The Extinction Trials(7)

This helicopter was older, and it bounced as it set down on the roof, and two medics jumped out, carrying a stretcher, running toward him.

With his last strength and breath, Owen lifted his arm, held out his finger, hand trembling, and pointed away from himself, toward the girl.





Chapter Six





In the closet, Maya listened to the footfalls, trying to count how many people had entered the room.

Two, she thought.

A man was the first to speak.

“Her handbag is here. Clothes are gone.”

A woman spoke next. She was closer to Maya, bending over the man on the floor, perhaps.

“Leon, can you hear me?”

“Bring him around,” the man said.

Maya heard a click, then a long, low groan from the man on the ground.

“What happened, Leon?” the other man asked, closer now.

“She… got away—”

“She’s half your size and infected with GV—”

“That doesn’t matter,” the woman said flatly. “Where is she, Leon?”

The man said nothing. But Maya heard the other two moving about the room. He must have pointed. Or shaken his head.

The door to the bathroom opened. Someone stepped inside.

Then the closet door swung out. A hand reached in, snatched the sheet hanging over the rod, and pulled it out. Maya felt it tugging at the sheet that covered her below.

She held her breath.

“Just linens,” the man said as he tossed the sheet back into the closet. It fell on top of her as the door banged shut.

“Polestar,” the woman said. “We need a location on subject seven-four-one.”

“Who cares?” the man spat out. “She’s got GV. And The Change is happening as we speak.”

“Great,” the woman muttered. “She’s in an ambulance four blocks from here.”

“Just let her go,” the man said.

“We can’t. She knows too much. Come on.”





Maya’s plan was to wait in the closet until the door to the room opened again. She assumed that the next person to open that door would be her backup.

But the door didn’t open.

The help she needed never arrived.

She didn’t know how much time had passed, but she was starting to feel weak. She felt wetness on her upper lip—what she thought was sweat.

She wiped it away with her fingers, felt the stickiness, and knew it was blood.

She unwrapped the sheet around her and pushed the closet door open.

The room was dark. Was it night?

Had it been that long?

Then she realized: it wasn’t night. Smoke blotted out the sun. The city was burning.

Another trickle of blood ran from her nose. A throb of pain erupted in her head.

Her legs buckled. She extended a blood-soaked hand to the bed, gripped the rail, and pressed the call button.

“I need help.”





Chapter Seven





Owen’s hearing returned first, but his vision wouldn’t clear. He lay in darkness, listening to the voices around him. They were muffled and far away, flowing together, as if he were at the bottom of a well, the people at the surface, talking about him.

One voice finally broke through the din. It was a man, his tone gruff and weary.

“…multiple fractures… punctured lung. Under normal circumstances, he’s out of here in two weeks. But as things stand, I think we have to label him category ten. Nine at best.”

A woman’s voice: “His injuries—”

“Are quite treatable,” the gruff man said. “But our issue, frankly, is time. He should be in intensive care. And he would be in there for two weeks. Minimum. We could use that bed to save thirty people in that time. Let’s move on.”

The woman: “Wait. Can we talk about this? What happened to him?”

“He jumped from a building.”

“Third one in a row for me,” another man said.

The woman again: “Wait, I just found his file. He’s a firefighter. Saved a young girl. She’s probably going to make it.” A pause. “Look, we’ve got—”

“Katarina, we can’t do this all day, okay? We’ve got to keep moving. He’s a ten.”

A silent moment stretched out.

Then the gruff man again: “Fine. Fine. We’ll put an eight on him and that’s as far as I can go.”





When Owen woke again, his vision had returned.

It still hurt to breathe. Both legs throbbed in pain. The left was far worse.

He was in a large open room. He heard voices all around him, some talking, others crying out, an unsynchronized chorus of agony. A white sheet hung from a cord that surrounded his bed on four sides, preventing him from seeing the other patients.

He tried to sit up, but the pain held him down.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts touching places that hurt as much as his body: first, his fellow firefighters—Cole and Selena. Had they made it?

They were in the building.

And the girl from 1107? The doctors who had argued over him had said she would make it. Had she?

Finally, his mind settled on his mother. Was she alive? Safe?