PANIC ROOM

Eighteen

  Panting heavily, I collide with the wall as I run around the corner, unnerved by the silence. Did the others get through? Or did they meet another swarm of the Fallen?

I find myself pre-occupied with their safety, despite they couldn't give two shits about mine. I didn't come here for them.

So why did I come here?

My mind returns to my first dream.

"Just send the money to my family. They deserve to live more than I do."

Was the money compensation for death? Or reward for success? I slow down, trying to gather all the memories I can, but it's impossible.

I look down at my wrist, the harsh brand of "TRAITOR" shining back at me. I never betrayed my teammates. I betrayed my family. I lived. When I promised to die.

How selfish of you, 020.

The voice sneers. Shame overwhelms my conscience as I unsheathe my quivering sword. I screw my eyes shut; the blade poised against my chest.

"020!"

A foot kicks the sword out of my hand, the metal clattering onto the floor. I open my eyes, looking straight into Nick's severely bruised and serious face.

"Are you fucking crazy? We've been looking for you everywhere..." he snaps, snatching the sword off the ground and dragging my arm along the corridor.

"Why did you come back?" I demand, frustrated.

"No one gets left behind. Besides, your mates are REFUSING to go without you."

"Did we find the exit?!" I ask, a mix of shock and happiness lighting my hopes up.

Nick grimaces, saying nothing. He glances at the watch he got in the silver box.

"Crap, we don't have much time left..." he mutters, yanking my arm hard enough to break into a sprint.

We skid through the corner, down a vast corridor, about two hundred metres long. At the other side, the others are waiting, shouting, ushering us towards them.

20 seconds.

"We're not gonna make it."

Nick ignores me, sprinting towards the other side, towards the end. I find my legs moving of their own accord, persisting despite the burning fatigue.

15 seconds.

I'm just under halfway there, as the stone doors begin to move. Lucas and Peter press their backs against the moving slabs, their legs beginning to buckle under the weight.

I tear down the corridor, running harder and faster than ever. Nick makes it through, about twenty metres in front.

10 seconds.

I'm almost there, metres away. The doors are unrestricted by Peter and Lucas now, closing indefinitely. I leap through the gap, scraping my knees as I land.

The doors close as the time runs out. I look around. The room is bright, spacious and heavily sterilised. Eighteen beds have been laid out. One for each surviving candidate. As if the outcome was already predicted.

Congratulations on completing Test 1: Survival of the Fittest. Test 2 will commence soon.

Thank you for participating in the Panic Room. Your sacrifices are invaluable to us.