Positive

by Kelsey D. Garmendia

  "But they're trying to," I say, reaching a hand out to the glass. "Michael's trying to make things better."

  "Yeah, you're probably right." We stare at each other through our cell wall for a moment. Several emotions flash across Atticus' face. I can't determine what is running through his mind. Now that we've known each other for a while, it's gotten easier. But today, he seems distracted, scatterbrained even. Something must have changed at Testing because he's usually laid back about everything. He nods and looks down at his hands.

  "If we're going to get out here, we should probably plan it out better."

  "Ok," he says, putting a forced smile on his face. "I'll work on that."

  The door swings open and two more workers file into our hallway in the familiar yellow hazmat suits. They punch in codes next to the doorway and both mine and Atticus’ doors open. “You two, exit your cells.”

  We look at each other through the glass. Atticus’ eyes are wide, his mouth partially open. With the smallest shake of his head, I know where those men are taking us is not good. They're angry at my outburst the other day. The NG, I'm sure, is furious that I bit into his hand through the hazmat suit.

  “I said, exit your cells,” the taller worker steps forward and pulls out a gun-looking device. I bite my lower lip and push myself from the ground, Atticus mirroring me the entire way.

  The walk down the hallway is silent. The two men in the hazmat suits march ahead of us side-by-side. Atticus grips my wrist and smiles.

  "What is it?"

  "I'm really glad I got to meet you, Sal."

  "Oh," I respond, frowning. "Me too."

  He rams his shoulder into the NG in front of him. I freeze. The one on the left jumps toward the scuffle as Atticus struggles to wrestle the both of them.

  "Run, Sal! Run!"

  My heart leaps to my throat as I watch him slam the other worker to the ground. I want to help him, I want him to come with me if I'm getting out. The second NG struggles to his feet. In this moment, with both guards pinning Atticus's face against the concrete, I feel something I haven't in days. I feel free.

  "Sal, go!"

  Before I can stop myself, I hurdle over the dog pile and sprint down the dark hallway. Windows filled with the faces of Positives blow by me in a blur. I don't have the slightest idea where I'm going, but the chance of being anywhere but here is breathtaking.

  I turn left down a hallway with no windows. The pounding of feet echo after me. The hallway comes to an end with a single door. I press onto the handle.

  "No."

  I slam my shoulder into it until it throbs; the footsteps are closer now. With a long inhale, I throw all my weight behind a kick and stumble into the cool air of a summer night in Washington.

  My bare feet throb as they carry me through a gravel parking lot. I can just make out the perimeter fence when a searing pain in my spine paralyzes me. My face meets the gravel before my hands can stop it. The heavy crunches of feet stomp across the lot. My breathing isn't returning to normal. If this was the little taste of freedom that I get before I die, then I'll leave this place content.

  Chapter 18

  "You had quite the adventure yesterday, I heard." Michael's voice barely forces my eyes open. With each pulse of my heart, my body throbs. "The guard had to taze you, otherwise you would've made it to the perimeter."

  Atticus. My eye creak open. Everything's blurry for a moment; his bed a fuzzy outline until it comes in crystal clear—empty.

  "He didn't make it." Michael's voice is empty, hollow to the point of bone-chilling. "The altercation between himself and the guards ultimately killed him."

  Tears well in the corners of my eyes in an instant. I don't have to ask how or why—being Positives meant tomorrow wasn't promised anyway. But this death was different. Atticus was like me. He was my family in this god-forsaken place. More importantly, he killed himself to save me. And I couldn't even give him that.

  "You killed him." My voice comes out as a growl.

  "Atticus was extremely ill—"

  "All because of these chips! It's you're fault he's dead!" I lunge at him—a searing pain from my scar cripples me. The world warps around me in a silent whirlwind. "What—what did you—"

  "It's a security protocol," Michael responds. "They implanted one in every Positive in this facility."

  "So, what? You're gonna train me?? Like a dog?"

  "It's for your safety—"

  "I haven't been safe since the moment I got here. You and I both know that."

  "I'm starting to think your delusions are getting worse," he continues, without skipping a beat. "The chip seems to be making it worse."

  "Is that what your book tells you? Is that what my charts say?" Heat rises to my cheeks. Michael looks up at me with a vacant stare. Something isn't right. I can feel it, I can hear it his voice. "What's going on?"

  Michael sighs and closes the notebook, laying it in his lap. "Nothing," he says. "Your Testing results from your sessions are inconclusive. Blood analysis still shows the antibodies of a Positive, yet, you're still here. You're alive and healthy as other Positive's drop like flies."

  "What exactly are you saying?" I say, folding my arms around me. "Isn't that a good thing?"

  Michael laughs and shakes his head. "It's too good of a thing," he responds.

  "What?"

  "As you know, there are much larger things at stake here other than the obvious problems these facilities stir up." He sighs and rubs his temple and pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "Like I've said before, I know there are issues with the guards and I know about the previous oppression of Positives here. But you—you could be the the Positive we've been waiting for. Despite being exposed to hundreds of other Positive's diseases, your immune system still functions normally.

