Land of Wolves

Chapter 52

I think I'm being carried.

Voices trickle in and out, but the pulsing in my head makes it impossible to focus on what's being said.

I'm lying flat on my back with my arms dangling limply on either side of my waist. Whatever I've been placed on, probably a stretcher, is hard, and a bright, fluorescent light is burning behind my eyelids. I try to open my eyes, but I can't muster up the strength.

The light behind my eyelids ebbs and flows, and I assume it's due to me being carried underneath bulbs.

A hand lands on my wrist, and fingers curl around it as the voices around me grow panicked. I hope it's not because I'm dying.

Where is Adam?

Where am I?

I try to open my mouth, try to move my fingers or wiggle my toes, but my body doesn't cooperate. It's useless, and after a few attempts, I grow too tired and give up. I'm alive for now, and I'm pretty sure HPAW is going to do whatever possible to keep me from dying.

Even if they suspect I'm with the wolves now, they'll still want to question me.

Light continues to move behind my eyelids, and I'm pretty sure I'm slipping in and out of consciousness. There's a sharp pinch in my neck, the pain identical to when the HPAW soldier stuck me with the needle, and when I wake up again, I'm not in any pain.

In fact, there's a concerning lack of pain.

I'm still groggy and unable to focus on a thought for longer than a second or two, but every inch of my body—most notably my head—is numb. It feels fucking good.

There's an insufferable itch on the back of my hand, so I assume I'm hooked up to an IV.

The voices are gone, too, replaced with the rhythmic sound of beeping. I've heard it before, and I know immediately it's a heart rate monitor. The pressure on my pointer finger confirms it, and I do my best to move my hands before exhaustion forces me limp.

I imagine I was taken straight into surgery, and if my injuries were going to kill me, I probably would've died on the table.

I'm going to take it as a good sign that I'm conscious and laid up in a hospital bed.

Yay for me.

My mouth tastes like copper, and I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth as rhythmic beeping pulls me back under.

The pain is still gone when I wake up again, but voices surround me once more. There are two of them, one I don't recognize and another I do. It's familiar, and I rack my brain for answers as it filters through my ears.

It's been so long since I last heard it, and after a few seconds, I realize it's Dan speaking.

My makeshift father.

He was my primary caretaker when I was brought to HPAW, the man in charge of ensuring I was kept healthy and sharp. HPAW thought it would be best for me to have a confidant, a steady parental figure in my life that I felt I could rely on.

They thought it would help ground me. Keep me from acting out and rebelling.

His rough voice is distinct from spending almost thirty years chain-spoking menthol cigarettes. It's a nasty habit he was always incredibly vocal about hating, but he never worked up the strength to quit.

Given the bitter, chemical smell floating around in the room, I'd go on a limb and say he still hasn't.

Unsurprising.

Despite his bad habit, though, Dan's a pretty fit guy. He's almost fifty, but I'm sure he could easily take down men still in their prime. He sure as fuck works out enough—every day for nearly two hours in the HPAW gym—and I've always suspected he's using a muscle-enhancing drug.