Flawed (16 page)

“No. He shouldn’t be—”

“Listen, I don’t have time for this. I have to get back. Rein,” Dyllon said, his gaze meeting Rein’s furious glare, “I just wanted to tell you, all of you, I know where they took the others.”

Anger bled out of Rein as his face fell slack and his hands dangled uselessly by his sides. “Wh-what?”

Within an instant, the kitchen buzzed to life, all the bickering of a few seconds ago forgotten. Words like
when?
,
where?
and
how did you find out?
blended together in a whirlwind of inquisition. Trista threw her arms around Dyllon and kissed him repeatedly on the cheek. Tim slapped him on the back. Tears swam in Sarah’s eyes before they broke free. And Rein stood there, dumbfounded. Ellyssa went over to him and wrapped her arm around his waist.

Smiling in triumph, Dyllon swaggered under the pressure of the swarm. “Hey. Wait. I’ll tell you what I know, but I have to be going. Shh.”

After another moment or two, everyone settled down; all eyes turned toward Dyllon.

“All I know,” he said, “is they are in the west part of Texas, in a concentration camp called Amarufoss.”

“That’s impossible,” said Tim. “They evacuated everyone in that area. It’s deserted.”

“It
was
deserted. They opened up a concentration camp about fifteen years ago on an old military base.”

“Fifteen years ago? And this is the first I’ve heard of it?”

Dyllon shrugged. “Communication.”

The kitchen buzzed again with the new information, and it took another minute for Dyllon to quiet them down. His face turned grave as he prepared to tell the next part.

“The Commandant is a man named Hans Baer, and he is well known for his job.
Well
known,” he emphasized. “I don’t know how many survived, if any are even still alive. And that’s all I got.” He glanced at the clock. “I have to leave. I’m sorry for going with so many unanswered questions. I’ll try to find out more information for you.”

“Go, son,” said Tim. “We’ve waited this long; another day or two won’t kill us.”

He leaned over and gave Trista a quick peck on the lips. “I’m sorry,” he said, then opened the door.

“Dyllon,” Rein called.

Dyllon stopped, his shoulders flexing. Tentatively, he turned around. “I really don’t have time.”

“I just wanted to say ‘thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I haven’t done anything to deserve it yet. I will bring more information for you, though.”

Dyllon left, leaving them all with their thoughts…and hope.

After Mathew’s visit with Commandant Baer, things really changed. His assigned work details no longer included blustery wind, the portions of food he received from the mess increased, and just recently, he’d been called to the laundry, where the soldier had thrust a new pair of boots and clothes into his arms with contempt.

The new clothes lay across his bed next to Mathew while he turned one of the boots around in his hand. He guiltily sat alone in the barracks, his detail of polishing soldiers’ boots completed. Everyone else was out in the compound pushing piles of snow from one side to the other, in thin jackets and worn boots with holes in the soles and tears in the seams.

Mathew didn’t completely understand everything, but he wasn’t stupid enough not to know the special treatment had something to do with Aalexis and Xaver, nor did he take for granted that it had something to do with the information the Commandant wanted.

Every night since then, Mathew had lain awake in his bunk, listening to the snores and occasional cries from nightmares of his forty-one roommates, and thought about what the commander had said.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend
.

Mathew’s mind struggled with the words. Certainly, he’d mistaken the Commandant’s mumbling, but another part of him was pretty damn sure he’d heard the commander right.

And if Mathew had heard him right, what in the hell had he meant?

A bitter wind gusted through as the door opened. Shuffling steps approached Mathew. He didn’t look up until a pair of battered boots came into his field of vision. Shame dug a ravine through Mathew when he looked at Eric. First, his detail consisted of him polishing ten pairs of boots to a glossy shine, indoors—something that took him about two hours—and now, he had nothing to do, indoors.

“Hard day at work, Doc?” asked Eric, sitting on a bunk across from him. The former councilmember shook off a chill that clacked his teeth together hard. He took his thin knit gloves off, the same grey as their uniforms, and briskly rubbed his hands together.

