Four unmarked survivors. One totalitarian government. A fight to keep their humanity intact.
100 years into the future, the E-91 virus has thrust the world into chaos.
For Rachel Wilson, survival hasn't come easy. For the last fifteen years, she's...
Rachel swallowed hard, trying to rationalize what they were asking her to do.
Surely, it was a trick.
Surely even poachers couldn't be that twisted.
"You have to choose one or the other, Rachel. That is the only way you are going to get out of this room." Abby announced.
"You can't seriously expect me to choose? I'm not like you." Rachel countered, her palms sweating and quivering.
"You are so naive, my dear. This world isn't about good and evil anymore. It's about surviving."
With a nod of Abby's chin, a poacher produced from his pocket a long, metal stick that emitted a blue light similar to the collar choking Hector's throat.
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With a flick of his wrist, the poacher pressed the cylindrical object against Hector's skin that seared him where it touched him. A look of raw pain washed over his features but his eyes did not leave Rachel's nor did he scream.
She took a step but he shook his head minutely, his jaw set.
There was a wild desperation in her chest to save him. To make the pain stop.
"Don't listen to them..." He managed through gritted teeth. "I mean it. Don't listen."
Her eyes darted across the faces of the strangers, willing herself to not see them as real people.
But it was impossible.
They were real, living, breathing human beings who had never done anything to her other than be placed in the same hideous predicament as her.
And then there was Hector, on his knees and with the barrel of a gun pressed to his temple, the threat of death dangling over his head.
"Don't do it. I'm not worth it." He repeated.
He fixed her with a meaningful look.
Was it good bye?
Was it something else?
All she knew, all she could understand in that moment was that she couldn't kill innocent people for the sake of saving her friend-- no matter how badly she wanted to choose Hector.
God, did she want to choose him.
Rachel sniffled, swinging around to point her gun at Abby but she was no longer there, having slipped quietly behind the safety of the door.
Her blue-grey eyes studied Rachel through the glass of the small window now, glaze clinical.
