Graduation Day
Page 73
I duck down behind the chairs as the door crashes open. Lights flicker to life above me. I hold my breath and crouch as low as I can while still remaining on my feet so I am ready to flee. To my right is the stage where Dr. Barnes once stood. The podium is there. Far to the left I see a narrow door. Too far away for me to reach now, but maybe I can find a way.
Someone is on the stairs. Another is near the back of the hall, moving down the aisle. From the hall outside the room, I hear more footsteps. The other man Symon brought with him? Two against one is bad odds. But three against one? I tighten my hold on the gun. I will only get one chance to fire. Whoever is with Symon will see me the minute I rise. He will fire too. I will die. But so will Symon. I will not allow myself to die without a fight.
The person coming down the stairs is moving slower that the one in the back. His footsteps sound heavier. Like a man who is injured. He will be my target.
A voice shouts from the hallway. Whoever is out there will be here in moments. Then I will face three opponents. I think of those I love and have the whisper of Tomas’s name in my heart as I swallow down my fear and stand. I was right. Symon stands three quarters of the way down the side aisle. His eyes widen in surprise as he sees me. Blood coats the hand holding the gun that takes aim.
The footsteps in the hall stop. Three figures appear in the door as I squeeze the trigger. Sound explodes around me. Symon drops to the ground and rolls down the last two stairs to the front aisle as searing pain pierces my right arm. I turn toward the man who shot me and fire again, but miss as he darts to the left. And I’m not sure if I would have hit him anyway. The burning ache in my arm is making it hard to keep a grip on the gun.
Symon’s man turns and takes aim as a voice calls my name.
Tomas.
Another shot cracks the air. Symon’s man stumbles backward into one of the chairs. Blood seeps from the wound in his chest as he sinks to the ground.
My arm is on fire. The world spins in and out of focus, but none of that matters as Tomas races down the stairs toward me. His clothes are covered in dirt and a ragged cut runs down one side of his face, but he is here. Whole. Alive.
Over Tomas’s shoulder I see two other people running down the stairs. One is Will. The other, Zeen. I look behind them for Stacia but don’t see her. Did Tomas have to leave her behind because of her injury? Or is she looking to make sure Dr. Barnes is dead?
I am about to ask when my brother says, “I want my Transit Communicator back.”
Despite the pain I feel, laughter erupts out of me. Zeen flashes the smile that I grew up idolizing as he rushes toward me. I start to reply when I see movement to my left—the barrel of Symon’s gun as it is placed in position. I push Tomas to the side and raise my weapon, but I know I will be too late. That after all I have been through, I will die as Symon pulls the trigger.
Gunfire fills the room. A scream rips from my throat, but the bullet never finds me because Zeen gets there first. My brother jerks as the bullet punches into him and groans when he hits the ground next to Symon. I do not hesitate as I squeeze the trigger of my weapon. A wound blooms in Symon’s chest. A second—from Will’s gun—appears in his left temple, and Symon drops to the ground.
Zeen. I can barely whisper his name as I kneel next to him, ignore the pain in my arm, and roll him over to see the injury he has sustained. I choke back a sob as I see the hole in his chest. Instinctively, I reach for my bag to find something to help, but my bag isn’t here and even if it were, I know there is no healing this wound. Zeen’s lungs have been damaged. Maybe his heart. It won’t be long before both stop working.
Despite what I know to be true, I scream for Will and Tomas to find someone to help us. I don’t care if I am arrested and punished. Zeen needs to live. There has been enough loss. Enough death. Too high a price has been paid. I can’t lose him. Not now. Not when we are finally together again.
Will yells that he’ll go to the Medical residence to find help and disappears out the door. When Tomas finally moves, I think that he too is going to look for aid. That he believes there is a chance Zeen could live. Instead, he kneels opposite me, next to Zeen, and takes Zeen’s other hand in his. I see tears streak down Tomas’s face. I want to cry, but there are no tears to wash away a loss this huge. Dr. Flint used to say that the severest wounds often cannot be felt by the victim because the nerves are too damaged to transmit pain. Seeing Zeen in my arms, struggling to breathe, has cut too deep for tears.
He coughs and I smooth back his hair and whisper encouraging words like he used to do when I was little and scared or sick. I tell him that I love him. That I am so glad I am with him now. That everything will be okay. But it won’t. Because Zeen’s breathing is becoming shallower. His heartbeat is slowing, and his eyes are filled with anguish.
“Do you still have your bag?” I ask Tomas. “Can you give him something for the pain?”
Tomas looks down at Zeen and nods. He stands and walks to where he dropped his bag. He pulls out two bottles. One marked with a circle. The other with an X. I see the question in his eyes as he holds them out to me.
Zeen coughs. His hand tightens around mine. His face has drained of color. His chest barely rises as he takes his next breath. I reach out and take the bottle with the circle on it and help him drink. Maybe it is selfish of me, but I want these last moments with him to last as long as they can. It will be hard enough to go on after Zeen is gone. I cannot be the one to bring about the final moment of his life.
