He was, as he discovered within a few seconds, imprisoned.
The floor was bare white, scarred linoleum. The walls, painted a yellowish-gray, also bore scars. They looked to the boy, as he sat on the floor and examined his surroundings, like claw marks. And bullet holes here and there, too. The door was reinforced with metal plates, as the front gate had been. The sliding door to the balcony was covered with sheet metal and barbed wire. One small square of window allowed in a weak shaft of light. There was no furniture. The light fixtures had been removed but of course there was no electricity so the bare wires hanging down were just reminders of what had been. He saw on the walls and floor what might have been the faint brown remnants of bloodstains.
The boy said, “Okay,” just to hear his own voice again.
And it was more than that. Okay. If he had made it across that field and out of that parking lot with the Gorgons and Cyphers all around, then he was going to survive. He knew he had a survivor’s instinct, though he had no idea who he was or where he’d come from. So…okay. And okay because at least he was with humans, and maybe they were going to stick him in a pot, boil him, and eat him, but…well, maybe thinking that way wasn’t so okay, so he let that go. But at least he was with humans, right? And okay because for the moment—just for this moment—he felt safe here in this little apartment prison, and he didn’t have to do any more running right now, and he was tired and hurting and it was okay just to sit here and wait for what was coming next.
What was coming next was not very long in coming. Within a few minutes the boy heard the key in the lock again. His heartbeat quickened. He tensed and slid himself across the floor to press his back against the wall behind him, and he waited as the door opened and three men came into the dimly illuminated room. One of the men carried an old-timey black doctor’s bag and a burning oil lamp, which he held toward the boy as he entered. The other two men were armed with submachine guns, which they also aimed at the boy.
The door was closed and locked behind them.
“Stand up,” commanded one of the men with a machine gun. “Take off your clothes.”
“What?” the boy asked, still dazed from his run.
“Up,” came the rough voice. “And your clothes off.”
The boy got to his feet. The man who had spoken to him was the same who had heaved him up upon the horse. This man was maybe forty years old, was of medium build, but obviously strong for his size. He had a hard-lined face with a hawk’s beak of a nose and deep-set, wary, dark brown eyes. He looked like he’d never known what a smile felt like. Such a thing might break his face. The man wore faded jeans, brown workboots, a gray shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and on his head was a grimy dark blue baseball cap. He had a brown beard edged with gray. Around his left shoulder and hanging down close at his side was the holster for his very deadly weapon. On his left wrist was a battered-looking watch that had no crystal.
“Go ahead, son,” the man with the doctor’s bag urged. He was older, probably in his mid-sixties, was white-haired and clean-shaven, thin and dressed more neatly than either of the others in a blue shirt and faded khakis. He was holding onto whatever he could of his life as it had been. His face maybe had once been friendly and open, but now was strained and tense. The boy noted a holster around his waist with a revolver parked in it, and this man wore a wristwatch that looked to be in fairly good working order.
“Are you going to kill me?” the boy asked, speaking to the elder man.
“If we have to,” replied the hard-faced man. “Get your clothes off. Now.”
The third man, thin and sallow and black-bearded, stood aside near the door. The boy figured he was there in position to get a clear line of fire. The boy began to undress, slowly because his bones ached and he felt so weary he could sleep for a hundred years. When he was out of his clothes and they had dropped around him to the floor, he stood motionlessly while the three men stared at him in the light of the oil lamp.
“Where’d you get all those bruises?” asked the doctor-man, in a quiet voice.
The boy looked down at himself. He hadn’t realized. Across his chest was a massive, ugly black bruise. It covered from shoulder to shoulder. Black bruises were streaked across his sides, his stomach and his thighs. He had no memory of what had caused those injuries, but now he knew why he was aching and he was spitting up blood. Something had hit him, very hard.
“Please turn around,” said the doctor-man. “Let’s see your back.”
The boy did. The black-bearded man at the door gave a low grunt and the hard-faced man spoke in nearly a whisper to the third one.
“My question again,” said the doctor-man. “Where’d the bruises come from?”
“I don’t know,” came the still-stunned answer, as the boy turned to face them again.
“You have an equally large bruise across your back and down your spine. Your contusions look to be very severe. You’ve been through an extremely violent incident…not like falling down some stairs or skinning a knee. I mean…violent.” He stepped forward, shining the lamp into the boy’s eyes.
“Careful, doc!” warned the hard-faced man. His Uzi was trained on the boy’s midsection, and did not waver.
“Are you spitting up blood?”
“Yes sir.”
“I’m not surprised. What’s surprising me is that your lungs didn’t burst and that you still can breathe. Your hearing all right?”
“Got a little ringing in my ears. They kind of feel stopped up. That’s all.”
“Hm. Interesting. I think you’ve been through…well, I won’t say right now.” He offered a thin, crinkly smile, which was maybe the best he could do.
“Can I put my clothes back on?”
“Not yet. Hold your arms out to your sides, will you?”
The boy did as he was asked.
The doctor gave his medical bag to the hard-faced man and neared the boy again. He shone the lamp over the boy’s body, and seemed to be looking for something in particular. He frowned as he examined the huge black bruise across the boy’s chest. “You can lower your arms,” he said, and the boy did. Then the doctor reached back and opened the medical bag. From it he brought a hypodermic needle, which he uncapped ready for use. “Left arm, please,” he said.