“That she is.”
She may be savage, but I'm proud of that girl. She does whatever is needed and moves on. No regrets. No remorse. We could all take a lesson from her.
A victorious scream pierces the air and we all jolt to look at Celeste. Her hands are held high in the air, her blonde braid matted in blood, her nose probably broken, but she looks positively blissful.
I laugh because, well, I feel the same way. I relish the emotion – the rush – since it's so rare for anything to filter in and actually register with my brain. But yeah. I'm happy. We defied the odds.
“Who's ready to go home?” Tara yells.
Everyone answers so fast it's hard to tell who says what, but I'm right there with them.
Let's go home.
My head falls back against the dirt.
We did it.
We can go home.
Everyone made it.
We get to live another day.
“AAAAGH!”
The pained scream jolts us all from our revelry, and when we all turn to the source, my heart sinks.
It breaks. It cracks.
It refuses to believe what's happening.
Before I know what I'm doing, I'm running.
We're all running.
Boots scramble over bodies as quickly as we can make it... but we're too late.
Sully falls to his knees, and she scales her way up the dirt with bare feet and bloodied hands – the girl. Her pink dress disappears over the edge of the pit and I want nothing more than to go after her.
“Sully!” Brian maneuvers himself under Sully's body, cradling his trembling torso. “It's okay. You're okay.”
He's not okay.
He's not...
The entire side of his throat is gone. Not just ripped or cut or shredded.
Gone.
Brian presses his hand against the side of Sully's face, pressing them cheek to cheek.
We all back away.
There's nothing we can do for Sully. He's gone. His eyes may still be open, his chest may be moving, but he's already stepping over to the other side.
I hate myself for thinking it, but I'm thankful he's dying instead of changing. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.
More screams rise up, breaking the air like a dying canine calling out for help, but the noise isn't coming from Sully. His lips are already losing color, not a single sound breathes out of his mouth.
The screams come from Brian.
He rocks Sully in his arms, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Tears stream down his face as he cries, cradling Sully in the loving way he always did when no one was looking.
My heart - the one that hasn't beat in weeks – hurts for him. Literally hurts. I relish the ache but hate that it's only a fraction of what Brian is feeling right now.
The person he loved, the soul he claimed as his other half, is gone.
Gone.
They never openly declared their love for one another, and now their heartstrings are severed.
“Sully!” He cries it into the sky, over and over again, until the name is unrecognizable.
Blood coats his shirt as he hugs the dead body, but he doesn't move. He doesn't care.
I have to get him out of here. Before he registers that his loved one's blood is seeping into his clothing. Before he realizes that the gore plastered against his own skin is Sully...
We have to leave.
“Help me?” Cain nods solemnly and we carefully approach our friend.
“Brian.” The second my hand touches his arm, he shrinks away. “Brian, come on, sweetie.”
“No!” he snaps, hugging Sully tighter. “No, you can't take him.”
Tears well in my own eyes. “I have to.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I'm not leaving him. He made me promise before we left. He made me promise we'd leave together.”
Behind me, I hear the sobs beginning. We're running out of time. Brian isn't going to let Sully go.
“Then help me.”
He opens his eyes to glare my way. “What?”
“Help me get him home where he belongs.” Cain shoots me a look, but I ignore him. “Help me put him to bed. Okay?”
Minutes tick by and my ears register approaching tires. I hope to God it's our ride home and not another screwed up ambush.
“Brian,” I urge. “We have to go.”
He nods, but his eyes are empty. I can already see the hope, the fire, the life draining out of him.
“Okay.”
Cain and I take Sully's limp body, but Brian never lets go. The entire time we all work together to get him up and out of the pit, Brian never relents.
Not once.
All the way home, I stare at the dead man in our seat, and the live man clinging to his hand.
Looking at them, I'm not entirely sure who lived and who died.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Paula rushes out to greet us when we pull up. I haven't seen her in days, but I'm glad she's here. I trust her. My friends are in good hands.
She takes Sully, and by default, Brian as well. It cuts me to know that no matter how warm and caring and skilled her hands are, she'll never be able to heal Brian. He's already fallen too far down the rabbit hole in an attempt to keep his love. He held on so hard for so long, it's going to be next to impossible for him to rise up from that.
We all watch as Sully's body is loaded onto a stretcher and wheeled inside. Brian continues to grip his hand and whisper things to him that no one else can hear. Not even Sully.
Goodbye, friend.
They disappear inside and I turn around to the rest of the team; our broken family.
“What now?” Martina asks, staring at the ground beneath her feet. “What do we do?”
I'm just about to answer when a hand clasps onto my shoulder from behind.
“Lab,” a guard barks. “Now. All of you.”
We don't argue. We don't have the energy. Not after that.
Stretched out in a single-file line, we make our way inside. After stripping off our clothes and handing them off to nurses covered in hazmat suits, we take turns ducking into the bathroom to wash off the filth. The water never stops running. We're in and out so quickly, one right after another, there's no point.