“Cia,” Zeen whispers. “Remember what I said when you graduated. And tell Mom and Dad I saved you. They’ll be proud.”
Someone is on the stairs. Another is near the back of the hall, moving down the aisle. From the hall outside the room, I hear more footsteps. The other man Symon brought with him? Two against one is bad odds. But three against one? I tighten my hold on the gun. I will only get one chance to fire. Whoever is with Symon will see me the minute I rise. He will fire too. I will die. But so will Symon. I will not allow myself to die without a fight.
The person coming down the stairs is moving slower that the one in the back. His footsteps sound heavier. Like a man who is injured. He will be my target.
A voice shouts from the hallway. Whoever is out there will be here in moments. Then I will face three opponents. I think of those I love and have the whisper of Tomas’s name in my heart as I swallow down my fear and stand. I was right. Symon stands three quarters of the way down the side aisle. His eyes widen in surprise as he sees me. Blood coats the hand holding the gun that takes aim.
The footsteps in the hall stop. Three figures appear in the door as I squeeze the trigger. Sound explodes around me. Symon drops to the ground and rolls down the last two stairs to the front aisle as searing pain pierces my right arm. I turn toward the man who shot me and fire again, but miss as he darts to the left. And I’m not sure if I would have hit him anyway. The burning ache in my arm is making it hard to keep a grip on the gun.
Symon’s man turns and takes aim as a voice calls my name.
Tomas.
Another shot cracks the air. Symon’s man stumbles backward into one of the chairs. Blood seeps from the wound in his chest as he sinks to the ground.
My arm is on fire. The world spins in and out of focus, but none of that matters as Tomas races down the stairs toward me. His clothes are covered in dirt and a ragged cut runs down one side of his face, but he is here. Whole. Alive.
Over Tomas’s shoulder I see two other people running down the stairs. One is Will. The other, Zeen. I look behind them for Stacia but don’t see her. Did Tomas have to leave her behind because of her injury? Or is she looking to make sure Dr. Barnes is dead?
I am about to ask when my brother says, “I want my Transit Communicator back.”
Despite the pain I feel, laughter erupts out of me. Zeen flashes the smile that I grew up idolizing as he rushes toward me. I start to reply when I see movement to my left—the barrel of Symon’s gun as it is placed in position. I push Tomas to the side and raise my weapon, but I know I will be too late. That after all I have been through, I will die as Symon pulls the trigger.
Gunfire fills the room. A scream rips from my throat, but the bullet never finds me because Zeen gets there first. My brother jerks as the bullet punches into him and groans when he hits the ground next to Symon. I do not hesitate as I squeeze the trigger of my weapon. A wound blooms in Symon’s chest. A second—from Will’s gun—appears in his left temple, and Symon drops to the ground.
Zeen. I can barely whisper his name as I kneel next to him, ignore the pain in my arm, and roll him over to see the injury he has sustained. I choke back a sob as I see the hole in his chest. Instinctively, I reach for my bag to find something to help, but my bag isn’t here and even if it were, I know there is no healing this wound. Zeen’s lungs have been damaged. Maybe his heart. It won’t be long before both stop working.
Despite what I know to be true, I scream for Will and Tomas to find someone to help us. I don’t care if I am arrested and punished. Zeen needs to live. There has been enough loss. Enough death. Too high a price has been paid. I can’t lose him. Not now. Not when we are finally together again.
Will yells that he’ll go to the Medical residence to find help and disappears out the door. When Tomas finally moves, I think that he too is going to look for aid. That he believes there is a chance Zeen could live. Instead, he kneels opposite me, next to Zeen, and takes Zeen’s other hand in his. I see tears streak down Tomas’s face. I want to cry, but there are no tears to wash away a loss this huge. Dr. Flint used to say that the severest wounds often cannot be felt by the victim because the nerves are too damaged to transmit pain. Seeing Zeen in my arms, struggling to breathe, has cut too deep for tears.
He coughs and I smooth back his hair and whisper encouraging words like he used to do when I was little and scared or sick. I tell him that I love him. That I am so glad I am with him now. That everything will be okay. But it won’t. Because Zeen’s breathing is becoming shallower. His heartbeat is slowing, and his eyes are filled with anguish.
“Do you still have your bag?” I ask Tomas. “Can you give him something for the pain?”
Tomas looks down at Zeen and nods. He stands and walks to where he dropped his bag. He pulls out two bottles. One marked with a circle. The other with an X. I see the question in his eyes as he holds them out to me.
Zeen coughs. His hand tightens around mine. His face has drained of color. His chest barely rises as he takes his next breath. I reach out and take the bottle with the circle on it and help him drink. Maybe it is selfish of me, but I want these last moments with him to last as long as they can. It will be hard enough to go on after Zeen is gone. I cannot be the one to bring about the final moment of his life.
“Cia,” Zeen whispers. “Remember what I said when you graduated. And tell Mom and Dad I saved you. They’ll be proud.”
