Surviving Sarin

Chapter 1

"Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets." —Paul Tournier

An ear-numbing blare fills the air. Sirens. My hands clamp over my ears and my eyes slam shut. Each new blare sends a fresh wave of pain through my head. I swallow back nausea. The pain is excruciating. A loud metallic hum replaces the wail of sirens and the floor vibrates beneath my feet. My eyes flutter open, focusing on the metal floor lined with white and yellow lines. It's like a parking lot for miniature cars, except for the evenly spaced grip pads. A Galaxy. I rub my temples, trying to force back the pain. 

Why the hell am I on a C-5? Screw that, when did I get on the plane?

I turn my head toward the tiny window over my left shoulder. Bright red shapes lie sprawled on the runway. People. Some have puffy patches on their skin, like blisters ready to burst. As the plane gathers speed, taxing down the runaway, a shout goes up from behind us. People race along the tarmac after us. Their arms waving. Some have tears streaming down their faces as they run, desperate to find a way inside.

Our plane picks up speed. The people behind us become a blur, streaming together and making my stomach turn. I swivel my head forward, hoping to alleviate the nausea. The steel engines roar, pressing us back with the force of their acceleration. My ears pop. I turn my head back for one last look at the base that's been my home for the past year and a half.

The last plane hurtles down the runway. Just as the wheels lift off, the C-5 plummets to the ground. Flames engulf the fuselage from both sides. A loud boom cuts through the air, sending vibrations through my body, and shakes our plane.

"Holy shit!" The tall boy sitting next to me slaps a hand across his mouth. His green eyes bulge, fixated on the burning vessel.

There were kids like us in that plane. And now they're nothing. A matter of minutes and they don't exist anymore.

A small girl with dark curls sprawled on the floor in front of me cries.

I grit my teeth. I hate that she's afraid. I close my eyes, massaging my temple. This makes no sense. Why would anyone attack a US military base in the South Pacific with barely 8,000 people on it? "What the fuck's happening?"

"Don't know. No one knows." I'd entirely forgotten the boy beside me. His voice is rough like he has to choke the words out.

I open my eyes. I know this guy from school, but don't remember his name. My head is fuzzy, my thoughts slow. Drugs haven't worn off.

The boy glances around before his gaze settles on the rear of the plane. "Thought you were dead."

"Huh?" I snap my head toward him. A mistake. Pain jolts through my head, followed by a wave of nausea. I look down. One of my hands is covered in gauze.

"Looks bad," the guy says. "What happened?"

Panic rips through me at his question. "I don't know. I don't remember." It's the truth. There's so much I don't know. "I don't remember getting on the plane."

"A nurse helped you."

The nurse. She shook me viciously, eyes wide as she told me we needed to go. I could hardly stand from the painkillers, so she propelled me across the tarmac. She strapped me into this harness.

"Ugh." The pounding in my head is vicious. A distant, dull throb fills my injured palm. Blood is seeping through the gauze.

I stare at it.

Bile creeps up my throat. Cynthia.

The last time I saw Cynthia three days ago, she was lying on the floor of our home. Blood formed a well in her tiny chest. It's fluid, catching the light—unlike her dull and vacant eyes.