The Virulent Chronicles Box Set

by Shelbi Wescott

  Four feet separated her mouth and nose from the top of the tank.

  She prayed and when she did, she felt for Salem’s crucifix, still around her neck. The chain stuck to her neck. She had never prayed before the Release, but during her time with Grant she had picked up on his penchant for reaching out to pray in tough moments. It still seemed silly to hope that there was a higher power, but when she had mocked Grant’s go-to response, he had chided her. Grant had said, “How could it hurt?” And it was a question Lucy took to heart.

  There wasn’t any time to fully process what was happening: the woman knew her, knew her father, but still left her here to die. Escape seemed elusive, but Lucy was hopeful that there would be a way for Grant to avoid this fate. Her prayers now shifted to him. Save Grant. God, please save Grant. How cruel for him to be a miracle and then lose his life like this.

  There were two feet of air remaining.

  Her body rose and bobbed; her head hit the cement above her. She kicked her legs wildly and pushed her hands against the ceiling. Then she swam to a corner and positioned herself between the angles of the walls—one leg bracing against one wall, her other leg bracing against the second wall. She kept losing her grip and sliding down, falling into the crystal clear water, the dry room on the other side of the glass visible through a hazy film.

  One foot remaining. The water slid up her neck and toward her chin. The metal holes flooding the water were now completely underwater; still the water poured outward and still the waters rose. There was a flurry of movement on the other side of the glass, but Lucy couldn’t see what was happening from her vantage point. It looked like people entered the room. Two shapes. Lucy ducked her head under the water and swam over to the glass. She held her breath and propelled herself down, then opened her eyes.

  Blair was back.

  And there was a boy with her.

  A man.

  A young man. A middle-aged man, maybe.

  Lucy couldn’t tell anything else.

  She wondered if they were there to watch her die: if somehow her drowning was a spectacle to be witnessed.

  But then she noticed that the man had Blair by the arm and they were arguing and Blair tried to pull away, but the boy pushed her toward the glass. For one quick second, Lucy, with her cheeks puffed up with as much air as she could muster, saw Blair’s face on the other side of the glass watching her—like Lucy was a fish at the aquarium. Lucy’s lungs burned and she couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She let her breath escape and giant bubbles formed in front of her and gurgled upward. Then she let her body travel back up to the top; there were only inches left and Lucy tilted her head backward and sucked in more air through her nose, maximizing the last final seconds of breathing.

  It happened.

  Lucy was fully submerged. All was quiet underwater; and Lucy concentrated on the air in her lungs—willing herself to hold her breath until she couldn’t any longer. She pushed herself down and opened her eyes; the boy and the girl were still fighting and then she saw him hit Blair with an open palm across the face. Her blonde hair flew and she reeled against the force. Blair stumbled backward and touched the spot where his hand had been.

  Lucy closed her eyes.

  Drowning. What would it feel like?

  Soon she would have to breathe. Soon she would need to breathe.

  Don’t inhale. Don’t inhale. Don’t inhale. She commanded herself—Lucy kicked her legs and pounded her fists against the glass. Everything in her chest burned and ached; her brain commanded her to take a breath. She fought it as long as she could. She opened her eyes.

  From beyond the glass, Blair was moving toward the plastic box, cradling her cheek.

  She pushed a button.

  There was a rumbling and a whoosh. The ground of the tank shifted and sunk downward, and it created a gap so the water could drain. Lucy felt herself being pulled to the bottom of the tank, propelled by the force of the water above her seeking an exit. But it was too late, even with hope of escape seconds away; Lucy couldn’t fight it any longer. No matter how hard she struggled against the impulse, her body forced her to expel the air in her lungs. And then, mechanically and instinctually, she breathed in. Water stung her nose and burned her throat, and it settled deep inside her chest like a cool compress on her lungs.

  Then the panic set in and Lucy kicked her legs and felt the pain of death in every inch of her body. There was no air, no relief. Her body flailed and rippled with spasms; she tore at her clothes and her chest. In her head, she was screaming, but in reality, she was making no sounds at all.

