His hair hung in matted clumps, stiff with dried blood, plastered across what remained of his face. The severed ends of his limbs had darkened to near-black, still weeping fresh blood. His nose and mouth had been cut clean off, the cruelty of it deliberate and methodical.
But his face. The shape of it, the bone structure beneath the ruin.
It looked like my brother.
No.
I slapped myself so hard my vision blurred.
How could I even think something that horrific?
That was not my brother. It couldn't be. Piers Henson held one of the highest positions in the Bastion. His body was unique, invaluable. There was no conceivable scenario in which he'd end up discarded and butchered as bait.
His vaccine research must have made a breakthrough. That was it. He was busy. Safe.
Yes.
I pulled out my communicator and fired off a message.
Every second I waited for a reply was agony.
I kept my eyes locked on the man hanging from the wall, searching for anything—any detail that would prove me wrong.
The communicator buzzed.
"Hey, bro! I'm doing great here at the Bastion. Come visit anytime!"