Chapter 3 #4
I raised my arm, preparing to hurl the empty ceramic mug at his head, but Mac darted between us and seized my arm. The cup shattered on the floor by our feet, and I gasped as Mac jerked me closer, his flinty eyes glittering.
“We are not trying to help you, Trey is trying to help you. I didn’t ask for this either, but it’s done, and I sure as hell am not gonna let you endanger any more of my crew with your attitude.
You wanna be uncooperative? Fine by me. I’ll give you up to Madame.
She loves sending people to the whipping post.”
“Madame or you?” I hissed, trying to wrench my arm free.
I thought I saw the hit I expected coming and flinched, but Trey grabbed his shoulder and yanked him away, whispering to him. Mac shrugged him off, still glaring at me, but he stayed back.
“Rations are handed out at dawn and dusk at the bells. You don’t go anywhere without a guard, and if you even think about trying to get through the wall, Madame will make you wish you were dead.
And then you’ll have to answer to me.” He sent a final glare before turning on his heel and slamming the door behind him.
In the silence, Trey sighed.
“I’ll be outside if you need anything,” he said before following Mac.
I fought to keep from screaming in frustration. I wished I’d let Trey bleed out on that rooftop. I wished I’d let Mac bleed out in Madame’s dungeon. Mostly I wished Lana had shot me.
Survive, Wolf snapped.
I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths, trying to get my raging emotions under control.
It didn’t work much, so I cleaned up the shattered mug at my feet and started stomping around the small clinic, taking stock of what supplies I had.
Judging by how much dust and cobwebs covered everything, the clinic had been empty for a while.
The few mismatched cabinets in the kitchen contained a random assortment of medical supplies, like IV tubing, scissors, a worn stethoscope, tourniquets, needles, and neatly folded bandages.
An ornate hutch held various tiny bottles labeled in spidery handwriting and a few ancient bottles of pills with faded print.
The steel sink in the corner actually worked, cold clear water gushing out when I turned the knob.
A wood-burning stove stood in the other corner, and large pots to heat up water hung on the wall.
Next to the cabinet was a faded leather chair with a footrest and a headrest. As I stepped on the lever by the floor, I discovered it moved up and down, too.
I found a notebook documenting patients and procedures and recipes for various ointments and tinctures.
Whoever had been the healer before me had put in a lot of work to keep the clinic neat and organized.
I eyed the small safe. I’d occasionally had narcs to use on the Reapers, but they were a luxury and a liability.
Nine times out of ten, they were stolen and used recreationally unless Juck kept them locked up in his tent.
I tried lifting the safe. It didn’t budge.
At least any potential thieves would have a hard time getting it out of the clinic.
Three small windows in the loft let in some sunlight.
I could only see the sky, but I liked the natural light.
I tried flipping the switch near the door, peering up at the single bulb hanging from the ceiling, but nothing happened.
I knew the hold had power because there’d been electricity in the watchtower.
I scaled the loft ladder to find a less-dirty square where the mattress must have been, a small dresser, empty except for a few spiders, and a wooden chair.
I stood in the middle of the loft, a lump in my throat.
This could have been something special. I had my own clinic.
I could do good here, but would it even count with all my “special projects”?
I remembered the awe I felt the first time I healed someone, my childish excitement that I could ease suffering.
It seemed so simple. Then I’d been forced to hide my power my whole life.
Now I finally didn’t have to hide, but I was… I was torturing people.
If my brother could see what I’d become, he would be horrified.
I shoved that rogue thought into the dark depths of my mind where it belonged.
All I could do was keep going, even as the thought filled me with a bone-weary exhaustion.
I had to keep going. I had to keep trying to make up for all the blood on my hands.
It was my burden to bear. I would find a way out of here.
In the meantime, I just had to play along.
I grabbed some rags and a bucket and went to work.
I scared the shit out of Griz when I threw open the door, sweeping a cloud of dust outside. He peered inside, coughing as I dumped a bucket of dirty water, and noted my progress.
“Lookin’ good,” he said before returning to his chair, leaning it back to balance on two legs. A rifle rested on his knees.
My stomach turned. I wasn’t sure if he had it to keep me cooperative or to keep other people away.
“You need anything?” he asked, and I noticed he was watching me study his gun.
“No,” I snapped, stomping back inside to tackle the loft.