brother or Ulrich.
“Other people need—” the man begins to answer.
“Not you,” she snaps, then adds more gently, “but thanks. For this.” She wags the water bottle in his face. He nods and departs, drawn back into the orbit of the wounded and thirsty. Zelda swings her gaze to me, though it lacks her usual intensity. She seems drained, her face ashen with pain.
“Someone needs to take control of the situation,” I answer her. My voice doesn’t sound like my voice. I’m hearing it from far away, the words much calmer than I feel. The ringing in my ears still hasn’t subsided, and suddenly I’m reminded of a line in an old poem
.
Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
Freaking Camus and his insistence on reading me depressing poetry. I don’t care if it’s “good for stirring memory”; it’s equally effective at stirring a quiet sense of dread and despair. Which I definitely don’t need right now.
And then I think,
Camus might be dead.
The startling possibility hits me with the force of a car crash, stealing my breath again.
He could have been crushed by a ceiling collapse, or killed by shrapnel. He might have ended up trapped somewhere, slowly smothered by smoke. Or a machine might have found him. Caught him off guard. One bullet. That’s all it would take…
No.
I challenge the evil thoughts, reining in my gruesome imagination.
I would know.
Wouldn’t I?
Zelda steadies me, temporarily smooshing Hanna between us in order to accomplish the feat. I must have looked unsteady there for a moment.
“You need a doctor, Long,” she tells me, like I don’t already know that.
I ignore the suggestion, instead looking left and right while I swish water around in my mouth, trying to revive my throat. I’m all turned around; normally I arrive at Medical from a different elevator lobby. My confusion is compounded by the amount of people in the halls, many blocking helpful signs. “Which way to Communications on this level?” I ask Zelda, who makes a face that says “Beats me.” I wave her off. “All right. Let me worry about it. You. Hanna. Doctor. Now.”
“Wait. What are you going to do? Long!”
“My job.” I toss the answer over my shoulder, already pushing through the throngs toward a corridor that doesn’t look so crowded.
Once there, I practically have to clothesline a doctor to get him to stop and answer my questions. The one I manage to nab breathlessly informs me they don’t have a proper comm room on Medical like we have on Command; rather, they have an old public-address system. A relic from the pre-Machinations days, when McKinley’s builders, funded by Congress, were inclined to cut corners in an effort to diminish costs. I make him repeat his directions to the room with the PA system three times because I can’t hear him well with all the noise—and because I’m worried I’ll forget in the meantime.
It takes some effort navigating the level when it’s choked with people, but thankfully I have some experience dodging feet and arms from all the tours I’ve been giving Kozlov and other leaders like him. Briefly, I wonder if the commander made it through all right, and how the rest of our on-base allies are faring. McKinley was supposed to be an example of renewed safety and strength. Humanity’s comeback. Now she’s hemorrhaging—quite literally, if you count all the bloody and the dead—her insides roiling with smoke and flame. What kind of message will this send to those already hesitant about joining us? Besides
Run and save yourselves
?
Stop it. That’s not helping.
I’m trying to stay positive, but it’s a little hard with the taste of a crematorium in my mouth, my hands covered in fat, angry welts, and the weight of my friend’s death bearing down on my shoulders like the claws of a raptor.
I choke down some more water, but my mouth still feels
“Other people need—” the man begins to answer.
“Not you,” she snaps, then adds more gently, “but thanks. For this.” She wags the water bottle in his face. He nods and departs, drawn back into the orbit of the wounded and thirsty. Zelda swings her gaze to me, though it lacks her usual intensity. She seems drained, her face ashen with pain.
“Someone needs to take control of the situation,” I answer her. My voice doesn’t sound like my voice. I’m hearing it from far away, the words much calmer than I feel. The ringing in my ears still hasn’t subsided, and suddenly I’m reminded of a line in an old poem
.
Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
Freaking Camus and his insistence on reading me depressing poetry. I don’t care if it’s “good for stirring memory”; it’s equally effective at stirring a quiet sense of dread and despair. Which I definitely don’t need right now.
And then I think,
Camus might be dead.
The startling possibility hits me with the force of a car crash, stealing my breath again.
He could have been crushed by a ceiling collapse, or killed by shrapnel. He might have ended up trapped somewhere, slowly smothered by smoke. Or a machine might have found him. Caught him off guard. One bullet. That’s all it would take…
No.
I challenge the evil thoughts, reining in my gruesome imagination.
I would know.
Wouldn’t I?
Zelda steadies me, temporarily smooshing Hanna between us in order to accomplish the feat. I must have looked unsteady there for a moment.
“You need a doctor, Long,” she tells me, like I don’t already know that.
I ignore the suggestion, instead looking left and right while I swish water around in my mouth, trying to revive my throat. I’m all turned around; normally I arrive at Medical from a different elevator lobby. My confusion is compounded by the amount of people in the halls, many blocking helpful signs. “Which way to Communications on this level?” I ask Zelda, who makes a face that says “Beats me.” I wave her off. “All right. Let me worry about it. You. Hanna. Doctor. Now.”
“Wait. What are you going to do? Long!”
“My job.” I toss the answer over my shoulder, already pushing through the throngs toward a corridor that doesn’t look so crowded.
Once there, I practically have to clothesline a doctor to get him to stop and answer my questions. The one I manage to nab breathlessly informs me they don’t have a proper comm room on Medical like we have on Command; rather, they have an old public-address system. A relic from the pre-Machinations days, when McKinley’s builders, funded by Congress, were inclined to cut corners in an effort to diminish costs. I make him repeat his directions to the room with the PA system three times because I can’t hear him well with all the noise—and because I’m worried I’ll forget in the meantime.
It takes some effort navigating the level when it’s choked with people, but thankfully I have some experience dodging feet and arms from all the tours I’ve been giving Kozlov and other leaders like him. Briefly, I wonder if the commander made it through all right, and how the rest of our on-base allies are faring. McKinley was supposed to be an example of renewed safety and strength. Humanity’s comeback. Now she’s hemorrhaging—quite literally, if you count all the bloody and the dead—her insides roiling with smoke and flame. What kind of message will this send to those already hesitant about joining us? Besides
Run and save yourselves
?
Stop it. That’s not helping.
I’m trying to stay positive, but it’s a little hard with the taste of a crematorium in my mouth, my hands covered in fat, angry welts, and the weight of my friend’s death bearing down on my shoulders like the claws of a raptor.
I choke down some more water, but my mouth still feels
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