Gally Imagines

=FIFTY-THREE= A Final Farewell

You stood within a rock's throw from the Pit, focused on keeping a steady rhythm to your breathing, and trying to calm the thudding of your heart and the nerves that made you shiver from more than just the cold.

Almost a full day had passed since you and Gally had given Alby the syringe, which was done immediately after your talk with Gally in the woods.

You had found Alby up on the Lookout Tower watching the tops of the trees bend and quiver as the wind ran through them, thinking, you knew, of Dan. After Gally had handed over the syringe and explained what it was, Alby had been dead silent, staring down at the liquid-filled tube. It had always been hard to read Alby's face expressions, he hid them well, and now was no exception. But you could guess what was going on inside his head. He had most likely been thinking the same thoughts that you and Gally had.

After a long span of silence passed, Alby had finally raised his gaze, looking not at the two of you, but out across the Glade—the entirety of it almost visible from the Tower's height. The green grass far below stretched out from around the Box, covering the Glade, broken only by tilled gardens, sporadically placed wooden huts, and the tall trees of the Deadheads until running into massive, ivy-covered cement walls. The narrow gap between them the only way out. A taunting pull to the freedom beyond. Or to death.

"Jeff said it was too late," Alby had finally said, voice strangely quiet and distant. "That he had lost too much blood."

"But if this is a cure, that might not matter," Gally responded. His voice had been low, but sincere—ever since he had determined to go through with giving Alby the vial.

Alby had turned toward Gally with something that might have been an almost skeptical look if his deep brown eyes hadn't been so troubled and tired. Then he had looked at you.

You'd said nothing, gaze falling to your feet, ever-aware of the chilling wind ruffling your hair and slipping through your green, long sleeve shirt, and jeans. A weak, muffled cry then floated up to the Tower from the direction of the Pit. An involuntary shiver ran though you.

"You made the right decision. Couldn't have been easy," Alby had said, finally. "For better or for worse. Shows character. Both of you."

Then Alby turned and headed down the ladder.

"We did the right thing, Gally," you had said, though your voice sounded strange even to you, unnervingly void of emotion. You swallowed.

Gally had stared after Alby's retreating form, jaw firmly set, watching him go. "I know. I just hope we don't live to regret it."

Afterward, both you and Gally had followed Alby into the Pit.

You had stood in a musty, dark corner of the crumbling room behind Gally, staring around his shoulder at Dan. Deep blue veins protruded from his skin, his eyes wild, chest heaving, uttering inhumane growling and grunting noises, and of course—sudden, blood-curdling screams. You had been overcome by a pressing, suffocating fear, but you had forced yourself to hold on to the thin strand of logic that ran through your brain and told you that Dan was securely tied down and that you were safely surrounded by strong Glader boys who wouldn't have let him hurt you even if he had been able to try.

You had clung to Gally's arm until Newt had injected the florescent blue liquid into Dan's convulsing, vein-webbed body, and had forced yourself to watch until his twitching finally ceased; the sporadic jerking of his head from side to side and shuddering rise and fall of his chest the only things displaying that he was still alive. Then Gally had taken you by the shoulders and forced you to turn away from the horrible scene, his hands protectively guiding you up and out of there. And you had remained with Gally, in his hut, sitting on his bed as he hugged you, too tired to move or think, but too worried and anxious to sleep.