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.

But no. He woke up right before the good part.

Then again, he was thankful for that. He wanted to keep his promise to Luke. He wanted to survive long enough to get back home and tell Luke's family of his son's death. He wanted to be the one to tell him that he was not alone when he died. He fought long and hard to escape the horrors in New York and Albany. He wanted to tell them that he found love and that he was loved until his last breath. He wanted to let them know that Luke protected him and that he could never ask more for a better friend to stand by his side.

He missed Luke.

The gate creaked from its hinges, and a clang resounded from behind the door. The guards were coming up to serve him his meals, of which he received twice daily. He hadn't noticed it was getting dark outside.

Two days here. How long will I stay? He wondered.

Yousef put his back against the wall and stood across the door. They wanted it that way after the incident in the morning when he didn't comply with their demands. They slapped his cheek so hard he was afraid it bled, especially when one of the guards had three sets of rings wrapped around their fingers (which were probably stolen from the dead or the infected). It stung for a few hours after that, and he had no intention of going through it again.

The guard did not come alone. Two other men came with him, one with a face as mean like the other, a couple of fresh scars on their cheek, and both their heads shaved off. They had a bucket filled with water and some towels with them. Yousef's heart quickened, and he immediately recoiled away from their shadows.

"Please," he whispered. "Don't do this. I haven't done anything wrong." In his mind, he kept chanting like a mantra: please don't waterboard me, please don't waterboard me.

"Shut up," the guard spat, and he gestured for the two men to come into the room.

Yousef looked around, but there was no weapon for him to use aside from a lone pillow and a blanket. Could he smother one of them with it? No. That would take too long, and one of them could quickly come up behind him and kill him—let alone a stupid idea to begin with. The two men marched toward him, but they swerved to the right and placed the bucket and the towels near the couch.

The taller one of the two turned around to face Yousef and said, "Get yourself clean up and proper. We'll return in ten minutes."

"What for? Where are you taking me?"

"Do what the big man said, and keep your mouth shut," the shorter of the two sneered. He pulled out a zip-lock bag filled with toiletries and put it on top of the stacked towels from his pocket. The three men exited the room after.

"That's...very vague, you dick," he muttered bitterly. But it was very typical since his arrival. He didn't know where he was, but it was clear someone gave the order not to speak to him. He was only let out of the room twice, but it was pretty obvious to see when people made a big deal of taking the longer route to avoid you.

Yousef moved quickly before he lost the light. He scrubbed his face and neck off from dirt and grime, cleaned his armpits and around his groin, and made sure to wash his feet. He reserved a small cup of water for brushing his teeth by using the travel-sized toothpaste they were kind enough to give him. Then, he wore the deodorant (luckily, it had not been used), which was supposed to smell like the sea. Frankly, he couldn't tell the difference, but he tried to salvage what he could, stripping away the gunk and smell that had accumulated over the past few days. The men probably considered the clothes he received yesterday were still fresh, so they hadn't bothered to provide him with a new one.

It didn't take long for the three men to return. The taller one looked him up and down, then turned to his companion and said, "He doesn't look ready."

"Well, thanks for that. Nice way of saying I still smell," Yousef mumbled. The others did hear him, but chose to ignore it. Bren had rubbed off on him these past couple of months, though time could only tell if that was a good thing or a bad one.

The shorter man sniffed the air and cringed. "Bah. It will do."

"You know I can still hear you."

"We're not talking to you," said the shorter one.

"Well, you are now."

"Keep being a smart ass, and I'll let you know what it feels like talking through chipped teeth. Have you bitten concrete before, fucker?"

"No, but I'll let you bite a pillow, see the surprise from behind—" The taller man marched toward him, palm raised in the air, and Yousef flinched. "Kidding!" He screamed. "I'm just screwing around, dude. Calm the fuck down!"

It was a weak slap, but it still stung. The guard laughed from behind and said, "Kid, be thankful that's all we do to terrorists here. Where you're going, you gonna wish you were dead."

"I'm not a terrorist."

"Tell that to nine-eleven."

Yousef rolled his eyes. "Well, obviously I can't tell you that when I wasn't even born then, you racist fuck. You think I carried a bazooka when I crawled out of my mother to kill your crusty white ass? No way."

"Why, you little shit—!"

