The Prey by Tom Isbell

his life.
    â€œAs you may know, L-2084’s been missing from camp these last few days, and only recently were we able to track him down. We thought he might want to share with us where he’s been. We also thought he might tell us where he came from, because so far . . . we’ve learned absolutely nothing.”
    This time, when Colonel Westbrook looked out, I knew he was staring at me.
    The colonel pinched Cat’s face between his fingers. “I want you all to look at this LT. We call him 2084, but of course we don’t know his original number, because he burned it off.” A tiny smile played across Westbrook’s face. “That’s why I want you to see what happens when LTs don’t abide by the rules.”
    A Brown Shirt emerged from the building. In his hand was a tool not much bigger than a screwdriver. It was plugged into an orange extension cord, which snaked into the log structure.
    â€œSince L-2084 lacks a marker, it seems he needs a new one—one that won’t come off.” Westbrook gave the tall, blond woman a smug look— This is how we do it here, the expression said. Then he turned to Major Karsten.
    â€œMajor, would you do the honors?”
    â€œMy pleasure,” he growled, his stare more piercing than the devil’s.
    As he took the tattoo engraver, I realized it wasn’t what it seemed. It was a wood-burning tool, its shaft glowing red. They weren’t going to tattoo Cat’s number on his arm; they were going to burn it in.
    â€œSo now you know what happens when your marker mysteriously disappears,” Westbrook said.
    At that moment the bigger of the two Brown Shirts yanked Cat’s right arm to the side while the other strapped it to the railing. Major Karsten stepped forward and pressed the red-hot tip into Cat’s flesh, etching the first letter. A thin plume of smoke wafted upward, permeating the air with the nauseating odor of burned skin. Some LTs threw up on the spot.
    Cat barely even flinched.
    It seemed to take forever, Karsten pressing the searing metal tip into Cat’s arm as he delineated each number. Blood dribbled down, striking the wooden floor like raindrops. Cat stood there with teeth clenched.
    At last, when it seemed like Cat could take no more—when we could take no more—Karsten finished the final digit. He stepped back, the tool’s metal tip glowing fiery red like a poker. The Brown Shirt undid the strap and flung Cat to the floor. Even from a distance I could see the rise and fall of his chest as he struggled for breath.
    Colonel Westbrook let the silence lengthen. “Perhaps now,” he said, loud enough for all to hear, “you’ll tell us who you are and where you’ve been.”
    Cat looked up, his arm dripping a river of red. He had no intention of speaking.
    â€œFine,” Westbrook said through gritted teeth. And then he hissed, “But don’t think we’re done.”
    He did an about-face and disappeared into the building. The woman followed, then Karsten and the Brown Shirts.
    The LTs couldn’t get out of there fast enough, scurrying back to the barracks like cockroaches, until it was just me. I took several steps toward Cat. He’d barely moved since the Brown Shirts tossed him to the floor.
    â€œAre you okay?” I reached out a tentative hand but he swatted it aside.
    â€œI don’t need your pity,” he said.
    â€œAre you sure you’re all right, because—”
    â€œI said I don’t need you,” he said again.
    Fine, I thought. Have it your way.
    I walked back across the infield. And as I did, I had the strange but certain sensation I was being watched.

18.
    H OPE FEELS THE FULL dose of the vaccine within a day; her aches recede, her fever ebbs. But Faith deteriorates further and further into a world of feverish nightmares—her body twisting in a series of grotesque contortions. In her delirium she mutters,