They pulled the bag off Lucy’s head and tossed her into a small room. The front wall was pure glass from floor to ceiling. Lucy walked up and put her hands on the glass and started pounding, but the attempt was futile—the guards had dumped her and left; they separated her from Grant, shoved her into this room, and left her alone.
The walls of the cell were solid cement and the ground was tile; a mish-mash of colors and shapes—like a mosaic of samples from a home improvement store. Lucy noticed that the ground was wet, as if someone had recently hosed down the whole room, and she shivered at the thought. With her imagination running wild, Lucy began to call for help more fervently.
“Please! Help me!” she screamed, until her throat felt raw.
She stopped mid-scream as a metal door swung open in the opposite room and the blonde woman appeared. In the time between seeing her on the road in Brixton and now, the girl they called Blair had changed out of her jogging outfit and into something simpler: tan pants and a white shirt. Her hair had been let loose from its ponytail, and she had even applied a fresh layer of mascara. She was twenty-something, petite, and strikingly beautiful—but even from her position inside her glass cage, Lucy could see the dark circles under her eyes.
Lucy let her hands fall to her side and she watched as the young woman marched across the bare room and straight up to the glass. A guard followed behind her—maybe even one of the men from the elevator—but Lucy wasn’t sure, and he hit a button near the door, activating a speaker system.
“Do you know where you are?” Blair asked, her voice pouring into the cement room from the ceiling.
Lucy shook her head. Then she answered the only thing she knew for certain, “I’m in Brixton, Nebraska.”
Blair fanned her hand out in front of herself. “Do you know what
this
is?” and then she crossed her arms and waited, tapping her index fingers against her elbows, her mouth drawn into a tight frown.
“An underground jail?” Lucy guessed. She looked around the cement walls again and the wet floor. When she looked up, Blair was looking straight at her—assessing her with a pained expression.
“Not exactly,” she replied. She uncrossed her arms and ran a hand across her hair, smoothing it neatly into place. “Look. I know this is all confusing, but I need you to think. I need to know. It’s imperative that I know.”
“Know what?” Lucy asked.
“Tell me why you came to Brixton. How did you and the boy know to come here?”
Grant. Lucy took a step forward, “I won’t answer anything until you let me be with him. Where is my friend? Where did you take him?”
“Why did you come here?”
“Tell me where you took him!”
“How did you know this place existed?” the young woman yelled and she tore forward and pounded her hands against the glass, her mouth contorted into a sneer, her eyes narrowed in fury.
Scared by the sudden outburst, Lucy walked backward until she felt the cool cement against her back. Then she closed her eyes and willed the girl away; she felt so exposed and raw. There was nowhere to hide in the room, and the glass displayed her every move. She didn’t know how to play this game—should she tell her about her father? Keep his name to herself? Which option would grant her grace? Lucy didn’t know and she was terrified to misstep. She wished for counsel, but knew she’d find none.
“Please,” Blair said, her tone shifting from anger to pleading. “Are any more of you coming?”
“More what? More people?” Lucy opened her eyes and she opened her mouth in surprise. “Because there are so many more people
alive
? Have you been living in this hole in the ground for
years
? Don’t you know what’s gone on out there?” Her voice began to rise, there was a tremor in it, and she felt her face go crimson.
Her angry retort caused Blair to bristle. Blair leaned closer to the glass, crossing and uncrossing her arms. “I am more than aware. It’s just—” she stopped, drew in a breath, then let it out with a single sigh. Her bottom lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears, she looked at Lucy and shook her head. “You don’t understand. This has nothing to do with you. I’m so sorry. I never wanted it to be like this. But…you don’t understand.”
Blair’s tears seemed genuine, and she was right: Lucy didn’t understand. As interrogations went, her captor seemed particularly bad at it.
“Just let me go,” Lucy tried. “My friend and I can go quietly.” It was a lie. And one that was wholly see-through. She would not leave without news of her family. Had they met a similar fate?
This time Blair didn’t even reply. Instead she simply dropped her head, closed her eyes, and mumbled something incoherent under her breath. Then without a word she walked over to a keypad by the door. With swift keystrokes, she entered a code. And then flipped open a plastic case next to the keypad. She turned and took one more look at Lucy and then closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, and then pushed the button.
At first nothing happened.
But after a long delay, Lucy could hear the rumble on the other side of the walls. Then several round holes opened up at the top of the wall—Lucy hadn’t noticed them before, circles the size of coffee can lids—and water began to pour out of them, like a waterfall, cascading to the floor below. One metal cover slid open and then another, until six or eight spouts appeared, all dumping lukewarm water into the room.
It wasn’t until the water began to collect and rise, covering Lucy’s sneakers and climbing up her leg, that she realized what was happening and what would happen next. Sloshing forward, the water splashing around her, Lucy pushed herself to the glass. She pounded with wild abandon and called out.
“Please!” Lucy begged. “Please!”
The young woman lowered her head. Regret, guilt, it flashed across her face, but she didn’t move to stop the water.
“No. You can’t do this. I’m here for my father! My name is Lucy King. I came because of my dad! My father is Scott—” Lucy stopped; the water had reached her mid-thigh, it was creeping upward toward her waist. She regarded the rising liquid and forced herself to remain calm. “My dad is Scott King. He sent me here. He wrote the coordinates in the back of a book and told me that if anything happened that I should come here. I’m here! Please! Stop the water! Please!”
Her words stopped Blair from moving; she froze and lifted her head, she squinted her eyes and looked straight at Lucy, her breath rising and falling in quick bursts. She took three small steps forward and lifted a finger to Lucy, pointing at her, her mouth falling open.
“Lucy?”