  I'm not going to lie to you anymore, Salvatora. I'm done trying to cover things up to make everything seem fine and good here." Michael stands, and walks toward me. He grabs me by my shoulders and pulls my head in close to his. "There are people higher up who want to experiment on you and I'm not talking about Testing. That's nothing compared to what they want to do to you."

  The air leaves my body. I stare into Michael's glare and feel nothing but fear. I know what's coming next. Death would be better for me now. Sickness would be a Godsend. But being normal—that's the worst possible thing I could be right now.

  "If I don't figure a way to get you sick, the government is coming for you. And I won't be able to save you then."

  He looks down at his notebook and lets out another sigh. His face is blank. I can only hear the sound of my breathing in the thick silence. He looks at me, his eyes glassy with tears, then leaves the room in one fluid motion.

  The slam of the gray door makes me jump. Tears splatter against the concrete. Atticus sacrificed his life to get me out of here, but I ruined it. Now, Michael is the only person I can rely on. A Negative. Someone who thirty days ago was the enemy. Someone who I could never trust because of who they were.

  He is my only hope of getting out of here alive.

  Chapter 19

  I feel like I’m floating. The misty drug still pumps through my veins as I make my way down a dimly lit hallway. Muffled cries for help and the beeping of a heart rate monitor fill my ears. My eyelids fail to open even though I scream at my muscles to react to the change in scenery.

  “She’s from Cell Z.”

  “Is she still Positive?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  My heart leaps to my chest. Am I cured? Does this mean I can finally return to the regular world and be done with this nightmare?

  The tiny beeping coming from my right increases with each scenario I come up with. My eyes focus on blurry figures on either side of me. I reach my hand up towards one. “Jesus Christ, she’s awake!” He flings himself backwards, colliding with the wall. A small pinch at my neck makes me flinch. A tingling numbness travels down my arms to my legs u
ntil my body is on vibrate.

  “Please, save me.”

  * * *

  Icy hot fire thumps through my veins. My screams fill my white-walled room. I can’t move—I’m paralyzed in pain. My vision focuses on a yellow hazmatted figure on the far side of the room. I squeeze my eyes shut; the burning in my veins reaching a level that I think is associated with spontaneous combustion.

  “Salvatora?”

  Sobs reach my ears before I realize that the pain has subsided.

  “Salvatora?”

  I look out of the corner of my eye into the man’s eyes inside the suit—it’s the green-eyed man from the dozens of times he’s visited my cell. My mouth opens to ask him why, but no sound comes out.

  “We’re trying to fry out your chip with a harmless injection,” he explains, laying a hand on my shoulder. “The results are looking promising.”

  Those words ring in my head, then everything goes black.

  * * *

  The boom of a door breaking under pressure reaches my ears. Screaming. Shouting. Glass breaking—this scene is one I will never forget.

  I'm peaking through a gap in my blinds at my next door neighbor's house. The Drug Policing Agency is arresting them; Selene, their daughter, didn't show up to get her chip implanted.

  They're dressed in black, wielding combat shotguns—I recognize the make from a video game I used to play with Elaine. Their faces are covered by gas masks making them look like clones of each other. Three men carry a black metal battering ram up the front porch. It only takes three swings before the door is open. The agents file into the house one behind the other until only the three with the battering ram are left.

  More screaming.

  Through the large bay window of their living room, I see Selene's father slammed into the glass pane. In that moment, I couldn't remember his first name. It made me feel safe for some reason. Like the simple not-knowing of his name separated me and him.

  Behind her father, I see her mother slammed into the wall. I can't make out the expression on her face, but I guessed that it was flooded with fear.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shimmer of black hair in the sunlight. Selene sprints down the street away from the scene. My eyes pan back to the front porch—they haven't seen her yet. The same feeling of joy washes over me just like it did that day. She's going to get away. She's going to have a choice to live free from the war between Positives and Negatives.

  Then the gunshots start.

  Each one makes me flinch. Bang. Bang. Bang. I collapse to the ground and push away from the window until I'm halfway in my closet. The hopelessness sets in now, and I drift back into the darkness.

  * * *

  My eyes open to yellow light. I almost mistake it for sunlight, but slowly, I make out the veins of a lightbulb until my head throbs. Despite my arms being shackled, I feel wonderful underneath the lamp.

  "It's a heating lamp," a voice calls from outside my vision.

  "What—"

  "You were freezing, and I didn't want you to die from hypothermia." Michael steps into the light and raises the bed I'm laying on. I can't stand to look at him anymore than I have to. Every time I see him, I think of Atticus. And anytime I think of what happened to him, it makes me want to burn this place down.

  "Newest symptom from Testing?"

  He scoffs and shakes his head. "I don't want to do the things I'm doing here—"

  "Yet you're still showing up to work everyday and pretending that you're one of the good ones, right?" I glare at him, the anger breezing over the uncomfortableness in an instant. "If you can't see that experimenting and locking a sixteen-year-old girl is wrong, than you're part of the problem."