Mathew couldn’t help but notice how red and cracked the tips of his fingers were, along with his cheeks and lips. More guilt split the gully wider. “I guess.” He placed the boot down.

“New boots?”

“Yeah.”

“And clothes, I see.”

“Yep.”

Eric reached over and fingered the material. “Well, aren’t you lucky?” Jealousy dripped from his words.

A tinge of anger briefly flared inside Mathew. He understood why Eric felt resentful, but it certainly wasn’t his fault. What was he supposed to do? Refuse his details? End up in the chamber?

Mathew sighed. “I don’t feel lucky at all, Eric. I feel a little irritated and a lot confused.” He flipped the clothes to the side. “Do you think I asked for these things? Maybe I
should
refuse and let them kill me.”

Looking as if Mathew had reached out and popped him one, Eric looked away. Hurt and anger pulled at the man’s face, glistened in his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He stood.

“Wait,” said Mathew. “Wait a minute. Please sit back down.”

Eric’s gaze flicked toward the door. Fear replaced the other emotions, his face paling somewhat as if he just remembered where he was. “I can’t. You know I can’t. I should have already returned.”

As if on cue, a soldier whipped open the door and marched in, the hard leather soles clacking across the floor. The fabric of his heavy coat and pants made a hissing noise where they came together as he walked. His green helmet bore the single circle of a private.

Without a moment of hesitation, he came right for Eric, grabbed him by the arm, and yanked him back. Eric stumbled and landed on his backside, his head bouncing off the floor.

Mathew leapt to his feet and started toward Eric, but the guard held him off with a point of his finger. A pointing finger? Below pathetic. But, once again, what could he do? If he interfered, the consequences would be worse…for both of them. Mathew stilled.

His upper lip curling, the private said, “You, stay back. And you,” he sneered at Eric, “get up.”

Rubbing the back of his head, Eric groaned. Blood smeared a trace of red across his palm. With effort, he managed to get his elbow under him, but when he tried to shift his weight to his feet, he swayed, his face paling.

The private swung the rifle off his shoulder and around so the butt aimed at Eric. He raised the rifle.

“Stop,” yelled Mathew. His feet moving before he even realized it, Mathew skidded on his knees and bumped into his friend’s side. He shielded him.

The soldier stopped just before he released the blow meant for Eric, fury contorting his features. “Move out of the way, you despicable abomination. Or I’ll get to him through you.”

“Go right ahead. Afterwards, we’ll have a talk with the Commandant.”

Behind the hatred, fear flickered, and the rifle lowered minutely as the private hesitated. He glanced at the door for a second before returning his eyes to them. His grip on the weapon tightened. The soldier’s teeth locked together in a snarl, and the butt rose higher. Mathew closed his eyes, waiting for the contact that would blur his consciousness with stars, but before the threat could be played out, a life rope was tossed. The door opened.

“What in the hell is going on in here?”

The soldier dropped his rifle to the side and stood at attention, his chin lifted and arms rigid straight. “Was trying to retrieve the prisoner, Sergeant.”

More clacking leather soles made their way to Mathew, and he looked up at a man who wore the same clothing as the private, only his helmet was adorned a circle flanked by two diamonds. Under the helmet, Mathew looked into the square face of the sergeant-at-arms. The sergeant was a young man, no more than mid-twenties, with a blond high-and-tight and dark blue eyes. His cheeks cut savagely across his face and ran almost a ninety-degree angle to his jowls. His nose was crooked and bent slightly to the left.

Running a close second in the sadistic department, right under the Commandant, the sergeant was known for cruelty. Once, when Mathew had first became a resident of the camp, soldiers had dragged him, kicking and screaming, into the Storage Room of Pain, where he’d been introduced to the lashes of the sergeant’s cane that extended to three times its closed length with a flick of the wrist. The cane was infamous—at least in their corner of hell.

Mathew held no doubt the nature of the sergeant was what had propelled him to his position of power at such a young age.

“And why haven’t you?”

The private pointed at Mathew. “That prisoner interfered, Sergeant.”

The dark blue of the sergeant’s eyes cut a path to Mathew. “I see.” His cold gaze flicked back to the private. “Does he have a weapon?”

