I'm hoping that anticipating the next zap will make it hurt less, but if anything, it adds mental agony to the mix. I lie flat on my back when it releases me, breathing shallowly through my constricted lungs. Strength returns to me slowly. The cries around me die down, replaced by, What happened? and Are you okay?
And then our bracelets start beeping.
"Oh, no," Willow whispers.
A short reprieve. That's what they're giving us. A chance to get moving. It takes me two beeps to process this. I know thirteen more will follow before they zap us again.
"Get upstairs!" someone shouts.
I stagger to my feet and lurch toward the perforated metal stairs. Two more beeps. They're longer than seconds, but even if we had double the time, it wouldn't help. There's no way almost a hundred people will make it up those steps before the beeping stops.
I'm caught in a stampede. People jostle and shout. I keep track of the beeping. Eight. Nine. I'm almost at the top of the first set of stairs when an elbow slams into the side of my head, dazing me. I shake off the pain.
"Move!" someone screams to my right.
Twelve beeps. I reach the first landing, my heart in my throat. I won't make it. I abandon my plan to race straight to the top and shoulder my way over to the railing. I throw my leg over it, squeezing my heel in the gap between the metal bars.
The beeping stops just as I swing my other leg over. It's only a four-foot fall, but I can't brace for impact because of the pain. I hit the floor like a sack of bricks and curl into a ball, riding out the agony. I'm faring better than those on the stairs. I hear the screams, the sharp clanks, the heavy thuds as bodies fall on top of each other. There's a bitter taste in my mouth. I should have warned them. I should have warned Willow and Carson. I should have—
No. Should-haves don't change anything. Sam hates it when I regret my choices. It's a learning experience, he said to me one afternoon when he commanded me to ride my bike down a steep embankment and I ended up breaking my arm in two places. That's the thing about Sam. He never cares about the things that happen to me. Just my outlook on them.
I pick myself up and turn around. It's madness on the stairway. People are draped over the steps like a carpet, arms and legs askew. Some are buried under piles of bodies, their shouts muffled by the weight.
"Help me! Please—someone help me."
I see the screamer: a boy to one side, tall and gangly, crushed against the railing. His foot is stuck between two metal rails, bent at an odd angle. Broken.
The beeping starts up, jolting me. There's nothing I can do for him now. Nothing I can do for anyone else. I imagine this is an obstacle course and I have to navigate it without going over the time limit. Step over a body, squeeze one foot between a head and a shoulder.
Don't fall. Don't look back.
Six beeps.
A flash of reddish-brown hair ahead of me. Carson is trying to get up, but the crowd surging to their feet keeps pushing him back down. I'm mostly managing in pretending not to hear or see the horror around me, but I can't abandon him. As I reach his side, I circle one arm around him and help him to his feet. "Hurry, Carson."
We make it to the top floor. The kids split apart like streams of water gushing through a tight hose, spewing everywhere. Marcus is already inside our block. My feet cross the threshold just a couple of seconds before the beeping stops. Screams and choked sounds of pain ring out behind me. I don't dare look back. I sink against the wall instead, my heart pounding harder now than when I was in trouble. It's nothing new. It's only when the danger is gone, when fear no longer has any basis in reality, that I ever really allow myself the luxury of falling apart.
"Hey, look—isn't that your roommate, Carson?" Alec asks.
Baxter. I've only seen glimpses of him all day. He was at a back table during lunch, mingling with a quiet group that reminded me of the smart crowd at school. Now he's on the floor about ten feet from us, halfway between the stairs and the doorway.
He's facedown. Not moving. A few feet from him are a couple of other kids who didn't make it. Alec steps closer, his feet almost at the threshold. "Baxter! Get over here!"
Baxter moans and lifts a trembling hand in our direction. His bracelet is beeping, but he's not moving. "He can't get up," I say to no one.
"Like I said," Marcus says. "Survival of the fittest. And he's not exactly the killer beast type, is he? He's more like an injured gazelle."
Alec snorts. "You've been watching too many wildlife documentaries, dude."
The beeping stops. A second later, Baxter's body jerks. It's weird seeing someone under the effects of the bracelet. The way his body turns stiff as a board, his clenched fists, the harsh sounds coming out of his throat. It lasts all of two seconds before his body relaxes again, but I know it feels like a lifetime. He stays motionless once it's over.
"You think they'll stop doing that to him?" Alec asks.
"I don't know," Carson says. "Maybe we should help him."
Marcus scoffs. "You want to be stuck in his place? Be my guest."
That's the last thing I want, but leaving Baxter out there doesn't sit well with me. I fold both arms over my chest. It's funny in a not-so-funny way. I've spent the past seventeen years of life surviving alone. Depending on myself and no one else. Mom stopped taking care of me when Sam came into our lives. He gave me the bare minimum to exist. Not much of a coddler, that guy. He taught me to look out for myself and no one else.
And then I'm thrust into a world filled with people. People who need me.
Whom I might need. It's a heady feeling.
"We have to bring him inside," I finally say.
"How?" Carson asks.
"We need a rope." I turn around and head for my room.
The light is on. Camille is in there rifling through the bottom drawer of the dresser. She sees me and says, "The top one is yours."
