Four thirty-three

Chapter 3

When he heard the music again, loudly ringing in his ears, he thought he must be dreaming.

Then, amidst all the dust and debris from the walls of the fallen prison, he saw the flames. Big, serpent-shaped flames that swept over his head, not close enough to burn him but still unbearably hot. The sudden light blinded him after so many days spent in his dimly-lit cell, and for a few moments all he could see was colourful spots that hindered his vision.

He could still hear the music, though. And the screams. People around him were running, shouting and fighting, and some voices here and there seemed to be yelling commands.

He threw himself to the ground when a few gunshots were thrown in the distance. After a few seconds he felt something fly over his head, ruffling his hair, and land on something (someone?) with a dull thud.

Panic got hold of his mind. He had to get out of there. He got back on his feet, only to lose his balance and fall back to the ground when the pavement under him started to shake. He looked up from the floor to see a wide rift opening just where his cell was -well, used to be. The dust coming from it sent him into a coughing fit.

He was roughly snatched from the ground by a strong hand.

"Come on, Yang. We've got to go now ."

Still coughing, Brett followed blindly the person dragging him by his arm. He didn't know who it was, but he could not be arsed to care. He had barely eaten or drank or slept in seven days. He did not have the strength to put up a fight.

He could barely process what was going on as he was forced to go into a bus that was suddenly filled with so many people, most of them had to stay on their feet, squeezed against each other. The second the bus was full, the doors closed and they flew away, the echoes of shotguns still audible from afar, though the music had stopped altogether.

♪ ♪ ♪

The bus was old and squeaky, and they were going so fast, it felt like it'd break at any given moment. Brett felt every shudder and wail of the metallic monster in his bones, the speed and the road and the heat from so many people making him dizzy. The man who had helped him into the vehicle had managed to secure a seat for Brett nearly at the back of the bus, next to an old man. But the place was so full, he'd had no choice but to stand the whole journey, his body turned towards Brett so he could hold on to the metallic bar at the top of the bus, his back so squeezed against another person's he barely had any space to wiggle.

When Brett looked up at him, he realized this was the man who had tried to help him escape his captors, the man who knew about his flute.

"You're green," the man observed.

Brett hummed.

"Are you going to throw up?"

"Shut up," Brett hissed.

The man sighed. He ripped part of his t-shirt (which was full of dirt and holes, and had been rendered practically unusable) and wetted it with cold water while humming to himself. Where did he get the water from, though, Brett did not see, too focused on not puking his guts out. He then folded the rag and gave it to Brett. He used the rag to wipe his forehead, his cheeks, his neck, and felt instantly better.

"Thanks," he muttered.

The journey seemed to go on for hours. Brett tried to look outside the bus, hoping to get some idea of where they were taking him, but the windows were covered in a weird layer of something that made everything blurry, so he didn't even have that to distract himself with. He was so exhausted he started nodding off, only to get brusquely awakened by the jolt of his own head falling into his chest. He shook his head, trying to will the sleepiness away, to no avail. Eventually, he fell asleep with his head resting on the top of the old bus seat, his neck angling in a weird way. His head slowly slid off until it came to rest on the other man's belly. The man huffed and rolled his eyes, but allowed it.