Page 23 of Faith Among Monsters

Except Victor doesn’t stop.

He keeps moving, his gait jerky and unnatural, like something’s short-circuited in his brain.

“What the fuck did Doc give them this week?” I mutter under my breath. I’ve seen tweakers power through gunshots before, but this? A chest wound should drop anyone.

“Head shots!” I shout, my voice booming across the yard.

Wilkes hesitates, his expression tight with confusion, but he obeys. He takes aim, his hands steady, and fires.

Victor’s head jerks back, and he crumples to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

No one moves through a head shot.

I step into the yard, my boots crunching over gravel and spilled food trays. The chaos sharpens as I take it in. Seven bodies lie scattered across the ground, most of them guards orinmates I know personally. Blood pools beneath them, dark and spreading.

All of them look chewed on. Torn apart.

Except Pauly. His head’s a mess, brains scattered across the concrete from a bullet that did what it needed to.

My jaw tightens. Whatever Doc pumped into them this time, it’s turned them into fucking animals.

I whistle, sharp and loud. Heads jerk toward me, and the gunfire slows as guards and inmates alike look my way.

“Talk to me!” I bark, scanning the yard.

“We got some fucking injured over here!” Wilkes shouts, his voice cracking as he gestures to a group huddled near the far wall.

“Get ‘em to Doc!” I yell back. My focus shifts to the struggling figures still flailing and grappling on the ground. The fight isn’t over yet.

“Enough!” I shout, the word cutting through the air like a whip.

Most of the chaos halts, but not all of it.

“Get him off me!” Clarkson screams, his voice high and panicked.

I pivot, sprinting toward the sound. Clarkson’s on his back, his face twisted in terror as Rog, an inmate I’ve shared meals with, snarls and snaps at him like a feral dog. Blood drips from Rog’s chin, his teeth red as he lunges for Clarkson’s throat.

My stomach twists, but I don’t hesitate. I grab Rog by the back of his shirt and yank him off, tossing him to the ground like dead weight.

He scrambles to his feet, but he doesn’t come at me like a man. He’s all wild eyes and jerky movements, his lips peeled back in a snarl that doesn’t belong on a human face. His bloodshot eyes lock on mine, and he lunges.

I don’t think. I fire.

The shot cracks through the yard, and Rog drops instantly, the hole between his eyes dark and final.

Clarkson rolls onto his side, clutching his neck. His breathing is ragged, panicked, but he’s alive.

“What the fuck was in the gruel tonight?” he wheezes, spitting blood onto the concrete. “That fucker bit me!”

My grip on the pistol tightens as I glance at Rog’s still body, the snarl frozen on his face.

“Get to Doc,” I say sharply, my voice low but firm. I can’t let this spiral in my head, not yet. “That’s where I’m headed next, soon as this yard is secure.”

Clarkson nods weakly and starts to crawl toward the exit.

I turn, scanning the yard one last time. The gunfire has stopped, but the damage is done. Bodies litter the ground, some still twitching, others already gone. Blood soaks the dirt and gravel, and the metallic tang of it hangs thick in the air.

My gaze lands on Quince, still frozen by the exit, his rifle loose in his hands.

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