When it's my turn, I step under the scalding water and pretend each bead of moisture that rolls down my cheeks is a clear, precious tear. I let them wash away some of my anguish, my guilt, but it's all pretend. Those feelings are a long way from vanishing.
But that's okay. This is how loss is supposed to feel. Like you have something inside of you that can never be fixed. Like a part of you has snapped and you're trying desperately to tie it back together before your two halves split apart.
My feet shuffle slowly, moving on autopilot as nurses stop me to extract a small vial of sludge from my veins. They help me dress in blue scrubs fresh out of their sanitary packaging and eventually escort me down to containment.
I don't even question it when they close the glass door behind me. I don't ask why I'm separated from my team again. I don't ask why we're all here. I don't ask about any of the wounded sitting on their cots in the big box.
There's no energy to speak, but what would I say if I could? There are no words.
The urge to power down and zone out is too much to bear, and I close my eyes. But not everyone feels content to shut the world out.
Tara's frightened, muffled voice echoes through the room as she paces along the glass wall, watching the guards as they back away.
“We have the vaccine! We don't have to be in here. I don't want to be in here!”
Her anger turns to sorrow as sobs replace her words.
“So did she,” a male voice points out. I know who's speaking, and I know he's pointing at me. “It's just a precaution.”
“How long do we have to stay in here?” Celeste asks. Her voice is tired, resigned.
Secretary March answers after a beat. “Twenty-four hours.”
Gone forever.
Through my closed eyelids, I see the lights dim, and I'm grateful. Maybe everyone else will sleep now. They need it. They so desperately need to let their brains process everything that's happened.
But one voice reaches out to me through the darkness, and it's one I can't ignore.
“Maya.”
My name coming out strained and weak on Cain's lips has me lifting off the bed. My feet struggle to carry me to the wall, but I get as close to him as I possibly can. I feel like I'm miles away, but just looking at him, seeing that he's okay, has me feeling better already. I try not to read too much into that.
“Are you okay?”
Of course I'm not okay.
Neither is he.
None of us are okay.
“Yeah,” I lie. “You?”
He nods before glancing over his shoulder and moving out of the way. Behind him, I see what he's seeing.
Brian lays curled in a ball on his cot. His hand grips the metal frame so hard his knuckles have turned white. Just as they were when he was clinging to Sully.
There's not a doubt in my mind that Brian is drugged and holding Sully in his sleep. I hope he stays that way for a while. Maybe, in his dreams, Sully is still smiling, still joking, still looking out for his team. Maybe for a few hours, Brian can keep him.
“What do I do?”
Looking into Cain's eyes tears at something deep within me, and I know why he's asking.
Because Brian is my friend. Sully was my friend. They were my teammates. They were my pawns. Now, one of them is gone, and Cain doesn't know how to help. But he wants to help. For me.
“Nothing,” I say. “Leave him be.”
“Okay.” His steps back and Brian vanishes from my sight. “Now what?”
I shrug tiredly. “Now, we sleep. We recharge.”
“And that?” He tilts his head, indicating the outside world. “What do we do about that?”
I wish I had the answer, I really do, but I don't even know where to begin.
“I've never seen anything like that.” I stare into the placid eyes of my reflection to avoid seeing the fear in Cain's. “They're smart. They're not brain-dead. They reason. They figure things out. And they communicate.”
He cracks his neck and pops his knuckles. It's a nervous tic I've seen him exhibit only a handful of times.
“And they're already dead, so they're hard as hell to kill.”
I nod. “Exactly.”
“So what? We're useless?”
Useless.
Now there's something to consider.
Maybe we are. Maybe we've always been useless. I mean, c'mon. We're sixteen... sorry– fifteen teenagers taking on the recently claimed world of the dead. No matter what they've told us, what lies they've spun, it's never going to be enough.
We're never going to be enough.
“Yes,” I admit. “We're useless.”
I'm jerked out of my sleep-like trance by the sound of the metal containment door sliding open. In a split second, I'm up on my feet, my eyes seeking out an enemy that isn't really there. Was I dreaming? Or is my fear just lying dormant inside me now, waiting for every chance it has to jump out and take over?
President Decker steps into the room and I force my shoulders to relax. Part of me thinks he's a threat after finding the classified information on March's flash drive, but instinct and intuition tell me to trust him. So I go with it.
The others stir awake slowly, and he stands between our two cells, waiting for them to rouse.
“Good morning.”
He's met with halfhearted grumbles of 'hello', 'good morning' and 'ugh'.
“I just wanted to commend you on your bravery yesterday.” His eyes move to each of our faces. “And your sacrifice.”
The reminder hits me square in the gut, and I seek out Brian. He's still asleep. Thank God.
“You still have a little over fifteen hours left here in containment, so I'll be making my next journey alone.”
Warning bells start chiming, and I step up to the glass.
“Sir?”
He turns to face me. “Yes, Winters?”