"Enough!" The taller one shouted. "Both of you. Enough." He then turned to Yousef and dug his finger on Yousef's chest. "One more word out of you, and Carl will have your tongue. Understand that?"

The guard still sneered at him, the shorter one wanted to kill him, and the taller one was more than happy to draw blood, so Yousef had really no choice but to do what the big man said. He already knew over some whisperings in the camp that they called themselves Alphas. There was nothing "alpha" about them aside from carrying big guns and even bigger, gaping assholes.

"Don't forget your white armband," the shorter man said.

Yousef grumbled as he picked up the armband from the couch and looped his arm into it. The taller one led them out of the room, followed by Yousef, with the shorter one following close by. There were more rooms here, lots of open spaces on the corridor, which supported Yousef's earlier theory that it used to be an office space, but the chairs and the desks had been taken out to get scrapped for something else. He wondered if Miguel, Logan, or Alfie were behind one of those doors, but he had tried screaming their names before (many times, in fact), and no one answered him back.

He shuffled toward the door to the right, surprised that the guard had not put handcuffs on him, probably thinking the two well-armed men could take him out without a problem. Well, his assessment was accurate, and Yousef hated getting handcuffed, anyway. It's not like his scrawny ass was gonna do backflips and break their jaws or something. He'd let guys like Pete or Logan do that. Sadly, they were nowhere in sight, probably in a much worse cell than he was in. He was ashamed to think that those guys would probably try to fight their way out every waking minute, and here he was, sitting last in a cell, doing nothing but did brain teasers. It only drove the point that he was now alone and most certainly couldn't use his fist to barge his way out.

Guys, where the hell are you? He thought. Oh, you better not all be dead. I can't be the only one left alive! What does that say about me?

He had a vague recollection of where he was going from the brief times he was let out. He knew the doors that went out to the courtyard, some to the parking lot, a few entries that led to the central shopping mall, but then the two men guided him further out.

Yousef passed by the same men and women wearing the white armband like himself, and they were always surrounded by a few armed Alphas. He caught them looking his way, but he couldn't put the finger on what their expression meant, like a mix of pity, confusion, and panic, though some seemed amused. Strange. He did not let it bother him. Well, he tried not to let it bother him, but the further he got from his prison to the unknown, the more his knees turned to jelly, his feet heavy with every step he made. He might as well collapse right then and there.

They went through a few gated checkpoints where a small squad was stationed on ramparts and watchtowers, separating each compound's section by stacked cars or chain-linked fences. Funny how at this moment, he just realized most of the Alphas he had seen were all white men. Sure, there were women here and there, but only a handful of them. Were they even taking in women and children? He had not seen a child once. Though, his bemused observation quickly turned to dread when he realized most of the people wearing the white armbands were certainly not all white.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Where else?" The taller one said as the checkpoint guards let them through. "We're taking you to Carl."

——

The room smelled of sex, sweat, and alcohol, and Yousef never expected it to come from a mattress store.

There were raucous laughter and jabbering chatter among the men inside, followed by the yelps and cries of women, sometimes with giggles and squeals, all against the thrum of rock music over the radio, tuned into DJ Swayze's channel. It didn't look like much at first, the noise faint and distant from three hundred meters back, but as he grew closer, the decadence was overwhelming. Skin upon skin shown against the hot summer night, dancing among the makeshift fires lit at the middle, barrels of beer propped up on the tables.

The Alphas had turned the mattress store—and the surrounding branches—into their soldiers' commons room or barracks. The beds had all been slept on; a long table was in the middle of the room, filled with roasting meats, bread, and gallons of beer. Yousef's stomach grumbled from the sight, thinking he should grab one of the chicken drumsticks lying on an open platter as he passed. Yousef reached out for them, but the shorter man slapped his hand away.

"These aren't for the likes of you," he said. "It's our dinner."

"Oh, come on, man. I barely ate!"

"We gave you food earlier."

"Sop is not real food," Yousef grumbled.

A naked woman came stumbling between the rows of mattresses and bumped into him, flirtatiously giggling as she let three men in various states of undress chased after her with the last one only had socks on. Yousef peeled his eyes away as they carried her to an empty bed and had their way with her. He quickly noticed that about half of the women in the room didn't want to be there. As he passed, they bore their eyes on him, begging him to help as the Alphas pinned them down on the bed, but all Yousef could do was hung his head down and kept his mouth shut.

