Free HL 04-The Final Hour by Andrew Klavan

canisters.”
    “Six . . .”
    “It’s more than enough. Six canisters can be carried by a single man. So nothing will stop it, even if it comes down to me alone.”
    I heard Waylon let out what must have been a curse in a foreign language.
    I wanted to hear more—needed to hear more. But I was out of time. I had to get back to my barracks. Even now, the guard might see me sprinting across the open space.
    I turned to move away from the building.
    But before I could, a hand grabbed me by the shoulder.

CHAPTER NINE
The Infirmary
     
    I opened my eyes and it was all gone: the compound, the buildings, the guards, all of it. No, wait. There was still that hand. It was still gripping my shoulder.
    I turned my head, confused. Yes, there it was—that hand—powerful fingers digging painfully into my flesh.
    I lifted my eyes and found myself looking up into the sadistic face of Chuck Dunbar, the Yard King.
    “Wake up, garbage,” he snarled.
    Fear shot through my confusion, bringing me fully alert. Where was I? What was happening? I tried to think. I remembered . . .
    The cafeteria. Dinner. The swastika boys. Their plan to escape . . .
    I’d had another memory attack. I’d collapsed onto the floor in pain. That meant now I must be . . .
    I looked around. Yes, I was in the infirmary. It was a narrow cinder-block rectangle of a room, the walls painted hospital green. There was a row of narrow cots lined up against one wall. There was a prisoner in each of two of the other cots. The rest were empty. There was an observation window on the far wall at the end of the room. The window was empty too: There was no one in the observation booth. The other sick prisoners had purposely turned their heads so they weren’t looking at me.
    No one was looking at me. No one was watching. Which was exactly how Dunbar liked it.
    The Yard King stood over my bed, gripping me hard by the shoulder. He sneered down at me, his eyes bright with malice.
    “What do you want?” I asked. My voice was thick and muddy.
    With his free hand, Dunbar reached down and grabbed the front of my shirt. He yanked me up off the mattress. He stuck his face in close to mine. I could smell his dinner on his breath. Dinner and beer.
    “Why are you here?” he said in that raking-gravel voice of his. “Why are you in the infirmary?”
    “What do you mean? What . . . ?”
    He shook me hard. I stopped talking. “Have you got some kind of problem? Did you get hurt somewhere?”
    “No, I . . .”
    “I wouldn’t like to think you got hurt in my yard, West,” Dunbar rasped. “I wouldn’t like to think you were telling people you got hurt in my Outbuilding.”
    Now I understood. He was afraid I’d come here to talk, to inform on him, to tell someone how he’d roughed me up.
    “Get your hands off me,” I said, grabbing at his wrist.
    “Or you’ll do what?” asked Dunbar—but all the same, he threw me roughly back down onto the cot.
    I rubbed my hand over my face, trying to get my bearings, trying to defog my mind. My thoughts still seemed to be drifting in some weird netherworld between the present and the past.
    “Come on,” Dunbar said. “What did you tell them?”
    “Listen . . . ,” I began.
    He hit me in the side of the head with his open hand.
    “Don’t waste my time, West. Let’s go! What did you tell them?”
    I looked up at that nasty, knuckly face. I didn’t like getting hit. I didn’t like that he could just whack me like that and get away with it. He was a bully, that’s all. A bully who knew he had all the power as long as we were here, as long as we were stuck together in the hell of Abingdon.
    I couldn’t keep the scorn out of my voice. “I didn’t come here to turn you in, Dunbar.” Slowly, painfully, I sat up on the bed. “You don’t have to be such a coward . . .”
    That got to him. The truth always gets to guys like him. He grabbed me again, twisting the front of my shirt in his fingers as he hauled me to my feet, held me