  Her body felt heavy and she couldn’t even find the strength to move; she just let the water travel into her lungs, and she sank to the bottom of the tank—she looked at the mismatched tile beneath her.

  The pain subsided, the panic drained from her. She resumed breathing, in and out, and there was a coolness in her body, like she had swallowed an ice cube and could feel it traveling past her lungs and settling in her stomach. But then she realized: she didn’t feel afraid anymore. She just kept trying to fill her lungs with water to feel the cold. Lucy thought she might have smiled as she embraced the calm and the peace of knowing this was the end.

  She let herself float now. Her body bobbed. Keeping her eyes trained on the cement above her, Lucy watched the gray ceiling move further away and then her body hit the floor. She closed her eyes and thought of her family—she had come so close and she was sorry that she wouldn’t be able to say goodbye. Her life was not flashing before her eyes but the images of Harper, the twins, Galen and her mom and dad did float past her vision. They would be sad. She hoped they would find comfort.

  But she wasn’t sad. Death isn’t so scary, she thought as the ceiling blurred and everything around her went white.

  Chapter Six

  Water poured out of her in a rush. She vomited pure liquid and it escaped her involuntarily and seeped out onto the tiled floor, pooling beneath her already wet clothes. Her lungs seared with sharp, shooting pain and her throat burned as the water fled from her. No matter what, she couldn’t stop herself from coughing and choking. Snot streamed down her nose and her wet hair lay in a tangled mass.

  She was on her side; her shoulder bone rested on a groove, she tried to shift away, but everything hurt.

  “We have to get her to the medic pod.”

  “Gordy…” Blair’s voice was whiny and afraid.

  The young man spun, one hand still resting on Lucy’s back. “That entitled whimpering might work with dad, but not with me. Are you out of your small, ridiculous, mind?”

  “Don’t lecture me. Not now. You don’t think I know how bad this is?”

  “Call the hospital on Floor F. Get the medic pod to get a room for her. Do it now.” He pointed at the door, but Blair didn’t move. He muttered imbecile underneath his breath.

  “What about the boy, Gordy? He’s a survivor.” She spat the word like it was poison.

  “Leave the boy. He’s not our concern right now.

  “Grant—” Lucy said, and then she coughed, more water dribbling down her chin and to the floor; she thought she tasted something metallic and rusty. She thought of Grant and then to the pain in her chest and then back to Grant. She felt panic, like bile, gurgling up her throat.

  “He’s fine. Just sitting in the tank,” the man named Gordy answered Lucy, but he didn’t even glance down at her. His hand on her shoulder felt mechanical, rigid. He had saved her, this Lucy knew. His face was the face she saw first when she was pulled from the abyss, and she focused in on his crystal blue eyes, the stubble on his chin. She had been in a place of peace, a place absent of pain, and then she felt drawn back—there was the sensation of touch: wetness, roughness, sharpness. Then she saw Gordy’s face and had the uncontrollable urge to vomit.

  Whatever peace found her in those moments in the tank were gone. For a second, she wished he had just let her die.

  She went to wipe her mouth, but her hand felt weighted down to the floo
r.

  Lucy coughed again. And again.

  “Get her up,” Gordy commanded.

  “Get the guards to do it. They can say they found her.”

  “You think they’re going to take the blame for this?”

  Blair was quiet.

  “Gordy, please—” she whispered. “Dad—”

  “You better hope the girl lives. If she dies, Dad will never forgive you. Breaking the rules is one thing, but murder Blair. Murder?”

  Blair scowled and climbed off the ground of the tank. “That’s rich, Gordy. That’s hilarious,” she seethed and pointed at him. “Maybe Dad will only love me if I murder seven billion people. God forbid I tank one person.”

  Gordy shot up off the ground and walked right up to his sister; he leaned down over her and backed her up against a wall. His movement was quick, deliberate, and Blair didn’t have time to maneuver away from him. She cowered as he pressed his hand against her shoulder. “Don’t you ever say anything like that ever again or I will tank you. The Kings are members. And you know that it’s different. You know it, Blair. Call the medics.”

