984 (Complex Series, #2)

Chapter Forty

The wheels on my stretcher keep clattering, not even pausing for a second. To pause would make us seem suspicious.

I lay absolutely still, my muscles tense. I can’t do it. I can't help Dana. It’ll ruin even more of the plan.

So I lie there. Listening helplessly as Dana’s desperate screams get farther away.  I do absolutely nothing for Dana, my Complex roommate for fifteen years, who promised to always protect me, always trust me, and always be there for me.

She will be dead by morning.

The screams are abruptly cut off. 

Maybe she was injected with something fatal.

I never said good-bye, I never told her how much our friendship meant to me.

The last time I truly had a conversation with her was when she explained the whole story behind her dumb, bubbly act.  She told me all the horrors of living with the Ecru, and I didn’t even have time to discuss that with her. I was dragged away by Miranda and Charlotte, only to be told that Sienna was being sent to her death.

The Heads are killing everyone I care about on purpose, leaving me powerless.

What is the point in trying to fight against the Heads? They are more powerful, they have more people, they have more resources, and they are unapologetically brutal.

What is the point in trying to fight, when nothing, besides my friends dying, ever happens?

The stretcher continues its infinite clattering. The only noise in the unbearable silence.

It becomes harder and harder to breath in those slow, tiny breaths as guilt, dread, and fear press down on my chest. What if that happens to me? What if the loyal Officials catch and kill me? What if it had been me instead of Dana? Would Dana have sacrificed herself to save me, or at least try to? Would she have lied still, pretending to still be dead, just as I did?

Brinn must have done the same thing. She must be enduring the slow eating away of guilt like me.

What kind of friend am I that I would save myself instead of Dana?

The rattling stops.

I once again hold my breath, even though my lungs have barely anything to hold in.  The Official repeats in the same bland voice, “Lab 82.”

Another beeping noise fills the silence.  The same whooshing of air hits my skin, and the rattling begins again. There must be checkpoints of some kind stationed throughout this part of the Complex.

I gradually take slow, painfully minuscule breaths.

My arm itches and my foot has fallen asleep.  I want nothing more than to simply move.

I remain entirely still.

The clattering once again stops.  I wait in anticipation for the Official to call out, Lab 82, but it never comes.

Instead, he whispers, “Safe spot. You can now move, but you need to be quiet. Stay lying on the stretcher, though.”

I graciously fill my lungs up, over and over, do my best to keep it a silently as possible. Never, have I been so thankful of ever being able to simply breathe. The stretcher lurches forward again.

I run my nails over my arm, killing the itch and clench and unclench my toes. I try to my muscles, but they refuse to listen. I doubt we are completely safe, yet.

I hesitantly open my eyes. The hallway we are in looks like the ones inside the Complex. Smooth, silvery steel walls that go on forever.

I turn my head to the other side. I can see Brinn’s stretcher a little ways ahead.