“No, Sergeant,” answered the private, a slight faltering in his voice, as if careful to answer the question correctly.

“But he detained you from your duty?”

“No, Sergeant. I was about to take care of the situation.”

“With the butt of your weapon?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Were you not given a direct order during formation that no harm was to come to that particular prisoner?”

“No…I mean, yes, Sergeant.”

“Which is it, boy?”

“Yes, Sergeant. I was given a direct order.”

“And you decided to take it upon yourself to disobey?”

“No, Sergeant. I wasn’t going to harm the protected prisoner, Sergeant,” the private lied.

Mathew could hear the untruth in the private’s voice as well as see it on his face. The shine of light perspiration on his forehead, the minute movement of his eyes to the side, the slight hesitation right before he answered. By the sergeant’s squinting lids, Mathew knew he read the telltale signs as well. According to what little information had flowed their way, higher military personnel were well-trained to detect such falsehoods.

The sergeant-at-arms regarded the private for a moment longer, his face remaining as deadpan as Ellyssa’s when she had first come into Mathew’s neck of the woods.

“Get back to your post,” he ordered.

Relief washed over the soldier’s features. “Yes, Sergeant.” In little less than a blur, he left.

As soon as the door closed, the sergeant turned his unwanted attention back onto Mathew. “I told the Commandant that you all were as likeminded as children. Give you a little leeway and you steal a kilometer. He refused to listen.”

The sergeant dropped to his haunches, leaning close where Mathew could hear his breath and see the pores littered across his bent nose. “Tell me what he wants with you.”

Along with the other fringe benefits he’d been receiving, the Commandant had ordered him unharmed. The courage he’d found to help Eric, who remained frozen and quiet and safe below him, strengthened with that realization.

“As I’ve told you before, I have nothing to say, Sergeant.”

Red rose to the surface of the sergeant’s face, and his hand clenched into a fist. The cold in his eyes froze to deadened pools.

For a moment, Mathew thought the sergeant was going to ignore the Commandant’s order too, and his heart pounded beneath his ribcage in a irregular
thump, thump, thump
. This time, perspiration beaded on
his
forehead.

Instead of beating him to a bloody pulp, the sergeant stood and turned around. “He just doesn’t understand you creatures like I do.” Mathew assumed he meant the Commandant. “He’s around for the interrogations. Even rather renowned for his cruel nature, but he has never worked with you as I have.” He flipped around, his chest puffed beneath his coat. “I, too, was at one time nothing more than a private. I clawed my way to the position I’m in now.”

Did he want a compliment?

The sergeant paused and stared at him intensely. Mathew squirmed a little under his gaze.

Eric moaned and struggled to sit up, breaking the hold the sergeant had on Mathew. His gaze cut to the injured man.

“Take him to his bunk, then report to the Commandant.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Mathew replied, hunkering down and helping Eric to his feet.

“Be sure to wear those nice new clothes,” he sneered before executing a ninety-degree turn and going to the door. “I’ll send a soldier for you, and for your injured friend, too.”

Eric wobbled a little but was able to remain upright. Mathew led him to the thin mattress popped by rusted springs and helped him onto his bunk. Running fingers through Eric’s hair, Mathew touched the tender spot on his head. His friend flinched.

“Ouch.”

“Only a small cut,” he said, “and a nice-sized goose egg, but you’ll live.”

Eric lifted his head, a small smile gracing his lips. “Is that your professional opinion, Doc? Or should I seek a second diagnosis?”

Mathew laughed. It felt good in a place as dismal as this, like a thin ray of sunshine breaking through a charcoal-grey covering. For a moment, just a small moment, but enough to bring light into his withering hope, things seemed almost normal.

“Hey.” Eric grabbed his hand. “Thank you.”

Patting his hand, Mathew said, “No problem.”

“I owe you.”

“When we get the hell out of here, I’ll make sure you pay up.”

Eric groaned and lay back on his pillow. “Chop. Chop. You’ve been summoned,” he said, closing his eyes. “And don’t forget to put on those nice new clothes and shiny boots.”