cinder || dnf

chapter twenty seven

The hover rumbled to a stop outside the quarantine. Dream flew out of the side hatch and immediately reeled back, covering his nose with his elbow. His gut heaved at the stench, rotting flesh intensified by the steamy afternoon heat. Just outside the warehouse's entrance, a group of med-droids were loading dead bodies into a hover to be carted away, their forms bloated and discolored, each with a red slit in the wrist. Dream looked away, keeping his eyes averted and his breath held as he slid past them into the warehouse.

The sunlight turned from blaring to murky, caught by the green sheeting on the windows along the ceiling. The quarantine has been near empty before; now it was overflowing with victims- every age, every gender. Buffeting fans on the ceiling did little to dispel the sweltering heat or the smell of death. The air was heavy with it.

Med-droids buzzed between the beds, but there were not enough of them to tend to all the sick.

Dream slipped down an aisle, gasping for shallow breaths against his sleeve. He spotted Drista's green brocade blanket and ran to the foot of the bed. "Drista!"

When Drista didn't stir, he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. The blanket was soft, warm, but the bulk beneath it didn't move.

Shaking, Dream grasped the edge of the comforter and pulled it back.

Drista whimpered, a mild protest, which sent relieved chills across Dream's arms. He slumped down beside the bed.

"Stars, Drista. I came as soon as I heard."

Drista squinted up at him, eyes bleary. Her face was ashen, her lips peeling. The dark splotches on her neck had begun to fade to lavender beneath the surface of her ghostly skin. Eyes on Dream, she pulled her arm out from beneath the blanket and spread out her fingers, displaying their blue-black tips and the yellowish tinge of her nails.

"I know, but it's going to be all right." Still panting, Dream unbuttoned the pocket on the side of his cargo pants and pulled out the glove that normally lived on his right hand. The vial was in one of the fingers, protected. "I brought something for you. Can you sit up?"

Drista pulled her hand into a loose fist and tucked it again beneath the blanket. Her eyes were hollow. Dream didn't think she'd heard him.

"Drista?"

A ping echoed in Dream's head. His display showed an incoming message from Adri, and the familiar surge of anxiety that came with it clamped Dream's throat.

He dismissed the message.

"Drista, listen to me. I need you to sit up. Can you do that?"

"Mom?" Drista whispered, spittle collecting at the corner of her lips.

"She's at home. She doesn't know-" That you're dying. But of course, Adri did know. The comm would have gone to her too.

Pulse racing, Dream bent over Drista and slid his arm beneath her shoulder. "Come on, I'll help you."

Drista's expression didn't change- the blank, corpse stare- but she didn't let out a pained groan when Dream lifted her up.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I need you to drink this."

Another ping, another message from Adri. This time, irritation welled up in Dream and he shut off his netlink, blocking any more incoming messages.

"It's from the palace. It might help. Do you understand?" He kept his voice low, worried that the other patients might hear, might riot against him. But Drista's gaze remained empty. "A cure, Drista," he hissed against her ear. "An antidote."