First thing I see when I open it are clothes. More sweatpants and t-shirts. Socks, underwear, toiletries, tampons, a small first aid kit, and a case, long and slim and silver. It has my name on it. Frowning, I take it out and try to open it. There isn't a visible seam. I'm dying to know what's inside it, but Baxter doesn't have time.
"I need all of your sweatpants," I say to Camille as I grab my three pairs.
She crinkles her cute button nose. "What?"
"I need to make a rope. To pull Baxter in."
Carson is hovering by the door. "I'll get mine," he says and disappears.
"Isn't that going to ruin the pants?"
"Maybe, but being out there will do worse to him," I reply. She gives me a blank look. I feel impatience in my bones. "Are you going to help him or not?"
"It's not like he's dying."
"He could very well be. Constant electric shocks can't be good for the body."
"Well, Marcus was right, you know. It's survival of the fittest. I can't give away the little I have for someone who can't even run up a simple set of stairs."
It's amazing how bad situations can bring out the worst in people. Unless this is who she really is, someone so heartless she'd take the chance that a kid will die for a pair of pants.
Not my problem either way. I leave her there to defend her belongings and head to the last room, nearly colliding with Carson as he walks out.
"Got it," he says, holding up a bundle.
We return to the doorway and place everything on the floor. Then we tie the legs of the sweatpants together until they resemble a long, lumpy length of rope.
"What's going on here?" Alec asks as he comes up behind us.
"Rescue mission," Carson replies. "You got any spare sweatpants? Don't think these will be long enough."
"Be right back." Alec disappears.
I glance over my shoulder at Marcus. He stands over me, one shoulder against the wall. When he sees my frown, he laughs. "You're taking this way too seriously. He can make it on his own if he tries instead of just giving up. You're enabling him."
"And you're a jerk." I can't help myself. He's too annoying to ignore.
"Come on, Rose. That the best you can do? I'm sure your overachieving brain can come up with a better insult."
A flush creeps across my face. Next to me, Carson shakes his head. I get what he's saying. Stop reacting to Marcus. Ignore him. But it's not that easy. He has a way of getting under my skin, bringing out my outrage—an impotent emotion I've learned to bury around Sam.
Alec returns and squats down next to us. "Will these do?"
I take the sweatpants from him. "I think so. Thanks."
"That's right, Moneybags," Marcus drawls. "Keep it up and it won't be long before you get into her pants."
"Don't," I say before Alec responds. "Just let it go. Please."
Alec squares his shoulders. When the makeshift rope is ready, he says, "Let me do it. My dad owns a ranch near Fort Mill. I've had some practice with the lasso."
Behind us, Marcus snorts.
"I've had a lot of practice shooting at things, too," he adds, giving Marcus a shark grin. "I can hit a target dummy right between the eyeballs."
"Let's see you do that with a moving target."
"You're not actually encouraging me to kill someone, are you, Fargo?" Alec grabs one end of the rope in his left hand and lets about two feet dangle from the other. Instead of spinning it, he begins to swing the loose end back and forth. He's gauging the distance. Then he takes a step forward and heaves it toward Baxter.
It lands just a foot shy of his mark. "Let's try that again," he says as he pulls the length back through the doorway.
A couple of attempts later, it gets close to Baxter.
"Baxter!" Alec calls. "Grab the rope. We're going to pull you in."
Baxter lifts his head. There's a tight grimace on his face. His fingers inch forward and grasp the rope. He strains and reaches out with his other hand. "Ready," he gasps.
"Good boy," Alec says, his voice light even though Baxter's bracelet is beeping again.
"You need help?" I ask, hovering near him. Ten seconds.
He shakes his head as he braces his weight on his back leg and starts to pull. "I'm good. You're the one coming up with the plans. Least I can do is the heavy lifting."
"Thanks." I'm grateful to him for being so considerate. Not to me—that part still makes me uneasy. But to Baxter. He could've chosen to go Marcus's and Camille's route, but he's not and that speaks volumes about the kind of person he is.
Baxter makes a frustrated sound. "I—I can't hold on."
"You have to try," I say, leaning out as far as I can. "I know it's hard, but put everything you have into it. You can do it, Baxter."
He lifts his head and grits his teeth, pushing through the pain. I hold my breath and urge him on silently. Inch by inch, Alec begins to pull him toward us. It's not enough. His bracelet zaps him again. The rope slips out of his hands, throwing Alec backward.
"It's okay," I say quickly. "We can try again. Toss him the rope, Alec."
Alec doesn't move. He's frozen in place, staring at something just out of my sight. I peer around the doorway and see the three men come up the stairs. They're dressed in black uniforms. They have on black gloves and thick leather boots, and their faces are masked.
I back up a step. They're not here to save us. Everything about them makes that clear. The others have also spotted them. Murmurs sweep over the floor, followed by shouting.
"Get us out of here! Please!"
"Who are you?"
"What do you want from us?"
The three men don't acknowledge us. They head toward Baxter and the other two, their movements swift and purposeful. They bend down and flip the teenagers onto their backs. Then they grab Baxter and the others by the ankles and drag them away.