Down World by Rebecca Phelps (beach read TXT) 📗

I realized we were caught and wondered how we would escape from wherever this guard was sure to lead us so we could go back to the lake. But I never had to finish the thought.

A guard from some distance away called to the man who had stopped us, saying something in Russian with a calmness that belied the urgent response he received.

“Carry on,” the guard spat out at us, not even looking back in our direction, before walking over to meet the other man.

I let out a sigh that seemed to originate from somewhere deep inside my gut, and I felt myself shaking. I wasn’t sure if it was fear or hunger, or something in between, but I couldn’t seem to make it stop.

“I’m sorry,” Brady whispered to me. “That was close.”

I stared ahead, trying to control the shaking.

“We’ll finish up here and then we can go. Don’t worry, kiddo.”

I nodded, still staring ahead. I could hear my teeth chattering, even though it wasn’t cold.

Brady put his arm around me, and I could feel the warmth seeping through my shirt.

The line took another forty-five minutes, and Brady kept his arm around me the whole time. I was eventually able to stop shaking, and a numbness took its place. My mind became locked, unable to process any more of this horrible world. It drifted instead to other times, to watching TV with my brother when we were younger. To Kieren’s hand, holding mine at the train station before we left.

The shot didn’t hurt. I could barely feel it, in fact. I waited calmly while Brady got his. Nobody spoke. The nurse didn’t even look at us.

Once we were done, it was clear that we were free to go, as those in line before us had been. We started walking away from the school, back down the road to the diner. It was fully dark now, and streetlights cast a cold yellow glare onto the tops of our heads.

A few people shuffled past, not paying us any mind.

“What time do you think it is?” I asked, not knowing how much longer I could go without food.

“There was a clock in the diner,” he said. “We’ll go peek in the window, then find a place to wait until midnight.”

“Okay.” I was too weak to offer any alternative. I felt I had no more great ideas. It had been my plan to come here, and so far it had been a disaster. And now we both had some kind of vaccine coursing through our veins—to prevent what, I had no idea.

Brady led me to the diner and looked in the window.

“It’s almost eight,” he said. “Come here, let’s try something.”

I walked with him around the building, down the alley, to the dumpster behind it.

“Bingo.”

“What’s that?” I asked, suddenly having to sit down. I found a couple of crates and pushed them together, letting my body plop down on one of them.

“I used to work in a restaurant. We’d put the day-old rolls and stuff out in the back for whoever wanted them.”

He came and sat down next to me, a large grocery bag full of old bread in his hands.

I had to admit, I was a little put off by the idea that the bag had been on the dirty ground, but I was so hungry at that point that the thought quickly disintegrated.

“Sorry it’s not more.”

“I don’t even care. I’m about to pass out.”

We reached into the bag and devoured about three rolls each.

“Better?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said, feeling very calm and very sleepy. And then out of nowhere, my stomach cramped up into a horrible knot. “Oh God.” I leaped off the crate and looked for a more private corner in which to throw up. I held my hair back, falling down onto my knees and letting it all go.

I tried to sit up, and Brady came and sat next to me, taking my hair out of my hand and holding it back for me. Another wave hit me with no warning, and I had to lean over and throw up again.

I sat back from the disgusting mess, panting, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, overcome by a flash of heat.

“Slowly, slowly,” Brady said. “Just let it all go.”

“That’s so gross,” I said, pulling my shirt away from my neck. The heat was still creeping up my face, but I also felt infinitely better. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, please, that was nothing,” Brady said, letting himself laugh. “Piper and I once got into her mom’s wine coolers and she threw up for about two hours. Now that was gross. I mean, it got everywhere. And it was pink.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, feeling slightly better.

“And her mom was asleep in the next room, so we couldn’t make any noise. Two hours of silent pink puking. Needless to say, I don’t drink anymore.”

Brady helped me back to the crates, and I sat for a moment with my head between my legs while he put one of his cool hands on my forehead.

“You must have eaten a bad roll or something,” he continued.

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling a throbbing in my arm where the shot had gone in. “Does your arm hurt?”

“No.”

“Brady, what was in those shots?”

“Nothing,” he said, again sounding so confident that I couldn’t help but believe him. “Don’t worry about that.”

But I continued to rub my arm, feeling a hot sting emanating from the injection point.

“In the morning, her mom found the empty bottles,” Brady said, continuing his story as he kept his hand on my forehead. “I thought she was going to kill me.” His voice sounded far away, and I could tell he was back in that room with Piper.

“You’ll get her back,” I promised him. “This isn’t over.”

He didn’t say anything. I leaned my forehead against his arm, my body racked by a deep exhaustion. And the last thing I felt before drifting off to sleep was Brady