Carrion (The Bren Watts Diaries #1)

Chapter 93

YOUSEF

Yousef had spent many hours inside the small four-by-four room with nothing but a slit, one-inch wide window above him overlooking the blocked parking lot. It was agony.

The room was an office space or used to before they stripped it bare, leaving only a couch to sleep on and a bucket to piss on. There was a lingering scent he couldn't quite put a finger on, but it was definitely coming from a human. He shuddered to think what had happened to the previous occupant, a picture he couldn't shake off when he lay back down to sleep.

Yousef would rather be out and away from this place, as far as his feet could take him. He wore a brown shirt that was one size too big for him and a pair of pants that were a little too tight for his liking, hugging his friend down there, which he had to adjust from time to time.

At least they found the right shoe size, he thought bitterly.

Yousef tried pacing around—for what little room he could manage—to get his muscles working and ready if he needed to run. He mentally checked himself by counting forwards and backward to keep his mind sharp, and he prayed to Allah when he thought it was the right time to pray by judging the passing sunlight through his window. And when a memory arose of his parents or his four other siblings, he held on tight to give him a boost of courage. He remembered when they spent an entire summer weekend by Lake Michigan last year with his family and Luke and the rest of the Mathesons. Though he expected tears, it surprised him the memory did not break his heart.

"Oh, Luke, is it nice there, bud?" He whispered into the gloom of his cell. As usual, no answer came, but he felt content to have someone to talk to even if they're not there. He had not seen any sign of Miguel or Haskell all day, or of Pete, Alfie, and Logan. Was Bren captured, too? When he did ask, they merely shrugged or gave him a vague answer, which frustrated him. "Wherever you are, man, I'm happy it's far away from all this shit. I'm still kicking, though. I'm doing it for you."

Yousef chuckled softly, touching the bandage wrapped around his armpit. A rude man in his late fifties, who unfortunately happened to be the camp's doctor, had told him he'd live and that the arrow didn't pierce any major arteries, but it still hurt like a stick up your ass, and he wept like a babe as they stitched him up bloody. He was sure the doctor enjoyed every minute of it, and sometimes, between bouts of consciousness, he wanted to punch that smug smirk of his.

The macabre beauty of medicine without anesthesia was a hell of a cheap drug that you ultimately passed out from exhaustion and constant crying. When he awoke, he was in the room he was now in, told to follow his captors' strict rules (of which were many), and was warned to behave like a good dog. Then. They locked the door behind them on their way out.

Ah, what would Luke say? Oh, yes. At least the doctor washed his hands, he laughed.

He chucked it as a win that he hadn't died of sepsis or a nasty infection, and there was no putrid smell coming out of his wound, nor any puss when he peeked through the bandages. But could you really tell those things if you hadn't showered in what, days? Nevertheless, it was healing, and he wanted it over with fast so that he could grab a knife or any weapon in particular, and Watts this entire thing. He couldn't fight like Bren, but he could very well damned try matching his skills.

Then again, he did hear something. The doctor called him desirable for whatever reason, but he passed out not long after. He imagined Malak al Maut to visit him—of Azrael, the angel of death—Yousef's name read beautifully from the fallen leaf. And that he had been good and was graced and worthy of being in God's presence, where Azrael guided his soul out of his own body and ascended to where all souls live.