Gods Under The Dome

7.2

《Dark Places》

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My feeble attempt at smoothing out the wrinkles in my shirt fools no one. We pass dozens of people huddled together, splashes of light blue and green from each others' visors making them resemble walking works of abstract art.

As we walk, we're bombarded with a dozen sounds, a hundred different smells, from sweet to rich and smokey, to the unsavory stench that clings to every city, no matter what it's National Cleanliness Ranking might lead you to believe otherwise.

Myriads of holographic signs drown us in muted-shades of holidays no longer celebrated - the soft yellows from the floating caution lights, the diffused lilac tones coming from the Sunshine Vitamin adverts overhead to the more violent shades of red, orange, and acidic green, a shade that matches the poison Marava's words always come dipped in.

There's so much in the Brights to distract anyone yet I can't help but think they can sense it - that the seven of us don't belong. That they can smell the musky odor of the trunk wafting off us in repellent waves, and know, just by looking into our eyes, that we're Liars. 

It's absolutely insane, of course, but regardless, my fingers continue to pluck and tug at the hem of my shirt. 

"You need to stop," Nol says as he strides down the street, in that all-to-familiar slouched state of his that reminds me of amoeba just before it splits in two. If he's feeling apprehensive, he manages to keep it below his surface. Maybe that's why he's got his hands in his pockets, pressing down on that nervous part of him that would give everything away. Or maybe he's just fearless, though, that's doubtful. Of course, none of that matters because my body language is so stiff, and antsy, that every muscle is practically screaming, 'we don't belong here!'

"You're overthinking it."

Once again, thanks for pointing out the obvious, Nol.

Despite knowing he's right, I don't want it to go to his head, so I shrug and slide my hands into my jean pockets. I began picking at pocket lint, which is at least one nervous tick probing eyes can't see.

Nol picks up his pace, walks a little further ahead of the rest of us while maintaining enough berth from the Collective to unmistakably be the seventh Liar.

Confidence guides Marava's walk, her head held high, her eyes glazed over as if the excitement of Sect Seven buzzing around her was nothing more than a fly she wanted to swat dead. "No one's looking at you, anyways," she says, and just then, she walks under a neon green sign, and the sickly way it glows against her skin makes her look delightfully witchy. I scowl, tasting the vitriol on my tongue as a comeback begins to percolate, but Mars' nods toward an oncoming crowd and everything drips away. 

Her words, the world. Within seconds, I'm standing back in the Facility. Immaculate, tile flooring props me up. Bleach and pine fresh cleaners clings to the air. A crowd rushes toward me, plowing through those of us gathered at the opposite end of the corridor, as though we were a roadblock easily broken.

People fall like bricks to the ground, blood oozing from crushed skulls. I catch a glimpse of the cleaning woman's pleading eyes, her outstretched hand. She'd wanted help, wanted my help, and I'd clung to the wall too afraid to move, to reach out and--

Then I see a hundred different faces, some so vivid it's like they were etched in stone while others remain soft, blurred, nothing more than fleshy blobs stuffed in long, white lab coats that flutter about them like angels' wings. The tops of their heads smoke as fire claims their hair, burning it to the roots. It melts them, one by one, and each face or blur twists in agony. Rubble falls from above, ruthless in the way it leaves behind no survivors.