G.U.A.R.D. Book #4: Tracked

-16-

    We took a dinner (and bathroom) break at Point 57 again. The sights and smells of those sandwiches made my stomach turn, so I ended up only ordering some carrots before giving up. My appetite was at an all-time low.

After another three hours, we arrived back at Base 1. It was just as much of a chaotic mess as it was when Grayson and I left earlier. When Sam told us he would take us to see Jim, that all put new energy in our steps. Without any news of him since going off to stations, we were just about ready to give up hope. Sam said he survived the attack, though. As we waited in the elevator which would transport us to the infirmary, the agent gave us the bomb: Jim was in a coma. Had been since a grenade exploded behind him near the school.

The infirmary was crowded. Large rooms held countless patients, flimsy curtains the only things separating them. IV machines beeped. It smelt like cleaning supplies. When we saw Jim, I almost didn't recognize him. Not only had the eleven-year-old turned twelve in the last six months, but that grenade had done a serious number on him. The right side of his jaw and neck had been hit, resulting in uneven skin and scars crisscrossing each other like a web. He wore a hospital gown, hiding his body, but I could tell his torso had been hurt, too. His right arm was freshly wounded, several fingers healing from being broken. His right leg was in a cast, and an IV was inserted in his left arm.

"Oh, my gosh," Winnie whimpered, rushing to her brother's side. She touched his shoulder, then ran a hand over the good part of his face.

"Careful," Sam warned. "He's still pretty banged up."

"And he's been in a coma for how long?" Grayson asked, barely getting the words out.

"Five days," Sam said.

"Will he be okay?" Winnie asked tearfully.

Sam took a deep breath. "I'm not a doctor. I can't rightly answer, but... the report said he may have experienced some brain damage. I'm sorry."

Winnie sunk down in a chair by Jim's bed, softly crying. Grayson didn't seem able to take his eyes off Jim's face. Alek sighed, bracing his hands against the bed railing and bunching his shoulder blades. I was left on Jim's bad side, staring down at what I could have prevented. Staring down at the League's cruelty. I tried to feel angry, get a burning rage in my chest. But all I could summon was self-contempt and a feeling of utter failure. The anger would have been better. It would have been a reprieve from all this grief. But I was stuck.

After a while, I left the others, slowly walking away. I couldn't bear to look at Jim anymore. He had changed so much and was now permanently scarred because of that stupid tracker. Sam didn't look like he was okay with me just wandering about, but he just told me to come back soon. I wasn't sure if he thought I was grieving or if I was simply unable to endure this any longer. Both would be correct.

Out of the long room, I stepped into a hallway. It was lined with windows that looked into other rooms just like Jim's. There were countless people on beds trying to get better. It amazed me how much destruction came from that battle. Not everyone was unconscious, though, which was encouraging. Some were even sitting in bed, having a normal conversation with their doctor or nurse. Maybe the attack wasn't so bad. Maybe there were more survivors than I thought.

But then I remembered the wreckage at Base 5 and shook the delusional thoughts from my head.

Out of habit, I kept track of my whereabouts. It was something the station had really drilled into us. All those jogs they took us on, those Trials where we had to find our way back to the cabin. Soon, it just became natural. It never really occurred to me if would help in a manmade structure, but I guess even metal walls had landmarks just like the Appalachian Mountains.