  Michael clenches his jaw and looks away. It's not the first time I've made him upset. I hope to God it's not the last. He pulls a key from around his neck and unlocks the straps holding me to the bed. "When I say I don't want to do this, I really don't. I know you don't believe me, but I'm trying to get you better. I'm trying to get you out of here."

  "I'll believe it when I'm cruising on out of here in a car without anyone running after me."

  He rubs the back of his neck. Since my parents dropped me off here, Michael has aged fast. Gray hairs glow against his brown curls. Wrinkles have grown deeper and in numbers since the first time I met him. He walks slouched over now as if the weight of the entire world is resting on his shoulders. He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. Something about the way he breathes today makes me feel anxious.

  "What's going on?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Something's different today," I respond, frowning at him. "You're acting different."

  "Salvatora," Michael starts. His eyes find mine. In that moment, he didn't need to explain anything else. I know now that this place isn't going to save me. If there's anyone who can, it's the tired man with too much on his plate that's desperately trying to save me from who I am. "It's complicated. But you need to know that I am on your side. I need you to trust me."

  I nod. In all honesty, I haven't been fair to him since Atticus died. But every time I try and forgive him, they're putting me through another test that nearly kills me. My chip remains inactive, but there's only so much stress I can take until I break.

  "Take this," Michael says, handing me a circular, yellow pill. "This is the last idea I have to keep you safe."

  I dry swallow the drug hoping to God that he's right.

  Chapter 20

  I haven't seen the sunshine in seventy-seven days. The air in my cell is stagnant and filled with the smell of death. The government said this was temporary. That they'd keep us here just until the disease either killed us or decided to let us live. There were no safe zones. There was no cure. Just the clock ticking and a test to determine which way you go.

  The hazmat suits no longer make me shudder. They continue to say the disease is a blood pathogen. Before that, it was an airborne virus. And before that, it was a conspiracy theory. The only truth around here are the lies. They know it, we know it and that's the only working relationship Positives have with the Negatives. There are no friendships anymore. There's no point in trying. Hope is the real virus here.

  My neighbor died yesterday. He was nice. A birthmark covered half of his face in pink and brown splotches. I think the doctors said he was sixteen. He was also like me—a Positive. But no one has taken the place of Atticus.

  The man with the green eyes tells me Atticus died from the chip, but I know better. The man's story almost makes me forget the gunshot echoing down the plain hallways in the building. It almost made me forget the fresh smell of bleach outside my cell door those next few days. It almost made me forget my friend. Almost.

  "Prick your finger and place it on the slide." A man in a yellow hazmat suit stood on the other side of my wall.

  "Were my results any different yesterday?"

  A stiff side-to-side movement of his upper body confirms that there was no change. There is still a chance I'll be dead by the end of the week. The prick stung for less than a second. I squeeze a drop of blood onto the slide and wipe the rest off on my scrubs.

  The man in the hazmat suit pauses before taking the slide. I look at up him through the glass. His eyes look like he wants to say something, but instead he turns and stalks down the rows of rooms through the doors to the decontamination area.

  I turn and curl up into a ball on my stiff hospital bed. All I can manage to focus on is the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears, and my fear of dying in this box like a rabid animal.

  "Positive."

  The sound of the same guard's voice that I bit into month's ago still makes my hair stand on end. Memories flood my head of Atticus screaming at me to run. I'm almost sure it was this NG who killed him. His beady eyes never break with mine whenever he's on duty. Like a lion waiting in the bushes to kill its prey, he's just waiting for the opportunity to come for me.

  Some days
are harder than others now. I struggle with keeping my head level without Atticus to talk to. At first, I thought I could trust Michael. He seemed like the only ND in the facility that was truly doing good here. But then Atticus was killed and now it seems like someone else is in control now.

  Most days, I sit in silence in my cell staring at the drain in the floor. Because my first operation to remove my chip nearly killed me, none of the surgeons want to attempt another removal. So instead, they've tried to fry the motherboard with a laser, overload me with diseases saved in tiny vials, or put me in a room where hundreds of dyes and images are processed of my body.

  I haven't died yet. They all say that's a good sign.

  "Guard," a voice says from the other side of the hallway. "Please give us a moment."

  The NG grunts and stomps through the gray doorway. Shuffling steps make their way toward me. I don't look up to see who's coming to get me now. Radiologist? Surgeon? Witch doctor? Who cares at this point?

  "Sal?"

  That voice.

  I stop scraping at the drain in the floor. My gaze shifts to an older man with graying curly hair and dark wrinkled skin. I try to match the voice and face with the last memory I had of my father, but even my own brain can't understand it. An NG holds my father by the arm and escorts him in front of my cell. They place a chair next to him and mutter something that I can't hear into his ears.

  He stares at my neighbor who cries blood now thanks to tiny aneurysms rupturing behind his eyes. Blood and needles aren't something I fear anymore. Seeing my father again was something though that I fear more than most things now.

  "Sal, what have they done to you?"