The Immune

29. Greeting Death

Five meals later, the door opens again. This time, I'm sitting with my legs crossed in front of me, facing the door. My back rests straight against the wall.

Two guards enter, holding a pair of cuffs.

"Is it time?" I ask, looking up at faces I don't recognize. Neither of them look even the tiniest bit sympathetic. One nods, and I push myself up off the floor.

There's no point in fighting it. I can't run, can't escape. Not this time. At least when I die there's a chance Isaac and I can be together again, wherever we end up in the afterlife.

The male guard grabs by shoulder, spins me around, and slams me face first into the wall. As I gasp for breath, he cuffs my hands together and wrenches me back upright.

"You don't have to be so rough," I say with a glare. "I'm not resisting."

As a reply, he flicks me in the back of the head. I flinch but turn back around. He shoves me out into the hall, despite the fact that I'm still trying to get my feet situated under myself.

Identical silver doors line each side of the hallway. Each has a number painted on it in white. As we walk by, I lean towards them and listen. Sometimes, the poor person locked inside the door will scream or beat on the door. The entire scene reminds me too much of the neighborhood in Dunlap— except these aren't Infected, and they don't deserve to be locked up.

Pushing the thought away, I focus on walking, or rather trying not to trip as I'm led down the stairwell to the first floor. The female guard leads us with the unnecessarily rough male one behind me, holding my cuffs. A receptionist sits up as we cross the lobby, eyeing me with curiosity. We went to school together. Did she see this coming?

As we approach the front doors, the female guard waves at her, and she pushes a button on the desk. The glass slides open, cold air rushing in.

The front steps have been cleared. Now, a metal rod sticks up from a hole that was once just a place for someone to stub their toe. A metal loop hangs from near the bottom of the pole. I recognize the scene from the first execution I witnessed. Even the tents that once cluttered the yard have been moved. Hartley made room for an audience.

"What day is it?" I ask as I'm pushed down onto my knees. Snow dusts the concrete steps.

"Mid-December." The female guard leans down to attach my cuffs to the loop. I grimace and twist my body so that I'm sitting on my feet instead of hurting my knees. My feet will go numb in a matter of minutes, but this wasn't designed to be comfortable.

"Happy late birthday to me," I mumble, looking up at the sky. It's pretty early in the morning, maybe eight or nine. There's a soft chill in the air— enough to make me shiver but not turn blue.

Neither of the guards acknowledge that I said something. They nod to one another, and then, the female goes back into the building.

"You'll wait here," the other says, like I have a choice. "You're scheduled for the firing squad at six-fifteen tonight, right after work dismisses. It's still early, but Hartley says you have to sit out in the cold for a few hours so people can see you."

I look up at him. My breath spirals in the almost-Winter air.

"Can I ask you some questions?" He rolls his eyes in annoyance but nods. "How often did they feed me?"

"Once a day."

I do a quick count. If I remember right, I was in that room for almost three weeks.

"Who will be in the firing squad?" I continue.

"I don't know." He shrugs. "It doesn't really matter, so long as they do their job. Is that it?"