Project HALO

Chapter 4

Every single joint in my body aches.

I yawn and rub my eyes. As every other morning for the last three months, I hope to see Mikey back beside me in our dorm when I open my eyes, but reality hits me like a fist. I'm not at school. Mikey still isn't here. I sigh to release the anxiety filling my chest. At least my head doesn't hurt and the room doesn't smell.

Wait...

My eyebrows pull together as I realize I'm in bed.

I throw the duvet off. My clothes have been changed. Even though I'm fully clothed, I feel weirdly exposed.

They aren't only watching me. They've also been inside the room while I was asleep.

I lift my hands over my ears and squeeze my eyes shut. My breath hitches as I inhale. The neckline of the t-shirt presses uncomfortably against my throat and I pull it off in one rough movement, throwing it on the floor. With it, I let out a hoarse groan.

Stop.

I can't panic now.

Strong people don't freak out like this.

Control yourself, I repeat over and over again in my head, but my chest is still heaving. I unpeel my hands from their clenching and lean forward, stretching my fingers out on the white sheets. I release a heavy breath. A touch of calmness arrives when I see my tattoo spelled out. FEARLESS. Mom said it to me when I was younger, and the word always reminds me to stay strong. To keep going even when things are difficult.

This situation isn't much different from my day-to-day life, really. My father gives me money, but that's all he does. Mikey was my best friend, but he left. I'm used to being on my own. To fix my problems. This is just that: a problem. And I have to find the solution.

"Charles?"

A static voice startles me to my feet.

The sudden movement makes me realize I'm still queasy, but most of it fades when my adrenaline spikes. I face the door, ready to jump at anyone that comes inside. But no one comes.

"How are you feeling?"

I search for the source of the voice, and spot a tiny speaker next to the quarantine-sign.

"Oh, I feel great," I say and turn to the camera instead. They must be watching. "I love having no idea what's going on."

I narrow my eyes as if that will help me see through the camera lens. I imagine their masked faces on the other side. Cowards.

"We checked your vitals a few hours ago, but I need to ask you some routine questions." A pause. It sounds like they're shuffling through a book. "Are you cold? Does your head hurt? Do you have a fever?"

I scoff and shake my head. "You guys placed me in a quarantine, so why don't you tell me?"

"Charles," the voice continues after a few seconds. "We need to know this. It is very important that you answer truthfully."

"Why?" I challenge. I rest my arms in a tight cross over my chest. "First you should tell me where the fuck I am."

"First we need to know any potential symptoms you might be experiencing." Another page is flipped. "You should cooperate if you want to live."

My eyebrows knit together. Anger and fear combine into a tornado in my head. "What?"

"Answer yes or no, please. Are you cold?"

Fuck it. I don't want to die.

"A little, I guess," I say.

"Does your throat hurt?"

"No. And no, I don't have a fever. I think."

I lift a hand to my forehead. To be honest it's a little warmer than my hand, but not by much, so I don't tell them. They can come back in here and take my temperature if they want to know.

"Have you experienced nausea?"

"What's the point of your live TV—" I gesture to the camera, "—if you don't pay attention?"

"That is none of your business."

"Like my health is any of yours?"

It might not the best idea to piss them off, but I can't stop. It's not like they deserve anything else when they ask so many stupid questions. At least my questions are original.

"Please answer. Have you experienced nausea?"

"I'm sick of you right now." I scratch my head. "Does that count?"

They don't reply. After a while, the silence grows uncomfortable.

"Are you there?"

Nothing.

"Hello?!"

I don't know whether to laugh hysterically or scream. I do a mixture of both.

A drink or five would be amazing right about now. They could've at least left some vodka in here after putting me through this shit. They haven't even brought me a new glass of water. Terrible service.

"Helloooo?" I try again.

Silence.

In a moment of frenzy and fear, I begin to search every inch of the bare walls for a hole or a crack or something that can help me escape. My fingertips glide across the smooth tiles, pushing into places that feel fragile or cracked, but nothing gives in.

I spend hours searching the whole room. My fingers start to feel sore, and I consider going to bed, but a sound catches my attention. I freeze, my palms flat against the wall.

It sounds like the click of a door unlocking.