bump or hurt it in that time. Let’s see. What else.”

As Clayton thought, Roland looked at the dusky room his was in. He was still feeling jittery and mildly like he was floating or coasting over the air, but it was becoming more subtle. The bed he was in was small and plastic with stuffing coming out at frayed ends. There was only one bare bulb in the dirty, sand-ridden ceiling. The floor was coated in footprints left in the desert powder; Clayton must’ve given up on trying to keep it swept out. There were three more beds, a few table with operating tools lying exposed on their sides. Contamination. The word sprung into Roland’s mind and almost leapt out of his mouth.

“Your arm and shoulder are stitched, like I told you. All you need is rest and elevation. Clean it out with some kind of gentle soap, and in this kind of place try to be extra careful to keep it clean. Replace it with new, clean dressings. You don’t know how many times people just get careless and end up losing arms and legs because they get infected. I’ve given your Master some pills and ointment, not enough but it’s never enough these days. It was the best I could do.” He pulled on his stubble ruefully, and moaned like an apology, “It’s hard to get supplies, I told you. Take ‘em everyday. That’s the best I can tell you. Be strong.”

“Strong.” Roland echoed, not even realizing he spoke out loud. But the contamination!

“It’s that or dead, son.” The sharpness of the tone made them both wince.

“Hey, doctor, you’ve got visitors.” Roland went cold with recognition. “Looks pretty interesting.”

“Ah, yes. Excuse me.” Doctor Clayton rose to his feet, as if there wasn’t any energy in him anymore and shuffled as quickly as he could out the door.

Roland braced himself and faced the man lounging in the low doorway. Ken smiled and waggled his fingers wickedly in mock greeting at his bed-ridden companion. Rather than scrounge up the nastiest glare and scowl he could, his mouth briefly turned up before falling weakly back down. It was still hard to control all his fine motor movements he noted dourly.

“Surprised you survived, you’re a tough little shit, you know that?” Ken smirked, “Gave that doctor’s nurse a nice black eye too. Not bad, half-pint, not bad for a bitch at all.”

“Where… When…” Roland swallowed hard, “When did we get here?”

“Two days ago. Two days too many, but you’re fucking /weak/, so guess it can’t be helped. And Mr. Goody-no-balls has been trying his best to interfere with my… work.” Ken’s face twisted unhappily and he spat on the floor, “Stupid git. Kill him if he weren’t so useful.”

“Don’t spit in here…” Roland whispered, “It’s a hospital.”

“/Don’t what?/ You don’t learn, do you?” Ken strode over, a dark look brewing on his brown, and flicked Roland’s nose, making him cry out in pain, “That’s why this happened.”

“It’s broken!” Roland snarled, “What the fuck?!”

“I’ll tell you! You’re nothing but a fucking slave! Nothing! I don’t give a SHIT if it’s broken, in fact, if I want, I could make it permanently broken. Why? Cause you’re a fucking slave! That means you haven’t got rights, thoughts or a voice unless I say otherwise. You don’t shit unless I tell you to, and you’ve been opening your shithole a lot and I’ve been /real/ nice and accommodating, but we’re with people now and you’re gonna have to learn fast. You don’t tell me what to do, don’t tell me no, don’t tell me what you want or can’t do. YOU DON’T! Do you know what you /do/ do?”

Roland just stared at the space right in-between Ken’s brows. He couldn’t keep eye contact, even if he wanted to. Staying quiet was best, he decided. Lay low and play submissive slave until he got better.

“No? You shut the fuck up and do what you’re told.” Ken grabbed Roland’s chin, eliciting a sharp gasp of pain, “Got that?”

“Y-Ye…yes… Master.”

A commotion was growing in the hallway, and Ken dropped his arm as if he rather throttle Roland. As the sounds got closer to their room both men regarded each other hotly. Roland was so furious his breathing was coming out in heavy pants, his fists knotted in ratty blankets. Just when Doctor Clayton burst into the room, Ken gave Roland a malicious smile and petted his chestnut hair lovingly. A sharp pain spiked behind his ear and Roland suddenly remembered ‘Do me a favor?’ His face must’ve betrayed him because Ken’s smile just got bigger and he touched the tender spot again. Roland forced himself to look away. He leaned away from Ken’s hand, trying to see past Khenbish to watch whatever it was that was going on and to get that loathed touch as far away as possible. Being a jerk, Ken just moved to block Roland’s view and jabbed at the sore all the harder.

“Ken? Could you help us over here?” Doctor Clayton’s voice sounded urgent and filled with need. Roland silently cheered when Ken unintentionally moved away to look at the doctor.