  “Even you didn’t think they should be allowed to stay,” Blair challenged in a small voice. “Don’t get all high and mighty now…you wanted them dead once. You didn’t trust Scott. Remember that O-Mighty-One?”

  Gordy gave Blair’s shoulder a second push into the cement wall and then walked away from her, leaving Blair to rub her shoulder. Her chin quivered.

  Lucy coughed and coughed; she gasped for breath. She wanted to shout at them to shut up; she wanted to tell them she was in pain.

  “It’s done. The decision was made long before and it’s done. Call the medics, Blair. Or I’ll have the guards tank you and bury you in the Sand Hills.”

  “Gordy—”

  “Call the Goddamn medics!”

  Blair bristled and huffed, and then sauntered out with her fear disguised with defiance. But Gordy—who was her father’s age, somewhere in his early forties, maybe younger, but not by much—now leaned over her, his eyes narrowed, his face still. He opened his mouth to address her and then shook his head, thinking better of it.

  “I’m sorry,” was what he finally said and Lucy looked at him.

  “Where am I?” she asked. It hurt to speak. She coughed and leaned over the tile flooring.

  “There are many ways to answer that—”

  “I want to see Grant,” she demanded, pushing the words out through the ache.

  “It’s difficult to explain, but Grant is not a member. It’s not as simple as just letting him out of the tank. He has no family here.”

  Lucy shook her head. “He’s my family. A brother.”

  Gordy smiled, not unkindly. He exhaled out his nose and patted her on the shoulder. “That’s a sweet sentiment and I’m sure it’s served you well these past weeks. But the System doesn’t work like that.”

  “What system?”

  “The System. This place. Where you are now…”

  “My family?”

  “Is here.”

  “I need to see them—” Lucy started to push herself up from the floor, her knees wobbled underneath and her hands slipped against the wet tile.

  “Easy, easy,” Gordy hummed and kept his hand trained on her.

  “Take me to them now,” she demanded and as her tone challenged him, she couldn’t help but feel like Gordy was amused by her; it was like she was a four-year-old demanding an extra cookie and he was entertained by the suggestion.

  “Lucy King, you are like your mother, aren’t you?” Gordy laughed at this. His own private joke.

  The mention of her mother sent an icy trickle down Lucy’s spine. “I need her. Is she here? Please,” Lucy begged, attempting a different tactic.

  “In time. There are protocols. They will be alerted of your arrival soon…there are things that need to happen first.”

  “No,” Lucy shook her head, and hot tears stung her cheeks. “That’s not fair.”

  Gordy didn’t answer. He merely looked at her, his eyebrows raised, expecting her to see the error in her logic so he didn’t have to state the obvious.

  They were both saved when two men and a woman, in blue jeans, t-shirts and lab coats, entered the side room and waltzed through the door into the tank, eyeing Lucy with confusion and clinical concern.

  One of the men knelt down to get a closer look. His eyes were kind and comforting, and Lucy felt her tension melt away—she hadn’t realized how tense Gordy and Blair had made her feel until the others arrived. For the first time since they set foot in Brixton, Lucy felt like someone might take care of her—someone might show her kindness.

  “How much water did she intake?” the man asked Gordy, but he kept his eyes on Lucy.

  “I can’t guess that…she puked up like a liter? She wasn’t breathing. But we got to her fast. I got to her fast, I should say.”

  “We’ll get her up to the medic pod to observe her,” a second man answered.

  “Is her questioning over? Why the change of heart?” the woman asked. She was chewing on a piece of bubble gum and it snapped loudly, echoing inside the tank.

  Gordy laughed. “Oh, so my sister failed to communicate the most important piece of this whole mess.” He paused for dramatic effect and pointed a deliberate finger at Lucy’s soaked and disheveled state. “This is Lucy King.” He waited again and then added, “Scott’s daughter.”

  The woman gasped and brought her hand up over her mouth. “No,” she said between her fingers.

  “Damn,” the second man whistled and he shook his head.

  The man crouched down by Lucy grimaced and then stood. “Does Scott know?”

