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[flashback] in the bleak midwinter long ago
The materials started coming in from the Front last week, a few days after the protein blocks: boards, risers, gym mats, army blankets, rolls of fabric that might have been curtains or carpeting. They've been putting together bunks, stacks of them, under the direction of the armed guards.
By unspoken common consensus, the very end of the last car gets curtained off for Gilliam and the others recovering from their voluntary amputation, and the first makeshift pallets are carried back to them.
The work shift is over for the day, and protein blocks are being distributed. Under a guard's watchful eye, one person -- a different one each day -- is tapped to bring food to those who can't walk out to get it for themselves.
Today it's Curtis.
The cloth pulled tight around his right arm used to be a bandana. The wound beneath it split open again last night; he hasn't been able to stop picking at it. Before, a cut like this might've meant stitches. Now it just means pain biting his arm as he cradles the protein blocks to his chest.
Curtis doesn't look up. Nobody looks at him. They part like the Red Sea when he moves, like the train cleaving through the ice. Even in this small space, they find room to get out of the way.
They still wonder if he's got a knife.
He stops in front of the curtains, exchanging an uneasy glance with the guard.
By unspoken common consensus, the very end of the last car gets curtained off for Gilliam and the others recovering from their voluntary amputation, and the first makeshift pallets are carried back to them.
The work shift is over for the day, and protein blocks are being distributed. Under a guard's watchful eye, one person -- a different one each day -- is tapped to bring food to those who can't walk out to get it for themselves.
Today it's Curtis.
The cloth pulled tight around his right arm used to be a bandana. The wound beneath it split open again last night; he hasn't been able to stop picking at it. Before, a cut like this might've meant stitches. Now it just means pain biting his arm as he cradles the protein blocks to his chest.
Curtis doesn't look up. Nobody looks at him. They part like the Red Sea when he moves, like the train cleaving through the ice. Even in this small space, they find room to get out of the way.
They still wonder if he's got a knife.
He stops in front of the curtains, exchanging an uneasy glance with the guard.
no subject
Out of everybody in this room, Edgar's probably got the best shot of being all right. He doesn't remember what happened; all he knows is that some scrawny malnourished teenager's feeding him, letting him gnaw his hand, and keeping him warm as he falls asleep. Pretty good life, Curtis guesses, when you're that young.
God knows if it's going to stay that way -- especially with Curtis suddenly in charge -- but maybe he can keep it going a little longer.