Clayton and another man in similarly sullied medical robes were trying to get a wounded woman onto an operating table. The woman was covered in slick blood and convulsing so roughly that she kept slipping out of the two men’s grasp. The Frenchman was surprised at her strength and the fight she put up. She staggered back and swung to face him. Roland almost vomited in his lap. She looked like a living corpse. Half her face was bashed in, there was almost no nose left and one eye was swollen shut. Her torso had a huge section missing, as if she’d ran right into a landmine, and her intestines were starting to fall out from all her erratic, frantic thrashing. The younger doctor was struggling to wrestle her onto the table, not paying attention to Ken or Roland, but Clayton was yelling for Ken to help. It was so surreal, Roland didn’t even hear sound, as if he had suddenly gone deaf, until Ken responded.

“Help? You want me to help?” His voice was flat, stoic and unreadable.

Roland wanted to scream ‘NO!’ to Clayton. He wanted to warn him.

“Yes dammit! She’s dying!” Clayton bellowed. Fear was etched into his face, screaming /Not another one!/ “Please! Help us! We can still save her!”

“Are you sure? This is what you want?” Ken asked, slowly, deliberately, not even sparing the woman a glance.

“Just fucking help!” Clayton nearly shouted, losing what little composure he had.

“Ok, but you asked for it.”

Ken strode over, roughly pushed the unnamed man away like a doll and easily snatched her up and threw her onto the table. The sound of the impact was so severe, so grisly that everyone in the room winced and the woman made a strange slurping sound. Roland saw it before it even happened, and his strangled cry came too late. Ken grabbed a knife off the table and stabbed the woman repeatedly, until she gave one last, shuddering and strained jerk. He couldn’t see her face because Ken was in the way, but Roland saw her legs sag, blood pooling on the floor. Doctor Clayton looked like he had been stabbed instead, his face was ashen and that honest, firm mouth was slack and quivering.

“You bastard!” The man who Ken had pushed roared, face contorted in rage, “Fucking murder!”

Ken didn’t even bother to look at him. He turned instead to look at Clayton, a faint smile sneaking onto his face. “This is what you asked for, right?”

“I’ll fucking kill you! Then you’ll stop smirking, you fucking bastard! She was just an innocent woman! Playing your fucking sick games!” The younger man screamed, charging at Ken.

“No! Rodger!” Clayton cried, trying to dash in between them, too late. Ken bore the charge, grabbed Rodger by the back of the neck and flipped him over, throwing him down on his back onto the floor. Before the young doctor could scrabble back onto his feet, Ken pressed his foot down on his fragile, crushable and exposed throat.

“I’m not going to kill you since you helped take care of my Checheg,” Ken sneered, the splattered blood dripping down his face like battle paint fit for only Satan himself, “But don’t push my generosity any more than you have. One more stupid move and you’ll end up joining Cleopatra there.”

“Why?” Clayton whispered, shaking. He was the one who had asked. “Why?”

“You couldn’t have saved her anyway. I did you a favor. You should be thanking me, just like she’s thanking me for taking her worthless life. You aren’t a naïve adolescent anymore, so stop acting like one, or you’ll really piss me off.” Ken stabbed the knife one final time into the corpse, “Just like she pissed me off.”

“…you’re a monster…” Rodger hissed from the floor, his voice shaking with fear and hatred.

“Yea, well I left you a present in the bathroom,” Ken started to laugh, a cold, biting and rich sound, “A present that only a monster can leave. I believe you won’t be able to protect that rat from me any longer, doctor. I told you, I’d get my answers out of him, whether you liked it or not.”

“You didn’t have to kill him. You said… if I saved the boy, you wouldn’t hurt that man… you said…” Clayton wheezed, looking like a broken statue Roland had once seen standing in the ruins of an old church. Sorrow and purity were etched, forever intertwined, in the sharp angles of his haggard face like a martyr.

“I /lied/.” Ken looked over at Roland and smiled lecherously, “And you wouldn’t like me any other way, would you baby?”

Roland just sat, immobilized, frozen under the three men’s stares, each one heavier than the last. He didn’t know which was more terrible, Rodger’s hatred, Ken’s pleasure or Clayton’s grief. In the end, he decided, the worst stare was the dead woman’s accusatory, unfocused gaze that told him he was just as guilty, just as responsible for her death as Ken was. He wanted to lie down with her and stab himself until she forgave him. “Yes… Master.”

“D-Doctor? My wife? How’s my wife?” A thin, weak looking man whispered, at the doorway, eyes huge and staring. A little girl was hugging his leg. Both were covered in blood and looked like lost ghosts. “My wife?”

“Did you fix Mommy? Where’s Mommy?”

Roland wanted to die a million times over and started saying sorry over and over.