  “Not yet,” Gordy answered. “I want her examined first…make sure she’s out of the woods before we give him hope.”

  Lucy coughed and looked at him. “Out of the woods?”

  The first paramedic looked at her. “Your lungs might still have water in them. There’s still a risk of asphyxiation. Keeping you for observation is just precautionary. We’re all experts here. We’ll take good care of you. You’ll be reunited with your family soon, I promise.”

  “Grant,” Lucy said again. She tried to sound forceful, commanding. “I want to see my friend.”

  The medic looked to Gordy and Gordy shook his head. The look could have meant anything, but the coldness in Gordy’s eyes as he denied her request without saying a word, made Lucy’s skin crawl.

  “He’s part of my family,” Lucy lied. “My dad will want to see him…”

  “He’s gone,” Gordy said and he shot her a calm look, his eyes on fire.

  “You just said he was fine,” Lucy raised her voice and inside the tank the noise amplified, the medic closest to her cringed. “Take me to him!”

  “She’s delusional. Sedate her,” Gordy instructed to the man by her side. Lucy shook her head and tried to scoot away.

  “Is that necessary?” the man asked, but he seemed to regret the challenge the moment it left his lips. “Whatever you say, boss.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a capped needle; he uncapped it in a swift move, the plastic skittering across the floor and before Lucy could scamper away, he held her by the upper arm and stabbed the needle into the fleshiness of her bicep. “Just a prick. Easy now.”

  Lucy felt instantly sleepy and her body swayed and dipped.

  “Mom. Grant,” Lucy called. Her voice sounded hollow, like a rattle in her brain. She tried to form more words of protest, but they disappeared into the void. “Mom—” she said again, imagining her mother’s face swimming in front her before she gave in to the darkness.

  Her head pounded with a pulsating headache that radiated behind her left eye. She tried to bring her hand up to rub her eye socket and put pressure on the pain, but her hands were held into place with metal rings—she tugged and pulled, but her body was trapped against the cool hospital bed. Then her eyes caught sight of the man beside her bed; he was watching her with a plastered-on grin, his cool blue eyes—the
same shade as Gordy and Blair’s—followed her movements with calculating fascination.

  “Hello,” he said in a booming, cheerful-infused, voice. “You’re awake. Good, good.”

  “Unlock me,” Lucy said and she cringed. Her throat still ached, her chest still pounded with the desire to cough. Her words eked out in barely a squeak.

  “Let’s keep your feet locked in, shall we? But don’t you worry, little one, you won’t be here long. I’ve been given positive information about your recovery.” As he spoke, he pulled out keys from his pocket and drew the sheet back around the first cuff and then the second, popping her wrists free of the confines. “There you are. Better?”

  Lucy nodded, annoyed that her ankles kept hitting the metal rings—a reminder that, once again, she was someone’s prisoner. Her breath caught and she felt her heart pound; she grew light-headed.

  “Who are you?” Lucy asked, closing her eyes to control her symptoms. “Gordy and Blair’s dad? You look like you could be their grandfather.”

  The man laughed, raising his chin to the ceiling and slapping his hand against his knee. “You’re a quick one. Funny too.” He pointed at her. “Of course you are. The Kings. Salt of the earth. Yes, I’m mighty glad to hear you arrived here safe and sound. You should know that your parents were out of their minds with worry.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I know you’re eager to see them.”

  “They don’t know I’m here yet, do they?” Lucy placed her hands over her eyes and she prayed for a reprieve from the growing ache.

  “No,” the man said and he frowned. “Some rules were broken, you see. Big rules. Before I invite your parents to see you again, well, we need to chat. I wish it didn’t have to be like this, but there are rules.”

  “What’s your name?” Lucy continued to press her eyes closed.

  “I’m Huck Truman. You’re in my shelter. My dome, I’ve liked to call it. Now we just say that it’s the System. ”

  “A system?”

  “The System,” he corrected. “But it’s only temporary. I have no desire to keep everyone living underground…seems like such a dreadful way to spend my twilight years. I like sun and air and green just as much as the next person.”