The Freaks

chapter two

I keep myself as heavy as possible, because that's the only thing I can do.

The Soldiers continue to pull me along with them, my body like dead weight on the stretcher, heading for the one place they put all the dead Freaks. I seem to weigh nothing to them, like they've had to do this a thousand times before with the others. They probably have. I'm sure I know where they are taking me.

I'm supposed to be dead.

They're taking me away to make sure of that.

Instead of letting the rope around my neck strangle me to death, the Freak mixed into the crowd, staying inside my head as he saved me from my execution. Why would he save me? That's what I can't seem to pinpoint.

"That's another one taken care of," one of the Soldiers say to the other, laughing lightly like this is some big joke only they understand. "Only fifty-four left."

That's interesting. I didn't realize there were so many Freaks left in the prison. I was never allowed outside of my cell until I turned eighteen, so I guess I understand why the number surprises me. It doesn't make my anger dissipate, though. I see spots of red in my eyes even behind this dark material.

"As soon as we dispose of this waste," the other Soldier says, shaking the stretcher slightly to emphasise his point, my body moving with it, "then we can hurry and wait for the next Freak to turn eighteen."

The other Soldier hums deep in his throat but they don't say anything else to each other and I try so hard not to move, not to fire back a retort or something that would really get me killed should they hear me.

As soon as the Soldier opens the door to the next room, I feel the heat intensely, like the flames are already licking at my body and head.

Then I really start to panic.

"Hurry up and throw him in there," the first Soldier says, his voice quiet over the roaring of the incinerator. "I'm dying in this heat."

As they pull me further into the room, the only thing I seem to notice is that they don't take my restraints off my wrists. Maybe the Soldiers have too many of these stupid things to spare. They don't have to worry about them being burned up. But regardless, it would be nice to take them off, to use my own powers against them and run.

One of the Soldiers yanks the sack off my head, pulling some of my hair in the process. My heart pounds and pounds against my chest and I try not to breathe too heavily or look to be in pain but I feel myself failing and I exhale by accident and—

"What the—?" a Soldier says.

I force myself to stop breathing.

"Did you see him move?" the other replies.

"Did you hear him breathe?"

I am so dead.

"Check his pulse," the first Soldier snaps at the other. I feel one of them come closer and closer to me, his body heat making me uncomfortable as he steps even closer. Then he presses his finger under my chin, and—

"Oh my God," he says quickly, his voice rising with each word. "He's—!"

His sentence is cut short and all I hear is a quick whoosh as the fire gets hotter and I suddenly smell burning flesh all around me, and the only thing I can think of is, what just happened?

I want to snap my eyes open but I don't because the other Soldier might still think I'm actually dead.

"Hey, stop!" the remaining Solider shouts over the roaring, and I hear gun shots being fired at somewhere I can't see—once, twice—and then I hear the many bullets hit the ceiling, parts of the roof crumbling down onto the ground and covering us in thick dust that gets stuck in my throat.