Shadows (Page 73)

“Yeah?” The canteen was mesmerizing, a candle flame to a moth. Peter watched, transfixed, as the old man unscrewed the cap.

“Mmm-hmm.” Finn drank in big, languid swallows. The knuckle of Finn’s Adam’s apple rolled and bobbed and hitched. A trickle escaped to dribble onto the old man’s chin, and Peter’s tongue wormed to the corner of his own mouth in an effort to catch the drip. All he got was dirt and dried salt. His mouth tasted like an old toilet, and his breath reeked of rotted fruit. That wasn’t good. He knew the stink of starvation.

Today was Tuesday: almost two and a half weeks since the ambush and now seven days in this cage. The last time he’d tasted water was two days ago. Since then, he’d had nothing to drink that wasn’t his own piss. This morning, the half cup he’d squeezed out was dark as caramel, but he choked it down anyway. Last time he could pull that stunt, though. His pee was too concentrated now. Drinking any more would make his kidneys shut down just that much faster—which might be a relief, come to think of it. Slip off into a nice, quiet, lethal coma.

Finn let out a satisfied sigh, just like a guy getting a taste of the day’s first cold brew. He placed the open canteen on the grimy concrete, then reached into his pocket again. This time, he came out with a plastic bag. “Take our little experiment,” Finn said, teasing open the plastic and releasing a bloom of peanuts, salt, chocolate, and sugary dried fruit. “Our exploration of pressure, for example.”

He wasn’t sure which ache was worse: the desert dryness in his throat, or the way his gut knifed. “Pressure?”

“Well, isn’t it?” Finn tossed back a handful of trail mix and munched. “Evolution is the study of environmental pressures. Either the individual adapts, or he doesn’t. Adaption is Mother Nature’s idea of ”—Finn smiled—“torture.”

“Yeah, you’re really good with that.” Water, Peter decided; the need for that was much worse. He watched Finn wash down his trail mix. If he’d had any tears left, he might have wept.

Across the width of the cell block, he saw Davey, in his usual spot, squatting at eye-level and watching him with the same avidity. The kid was patient as a spider in a web: all glittery-eyed, just waiting for a nice, juicy fly to blunder by. The other Changed also kept an eye on him, more or less. When he fought, that really seemed to grab them. But Davey was the only one who actually studied him.

That morning, Davey had dragged on a pair of olive-green pants for the very first time, too. His chest was still bare and he hadn’t quite figured out shoes, but those pants were a step up. The only other kid anywhere close was a pimply boy who’d draped on a girl’s bra so the cups covered his ears.

“I’m not trying to torture you.” Finn inclined his head in Davey’s general direction. “Or him or the other Chuckies. I agree the metaphors are the same. But torture someone and all you get are lies, because everyone wants the pain to stop. What we are doing here is truth. We are studying how the Chuckies and normals adapt under selective pressure. Some Chuckies, like Davey here, will adapt better. Choking you was, well, a new skill. They can learn.” Finn smiled. “Just like you.”

This was true. Davey’s method wasn’t quite how Peter had killed Wendy but close. After two rounds with the girl, he realized that she was a southpaw and always led with the left. So he’d waited, timed the blow just right, ducking and then pistoning out with his balled fist to fracture her windpipe.

He could’ve ended it right there. A quick snap of the neck, and it would be over. It was the way he’d dispatched a flabby kid with a bristle of broken braces the day before Wendy. But Finn hadn’t liked that. Hadn’t told him why, but when Peter didn’t get water that day, he realized that he either had to deliver a killing blow first time around or step back and let nature take its course.

So he let Wendy suffocate, slowly, for three very long minutes. He didn’t look away either, because he worried that would cost him, too. He got his water and a little food that day, but nothing since. This fight with Davey was the closest he’d come to actually losing.

“Why are you keeping me alive?” he asked Finn.

“I’m not.”

“Bullshit.” Peter tried to laugh, but all he managed was a dry wheeze. “The guards pulled Davey out before he could finish me. You won’t kill me outright but make me fight for food and water. If I can’t fight, I’ll either die from thirst or because one of them finally kills me. So, yeah, you’re keeping me alive. Why?”

“Well, I’ll tell you what, Peter.” Finn planted his hands on his thighs and pushed to his feet. “Next time, don’t fight.”

“What?” Peter stared. “What are you talking about? How can I not fight?”

“Easily. You just don’t.”

But that was crazy. He had to fight, because that was his one shot at food and water. He might die; he might not. Don’t fight and he’d die for sure. A Changed would have him for lunch, literally.

“If I don’t fight, it’s suicide,” he said. “That’s not an option.”

“Well, if you want this to stop, it is,” Finn said.

Kill himself ? The idea had never occurred to him. Anyway, letting a kid tear him to pieces wasn’t suicide . . . was it? No, suicide was a bullet to the brain, a knife across his throat, a noose. Murder wasn’t suicide.

“I can’t just stop,” he said.

“Yes,” Finn said. “You could. It’s a choice, right? Not fighting just happens to be a choice you don’t like. You’re very vince aut morire that way. Conquer or die.”

“But I’ve always fought,” Peter said—and then he got it. “That’s what you want them to learn: how to fight until they win. How not to give up. You want to see which ones can learn.”

“I knew you were a smart boy,” Finn said, and turned to go. As he did, his boot collided with his canteen, which overturned, sending water sheeting over the filth. “So you see? I’m not keeping you alive, Peter. You are.”

But Peter wasn’t listening anymore. He was on his belly, lapping water like a dog.

Part 5 – Kill All the Enemy

66

Ten days ago, Tom had still been dubious about the whole plan. In part, this was because he didn’t trust Weller or Mellie as far as he could throw them. But he was also uneasy because of his reliance upon Weller’s memories and assurances about the mine and its layout. By his own admission, the old man hadn’t set foot belowground in the more than thirty years since the mine ceased operations.