“She caught up with Ringer,” Dumbo guessed. “And Ringer decided to take her to the caverns, not waste any time bringing her back.”
I jerked my head toward Poundcake. “Where was he?”
“Found him outside,” Ben said.
“Doing what?”
“Just . . . hanging out.”
“Just hanging out? Really? You guys ever wonder which team Poundcake might be playing for?”
Ben shook his head wearily. “Sullivan, don’t start—”
“Seriously. The mute act could be just an act. Keeps you from having to answer any awkward questions. Plus the fact that it makes a lot of sense planting one of your own into each brainwashed squad, in case anybody starts to wise—”
“Right, and before Poundcake it was Ringer.” Ben was losing it. “Next it’ll be Dumbo. Or me. When the guy who admitted he was the enemy is lying right there, holding your hand.”
“Actually, I’m holding his hand. And he isn’t the enemy, Parish. I thought we covered this.”
“How do we know he didn’t kill Teacup? Or Ringer? How do we know that?”
“Oh, Christ, look at him. He couldn’t kill a . . . a . . .” I tried to think of the proper thing he had the strength to kill, but the only thing my hungry, sleep-deprived brain could come up with was mayfly, which would have been a really, really bad choice of words. Like an inadvertent omen, if an omen can be inadvertent.
Ben whipped around to Dumbo, who flinched. I think he preferred Ben’s wrath be directed at anybody but him. “Will he live?”
Dumbo shook his head, the tips of his ears growing bright pink. “It’s bad.”
“That’s my question. How bad? How soon before he can travel?”
“Not for a while.”
“Damn it, Dumbo, when?”
“A couple weeks? A month? His ankle’s broke, but that’s not the worst. The infection, then you’ve got the risk of gangrene . . .”
“A month? A month!” Ben laughed humorlessly. “He storms this place, takes you out, beats the crap out of me, and a couple hours later he can’t move for a month!”
“Then go!” I shouted across the room at him. “All of you. Leave him with me, and we’ll follow you as soon as we can.”
Ben’s mouth, which had been hanging open, snapped closed. Sam was hovering near Ben’s leg, one tiny finger hooked into his big buddy’s belt loop. Something in my heart gave a little at the sight. Ben told me they called my little brother “Zombie’s dog” in camp, meaning ever faithfully by his side.
Dumbo was nodding. “Makes sense to me, Sarge.”
“We had a plan,” Ben said. His lips barely moved. “And we’re sticking to the plan. If Ringer isn’t back by this time tomorrow, we’re bugging out.” He glared at me. “All of us.” He jabbed his thumb at Poundcake and Dumbo. “They can carry your boyfriend, if he needs to be carried.”
Ben turned, bumped into the wall, pinballed off it, lurched through the door and into the hall.
Dumbo trailed after him. “Sarge, where’re you . . . ?”
“Bed, Dumbo, bed! I gotta lie down or I’m gonna fall down. Take the first watch. Nugget—Sam—whatever your name is—what are you doing?”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Stay with your sister. Wait. You’re right. She’s got her hands full—literally. Poundcake! Sullivan has the duty. Get some shut-eye, you big mute mother . . .”
His voice faded away. Dumbo came back to the foot of Evan’s bed.
“Sarge is strung out,” he explained, like I needed him to explain. “He’s usually pretty chill.”