Chapter One

Zombie is back, creeping across the floor to sniff at Dan's ankle. She's become his constant companion-especially after days he spends with the jailkeeper, when he can't fight past the pain to shoo her away. She presses her wet nose against his skin, works her way up his body, chews on the raw flesh around his wrists. His body twitches with pain and he feebly strikes at her. She scampers back, watching him with small, greedy black eyes, and after a few seconds she approaches him again. He lets himself go limp, resigns himself to her wishes. He's too weak to even fight a rat. He's always too weak. The others are forcing themselves through the crack at the far end of his cell now. Greasy, fat bodies and yellow teeth. His muscles quiver, tighten around his bones, and then relax again. His vision wavers. The rats grow in size, shrink, shiver. The light dances around them, twists their shapes and their shadows.

Something clangs outside. Lots of things have been clanging outside. There's too much noise. Footsteps stop outside his cell. "What about this one, sir? The double Red?"

More footsteps. A clean, clear voice that sends Dan's heart jumping. The rats pause. "No. We'll leave him for YouTube to find. He won't make it. It's no advantage of theirs. They're moving hundreds of people, they won't be here for at least a week. Put a guard on him," the jailkeeper says.

"But-"

"He won't be able to break through it. Look at him."

"Yes, sir." The door to Dan's cell rattles and someone kneels beside him. The rats retreat. Her face is distorted and her hands reach for his neck. Metal fastens there, cold and solid. His head hurts. God, his head hurts. He whines and she steps away. "That's the last one in this hall, sir," she says.

"Are they still working in the 300 Hall?"

"I think so, sir."

"And then we're done, do you think?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Come on. Leave the door unlocked. I want to make sure YouTube finds their Mr. Howell," the jailkeeper says.

Their footsteps fade. The rats advance.

Dan closes his eyes.

Dan opens his eyes.

It's quiet now. Quieter than it's ever been. He can't hear any other prisoners, moaning and moving and praying like it'll do them any good. The jailkeeper took them all. He's alone, except for the rats. But the rats aren't here now, either.

He wants to move, to see, but his body refuses. He can only listen to the eerie quiet and try to fill it with noise. He dreams awake, shivering and painting twisted, confusing images in the air. There's Phil, the color of hope, and PJ and Chris and his mother, soft hands and eyes, his brother, his father, a bed with warm covers, the taste of a hot meal, the smell of fresh air, Phil's laugh, Phil's grin, the jailkeeper's eyes, the sting of metal, freedom in his head, the guard, weight around his neck, a dog on a chain, the city, the lights, a red bracelet, a lion and the color of hope and Phil.

Where is he? Where will he go? Where should he go? Is he even awake? He's cold. He's dying. Is he dying? Should he be relieved? Then why is he scared? Why does he want to live? Will they rescue him? Does he want that? Does he want death? What's wrong with him? How can he be right?

His stomach rolls. He scrambles to push himself up, but his elbows buckle. He retches, gags, wipes stringy bile away from the raw skin on his arms. Some of it clings to his bracelet and drips down his chin and he can't find the energy to scrub at it. He lets his body relax again, rolls his head back against the wall, closes his eyes. Opens them again. Does he want to die? Does it matter?

He hears steps. Tiny steps, clicking claws. He regards Zombie wearily as she comes towards him, her whiskers twitching, her spawn following her. And then she pauses as squeaking travels through the air and she turns and trots back to her home and he's alone again. His chest feels tight. He hasn't been this alone in a long time. He doesn't like it.

Is this where he'll die? Wallowing in his own vomit, pining over rats, in a lonely state prison? Fuck, he'd much rather have died when he stepped out after Lion that day all those months ago. They could have shot him, quick and easy, and he'd have died like a real man, with at least some semblance of courage and dignity. But now, if the jailkeeper's right, YouTube'll find him like this. A weak, sniveling excuse for a man. And what will Phil think? Fuck. Fuck, he doesn't want to die this way.

So get up, he thinks. Get up and walk out. The door's not locked.

But the jailkeeper was right. There's no way he can. His legs are broken, his blood is smeared across the floor, his vision flickers. He's weak. What hope is there for him? But he doesn't want to die, goddamit. An angry cry catches in his throat and he tries to push himself up again, jarring every painful place on his body and making his limbs shudder. He manages to push his torso up, but when he tries to pull his legs under him his vision flares red and then black.

When he can see again he's back on the floor. His chest aches. He's pathetic. This is where he'll die, then. He squeezes his eyes shut, bares his teeth at the concrete. He's scared. He thinks about Phil. He hears footsteps. Not tiny, clawed steps, but heavy, hard steps. Quick human steps. He quiets his breathing, strains his ears. Have they come back for him? Did the jailkeeper change his mind? Dan's stomach twists. Please, please don't let the jailkeeper come back for him. Please.

The footsteps grow louder. There's more than one set. He wants to flip over, to see the hall, but his body has quit. It has more important things to worry about, like keeping his heart moving. So he waits and he stares at the wall and listens to the noise behind him. When the footsteps stop outside his cell he can hear their rapid breathing, the rustle of their clothes. And then: "Dan? Oh God, shit, Dan, Bear."