So, we didn't escape apparently.
I still barely know what's going on, but I know more now:
W.I.C.K.E.D. is a real pain in the ass, walking through sand dunes should be considered a sport, and searching for a mysterious rebel group is like searchin...
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THE HALLWAYS WERE LONG and winding, the bright fluorescent lights and silver walls passing by in blurs.
We weren't given much time to ogle at the Compound before three rescuers with guns began rushing us away from the massive hangar and our only known exit—driving us deeper into the unknown crevices of the silver fortress.
According to them, we were still in danger.
Which I find hard to believe after seeing the size of the door and the hardcore security lock binding us inside it's thick steely walls.
Nonetheless, we followed the rescuers hastily—even despite our exhaustion.
The Gladers and I moved swiftly, the collective slap of our filthy shoes against the floor reverberating off the walls like a thunderous applause—a symphony of our never-ending obligation to run.
"C'mon, kids, this way!" The one rescuer encouraged us from the front of the group, leading us down a series of different hallways, all of which were occupied by other rescuers running between the beats of the still blaring alarm.
During the run, I had fallen behind slightly.
Heavy gasps left my chest, my whole body trembling with the aches and pains from both the battle, the running, the lack of sleep, and the lack of food.
Everything hurt—the feeling of my clothes brushing my skin, my heart beat harmonizing the thumping in my brain, the tender throb of my muscles with each step, the hollow roar of my stomach, the sting of the blisters decorating my ankles...the list could go on and on.
I needed rest—and soon.
I should've slept on the damn helicopter. I thought bitterly.
We rounded another corner, the shriek of the endless alarm piercing my throbbing skull like a bullet as the bottom of my stomach coiled at the steady strain of searing muscles and endless soreness.
"Damn..." I breathed out with a quiver.
Too consumed with the ache of my tender body and overwhelmed by my environment, I reached out and grabbed the sleeve of the closest person near me—Frypan.
Suddenly, the three men ahead of us stopped at a large metal door before swinging it open with a stiff creak.
"Go, go, go!" They urged us into the dark room.
We piled through the doorway, escaping the clamor of the Compound and any dangers that still lingered after us, our terrified hearts beating sporadically as one and our anxious minds spiraling down unnerving paths.
The dark engulfed us like a blanket, cool air sweeping around our sweaty frames and panting forms like faint frigid kisses against our tender and grimy skin.
