Zhukov's Dogs (32 page)

“Does it still hurt?” he asked, staring at the heavy, gauze bandaging wrapped around where I’d taken a bullet.

I shook my head and told him, “It’s fine. I’ve had worse and…” I hesitated, but only for a second, “And I heal faster than normal.”

Val looked up to my face, confused. I explained how in my line of work, I’d been given supplements and injections, which sped up the recovery process. He didn’t ask about the details, for which I was grateful, and when I finished, he sat silently.

After a few seconds, Val sat up straight and raised a hand to trace along the uneven edge where gauze met skin. His fingers caught on an old scar along my ribcage. “What happened here?” he asked.

“Had a bad run-in with a shaman in Nigeria.”

At first Val chuckled. When he realized I wasn’t joking, he full on laughed. I was glad he wasn’t put off by the truth, and relieved that he didn’t ask what sort of profession involved shaman encounters overseas. His fingers continued along the seam of the bandages until they found another scar on my ribs.

“That one was way worse. My friend and I got captured by New Zealand militia a couple years back. The ones on my arms are from it too.”

“So, when people ask,” Val said as his hand moved to my arm to find the scars which started high on my shoulder and wrapped down around past my elbow, “I can tell them my boyfriend is a shaman hunter and a torture victim.”

So, I was his boyfriend now? I didn’t recall that discussion, but something about the word felt right when it was coming from him. I liked the title more than any of the previous ones I’d held, despite the fact it didn’t come with a pin or jump in rank.

“It sounds pretty badass, right?”

“Very badass.”

Laughter and understanding received from honesty. I was long gone, far past the point of euphoria. A smile and a small tug on my belt loop was all it took after that. I shed my jeans, discarding them with the last of my worries. Val stole a quick look at the boxer-briefs then cut his eyes to the blankets.

I didn’t make fun of his unexpected coyness or ask if there was color in his cheeks. Instead, I smiled and helped him pull the blankets back. The bed groaned under our weight when we slipped between flannel sheets and layers of blankets.

Val grabbed a pillow from the edge of the bed for us to share. I folded an arm underneath it, wrapping the other around Val’s narrow waist and pulling him closer. He was every bit as cold as I imagined. Every inch of his body as frozen as the fingers tracing a scar on my collarbone. Just as cold as the lips stretching into a small smile.

Mine.

Prison Cell 046, Eisenhower Building—Washington, D.C.
Wednesday, November 25th, 2076—7:00 p.m.

or hours, I’d been lying on my cot, restless, counting the cracks in the ceiling. Seven cracks. If I stared at them long enough, they seemed to grow. Counting those cracks over and over again, mundane as it was, was the only thing keeping me from jumping the gun.

Clumsy footsteps echoed down the hall. I used to be able to keep track of the time based on when patrols passed by my cell. Thanks to Dr. Halliburton, that schedule was gone. I was left guessing, hoping each patrol I heard was the seven o’clock one, which was followed by lights-out.

“Oh-six-hundred tomorrow, Zhukov.” One of them laughed. Two of the earlier patrols tossed the same time out as they’d passed. My execution must have been arranged. Such a shame I wouldn’t be able to make it.

The footsteps faded and then, at last, the lights went out. A handful of green, safety lights remained on for the sake of the patrol, but my cell itself would remain dark for the next twelve hours. It took the patrol anywhere from twenty seconds to two minutes to shut themselves up in the office. My fingers drummed as I started counting.

One. Two. Three…

Down the hall, someone began to cry. His cry became a moan, which escalated quickly to wailing. I shut my eyes and tried to focus on counting.

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen…

The wailing of the prisoner caused another to shout at him. She cursed and called him all sorts of names which resonated off the walls and through the prison. Bodies shifted on their cots. I scratched my fingernails across my scalp and rolled to my side, pulling the pathetic excuse for a pillow up over my ear.

Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight…

My new position didn’t agree with my fractured ribs. I rolled back onto my back, dropping the pillow, and stared into the noisy darkness again. Another prisoner sobbed somewhere nearby. He banged on his cot, moaning a woman’s name over and over. His lover perhaps? Would I soon find myself hunched over my own cot, tearing into my pillow, crying for Val?

No. We are getting out of here
. I sat up and pressed my hands over my ears, counting loud enough that the reverberation of the numbers kept other noises out. “Ninety-nine. One hundred. One hundred and—”

I jumped as a woman screamed bloody murder. A second later she laughed, howling out the words, “Little bird! Little bird!” between her maniacal fits. Other voices grew louder, cursing, crying, begging, or screaming; coming together to form one, horrendous din, which threatened to split my skull wide open.

Val was alive. My sanity ruling had been signed. There were only two options left for me. I could join in the madness of my fellow inmates for the remainder of my short hours, or I could try to save Val Grey.

“One hundred and fucking twenty.” I groaned, jumping off the cot.

I hurried to the bars of my cell, humming with electricity. The hair on my body stood on end as I approached. I got as close as I could to the bars and looked down the hall for the flashlight of a patrol. Nothing in either direction.

Rushing back to my cot, I flipped the mattress over and ripped the yellow label off its underside. One side was covered in the usual disclaimers nobody read, while the other was blank. I put the bed back the way it was then sat in front of the bars. The green lights in the hall provided just enough light that I could see to work.

Hidden up one of my sleeves was a pen. It was Dr. Halliburton’s, one of the many things I’d sent flying off the table when I flipped it over. At the time, I’d grabbed it to use as a weapon against her. The two-line note I jotted on the back of a mattress tag was almost as satisfying as a well-aimed stab might have been.

POA

Brigadier McKee

Over the noise of the crazed prisoners, I heard the door to the patrol office bang open. My note was finished just in time. I unzipped my jumpsuit enough so I could tuck it under the top row of bandages around my ribs. The yellow slip was a stark contrast to my skin and bindings, something no doctor could miss. Although the note itself was risky, it was much easier to carry on my person than a pen; that I opted to throw out of my cell and straight through the bars of the one opposite of mine.

The bearded, old prisoner occupying the cell gave a snort. He scooted himself next to the bars and sat on the floor with his legs crossed. One of his eyes was glossed over; the other was dark and locked onto mine. There wasn’t time to factor him into my plan. I pushed my sleeves up to my elbows and rubbed my palms together, skin damp with a layer of sweat.

The old prisoner cackled quietly. It somehow made the bars between us, humming with electricity, all the more daunting. I’d heard of men who threw themselves at these bars in seek of escape. Never did I think I’d be one of them. This was my chance, though. If I was going to save Val, this was the only way.

I told myself I couldn’t scream. If I screamed, the guards would know what I was doing and cut power to my cell. Self-control had nothing to do with it when, upon touching the bars, I was paralyzed and couldn’t scream no matter how badly I wanted to. Everything inside of me set fire. My palms felt as though they were being scorched by white, hot flames, and as the current ripped its way through the rest of my body, muscles ached in ways I had never imagined possible.

Five seconds. My vision blurred. My body numbed. Ten seconds. My grip slipped on the bars and on the world around me. I couldn’t feel the ground as I hit it, but I heard a loud
crack
when my head struck.

King Street Station—Seattle, WA
Wednesday, November 18th, 2076—7:05 a.m.

al didn’t stir when I slipped out of bed. My new boyfriend was a heavy sleeper.
My new boyfriend.
No matter how many times I called him that, it still sounded strange. I felt like we were supposed to have some sort of conversation about it, something semi-formal, but what did I know about normal relationships? Anyone who hadn’t been a mark, pursued simply for intel, was a Y.I.D. dog who didn’t have time or interest in such conversations.