A man in his late thirties sat at the end of the table, hounded by multiple armed men. He had black hair slicked back, his arms covered with tattoos, and a big, black Doberman sitting by his feet. He shooed the men buzzing around him as Yousef approached, regarding him silently with his gaze. Yousef knew right away that this must be Carl.

It felt like an eternity had passed as Carl studied him closely, not knowing what to say, that perhaps it was better to let the other speak first. However, Carl never said a word, merely cocking his head to the side and flicked his thumb up over his shoulder, gesturing for the two men to escort Yousef to the back.

The music and the decadent display faded behind him as the two men led him down a poorly-lit hallway. Another heavily-armed man stood by a door at the end, opening it for them, and the taller one shoved him inside.

It was a dark room. The blinds had been shuttered, making the corners seemed endless, and a foul aroma lingered in the air. Only the lights from the hallway cast a path to the middle. The darkness made the room enormous and he had the funny urge to pee.

"Sef...?" A voice groaned in the darkness, and Yousef froze.

He recognized Miguel's voice anywhere.

Suddenly, the lights turned on, illuminating the entire room.

Miguel and Haskell were handcuffed to the radiator by the far corner, faces bruised and battered, flanking two dog bowls filled with mushy food. Specks of blood covering their clothes, and as Yousef ran up toward them, the pungent odor of urine and fecal matter invaded his nostrils. They hadn't even let them go to a proper bathroom.

"Miguel!" Yousef screamed, and he immediately ran up to the two men. "What happened to you?"

Haskell stirred beside him, his only unbruised left eye opened and stared at him closely. "You...You're alive."

"Where are the others? Where's Logan?" Yousef asked.

"Sef...get away from here," Miguel said.

Yousef "shook his head. Where's Alfie? And Pete? What about Bren?"

The two guards suddenly grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him out of the room, turning off the lights as they exited. Yousef thrashed and kicked, even screamed that perhaps the people outside might felt sorry for him and come to his rescue, but the music and the drunken chatter only got louder, and that faint hope quickly dissipated. They took him up a flight of stairs and into another room—one that was much spacious with larger windows overlooking the abandoned freeway below—and the guards pointed at the lone empty seat in front of a large, wood-oak desk.

It didn't take long for Carl to barge into the room, followed by an entourage of armed men. He pulled his shirt off and discarded it to the side as he sauntered toward the desk. Sweat glistened against his skin as he uncapped a bottle of water and drank most of it. He plopped down on the leather seat across the desk with a loud sigh.

"Refreshing," Carl said. "The weather station said there's going to be a heatwave all weekend. They didn't warn me it's going to be such a bitch."

Yousef didn't say anything and glued his butt on his seat. He didn't dare make a move.

Carl sauntered over to a cooler resting at the far side of the room, and grabbed another water bottle. He returned to the desk while opening the bottle, poured one on a Spongebob mug, and nudged it toward Yousef. "Well, go on. You must be thirsty," he said.

"I'm okay. Thanks."

"No. You're not." He bumped the cup closer with the back of his bruised knuckles. Yousef averted his eyes upon seeing the latter. "Drink. I won't ask again," he said.

Yousef drank all of it and gently placed the cup back on the desk. He caught Carl smiling at him, but Yousef did not return the favor.

"What's your name?" Carl asked.

"Yousef."

"And where are you originally from, kid?"

"Indiana."

"No. I said where you're originally from."

Yousef paused, confused. "Uh, Indiana. I was born there."

Carl turned to his subordinates. "Ah. Immigrants. Illegal?" A few chuckles here and there, but Yousef didn't turn to look who it came from.

"No. We are citizens."

"Maybe."

Yousef didn't know what to say.

Carl looked him up and down again. "Hm. Why the fuck in Indiana, of all places?"

Yousef shrugged. "Because...we can?"

Carl let out a soft grunt of indignation. He leaned down and pulled a bottle of scotch from his drawer and poured himself a glass.

"I imagine you must be wondering why I sent for you here." Yousef kept his mouth shut as Carl studied him. "Do you know who we are?"

Yousef nodded. He held his tongue from saying egocentric, small-dick jackasses. He'd like to keep his head, thank you very much.

"But does your friends know that?"

Yousef shifted, remembering Miguel and Haskell's battered state in the room below. "I...I think they do."