“You shouldn't be traveling alone.”
His lips crease as he shakes his head. “It's not dangerous. I'll be guarded and armed at all times. This can't wait. I just finalized our alliance with Brazil and I can't let that slip through our fingers just because I'm apprehensive about stepping outside. Perhaps, if there are fewer people traveling with me, the infected won't see us as a threat.”
Cain steps forward. “Sir, they don't see you as a threat, they see you as lunch.”
“Maybe so,” he says. “But I can't let all of you out of containment. Not until the boys in the lab are one-hundred-percent certain you're not infected or at risk.”
An idea springs to mind. I've been serving just as long as the others and I'm already infected. There's no risk with me.
“Let me go with you sir,” I rush to say. “Please.”
He's already shaking his head, but I have an arsenal of arguments at the ready.
“I need you to stay here, Winters. I need you to keep them sane.”
Crap. That's a card I didn't expect him to play.
Taking slow steps, he inches closer to my door. For a few moment, he just searches my eyes without saying a word. I take a glance at my reflection in the glass, wondering what it is he's seeing, and the image that greets me isn't all that bad.
I look like a girl. Just a girl.
Not a soldier.
Not the Blood Pawn.
Not a zombie.
Not a threat.
A girl.
“Why did I ever approve of this?” He doesn't blink, doesn't breathe. His expression never wavers.
“Sir?”
“They're just kids.” Keeping one hand in his pocket, he uses the other to wave toward the big box. Then he places a finger against the glass separating us. “You're just a kid.”
I was before. Now, not so much. I'm more than that, but also a little less than that, all at the same time.
“You need us, sir.”
His face hardens at my inability to let this go. “Maya, you haven't even lived yet and you're already dead.”
I try to hide my full-body flinch, but he sees it.
Still, I press on. I try to reason with him.
“This isn't smart, sir. You need to take at least one of the teams.”
His chest falls with a mighty sigh, and his entire demeanor shifts.
“Winters, I think you might have to come to grips with the fact that I can't fix this.”
His confession shakes me. That's his job. That's why we're all here. It's the mission. The only real mission.
“I don't think anyone can fix it.” He bows his head and rocks back on his heels. “Maybe we're meant to lose this one.”
Bullheaded defiance boils to life inside me, and I face my Commander-in-Chief with unguarded anger.
“No offense, sir, but that's a pile of crap, and you're an idiot.”
To my surprise, Decker chuckles. But just as I expect him to, he shifts in his leather shoes and heads toward the door, throwing over one last farewell before a guard escorts him out.
“Take care, Winters.”
A few minutes after the door closes, it opens again, this time revealing Paula. She pushes in a huge cart of trays and the others perk up at the sight of food. I wish I could say I feel the same, but my mouth is so dry I can't even fathom the thought of drinking that dreaded formaldehyde.
“Dinner time,” she calls brightly.
One by one, she slides trays into the hatch. The others take one and pass it back until everyone has food in front of them. Some dig in with gusto, while others merely push food
around with their fork. Brian doesn't even remove the lid. He just stares at it, as if it's offended him somehow.
When she slides mine through the hatch, she offers me a conspiratorial wink.
“Thought you could use a little entertainment,” she whispers. “It's gonna be a long day.”
And then she's gone, whistling as she pushes her rolling tray out the door.
As quickly as I can, I rush to my bed and pull the top off my meal, expecting something of use. But instead, there's only a tattered paperback laying next to my steak, which is beginning to brown. The book is one I've read, and I wonder why she delivered it. It's not one I'd give to someone in my position, but I still can't help running my hands along the cover.
Leave Them Laughing: 20 Dark Tales by Chris Roll.
Maybe she's onto something. Maybe my voice can soothe them, take them away, deliver them to a world that's just as scary, but with a promise that each story will come to an end and the fear will fade. They'll come down knowing it's fictitious and will be filled with a relief we'll never experience in the real world. Because our reality outside these walls isn't something plucked from an author's imagination.
It's something created by a real man in an effort to destroy civilization.
Shaking those thoughts from my head, I down my meal as fast as possible before opening the book to a fresh story.
While they eat, I read...
“It was a perfect late summer afternoon. The leaves and grass were that enchanting peak green, kissed by the sun but not scorched. The sky was a vibrant blue, with fluffy white clouds that didn't even hint at precipitation, and a slight breeze rustled the trees and gently pushed the clouds along their way. This gloriously scenic region was barely touched by civilization, save for a lone cabin on the hillside and a small tool shed, rustic in appearance but perhaps too much so, belying a touch of wealth behind the facade of quaintness. Almost ironically confirming that point was the owner of the rural retreat, roaring up the smooth, dusting road in a pale gray Porsche convertible, accompanied by the kind of perfectly-formed woman that only a great sum of money and prestige could attract who was laughing heartily and clearly eager to imbibe still more champagne before retiring to less dignified pursuits by the light of the moon come nightfall.”
The Blood Pawn Page 17