“I’m Lucy!” she screamed. And she smiled. Recognition had danced across the young woman’s face. “Yes, yes! I’m Lucy King.”
“And the boy next door is Ethan?” Blair pointed to the left wall—indicating that Grant was on the other side.
Lucy stopped.
The water was at her waist. Her feet felt like they were weighted with lead.
The girl knew them. Knew who they were. She knew Ethan’s name; it had rolled off her tongue with ease.
Smiling, certain of her safety, Lucy shook her head. “No. My brother is still in Oregon. He’s injured. I need to get him help. Please, can you take me to my father?”
“Wait…that boy…was
he
vaccinated?” the girl took another step toward the glass, her brows knit with confusion and worry.
“He’s a survivor.”
“A survivor? What do you mean a survivor? I don’t understand.”
“He made it past Day Six. He’s immune. Somehow.”
“Immune. No. He survived the outbreak?” She looked even more concerned. Blair stood there with her mouth tight and her body leaning toward the door, itching to leave.
Lucy nodded. Which answer would save her or save him, she wondered.
After a long pause, the water lapped upward across Lucy’s chest, the girl turned. She scrunched up her features and balled her fists.
“I’m so sorry,” she sighed. “Please God, forgive me. I’m so sorry.”
And with that, she turned and ran out of the door, slamming it behind her.
The water was over Lucy’s head now. She had kicked off her sneakers and they sank to the bottom of the room—the tank, she now realized—and kicked her legs and circled her arms, just like her swim teacher taught her. Treading water was never Lucy’s strong suit, but she was too panicked and the water was rising with too much speed for her to float. Her head dipped beneath the surface and she’d pop back up, assessing the ceiling and estimating how much time she had left before she’d run out of breathing room.
Four feet separated her mouth and nose from the top of the tank.
She prayed and when she did, she felt for Salem’s crucifix, still around her neck. The chain stuck to her neck. She had never prayed before the Release, but during her time with Grant she had picked up on his penchant for reaching out to pray in tough moments. It still seemed silly to hope that there was a higher power, but when she had mocked Grant’s go-to response, he had chided her. Grant had said, “How could it hurt?” And it was a question Lucy took to heart.
There wasn’t any time to fully process what was happening: the woman knew her, knew her father, but still left her here to die. Escape seemed elusive, but Lucy was hopeful that there would be a way for Grant to avoid this fate. Her prayers now shifted to him.
Save Grant. God, please save Grant. How cruel for him to be a miracle and then lose his life like this.
There were two feet of air remaining.
Her body rose and bobbed; her head hit the cement above her. She kicked her legs wildly and pushed her hands against the ceiling. Then she swam to a corner and positioned herself between the angles of the walls—one leg bracing against one wall, her other leg bracing against the second wall. She kept losing her grip and sliding down, falling into the crystal clear water, the dry room on the other side of the glass visible through a hazy film.
One foot remaining. The water slid up her neck and toward her chin. The metal holes flooding the water were now completely underwater; still the water poured outward and still the waters rose. There was a flurry of movement on the other side of the glass, but Lucy couldn’t see what was happening from her vantage point. It looked like people entered the room. Two shapes. Lucy ducked her head under the water and swam over to the glass. She held her breath and propelled herself down, then opened her eyes.
Blair was back.
And there was a boy with her.
A man.
A young man. A middle-aged man, maybe.
Lucy couldn’t tell anything else.
She wondered if they were there to watch her die: if somehow her drowning was a spectacle to be witnessed.
But then she noticed that the man had Blair by the arm and they were arguing and Blair tried to pull away, but the boy pushed her toward the glass. For one quick second, Lucy, with her cheeks puffed up with as much air as she could muster, saw Blair’s face on the other side of the glass watching her—like Lucy was a fish at the aquarium. Lucy’s lungs burned and she couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She let her breath escape and giant bubbles formed in front of her and gurgled upward. Then she let her body travel back up to the top; there were only inches left and Lucy tilted her head backward and sucked in more air through her nose, maximizing the last final seconds of breathing.
It happened.
Lucy was fully submerged. All was quiet underwater; and Lucy concentrated on the air in her lungs—willing herself to hold her breath until she couldn’t any longer. She pushed herself down and opened her eyes; the boy and the girl were still fighting and then she saw him hit Blair with an open palm across the face. Her blonde hair flew and she reeled against the force. Blair stumbled backward and touched the spot where his hand had been.
Lucy closed her eyes.
Drowning. What would it feel like?
Soon she would have to breathe. Soon she would need to breathe.
Don’t inhale. Don’t inhale. Don’t inhale
. She commanded herself—Lucy kicked her legs and pounded her fists against the glass. Everything in her chest burned and ached; her brain commanded her to take a breath. She fought it as long as she could. She opened her eyes.
From beyond the glass, Blair was moving toward the plastic box, cradling her cheek.
She pushed a button.
There was a rumbling and a whoosh. The ground of the tank shifted and sunk downward, and it created a gap so the water could drain. Lucy felt herself being pulled to the bottom of the tank, propelled by the force of the water above her seeking an exit. But it was too late, even with hope of escape seconds away; Lucy couldn’t fight it any longer. No matter how hard she struggled against the impulse, her body forced her to expel the air in her lungs. And then, mechanically and instinctually, she breathed in. Water stung her nose and burned her throat, and it settled deep inside her chest like a cool compress on her lungs.
Then the panic set in and Lucy kicked her legs and felt the pain of death in every inch of her body. There was no air, no relief. Her body flailed and rippled with spasms; she tore at her clothes and her chest. In her head, she was screaming, but in reality, she was making no sounds at all.
Her body felt heavy and she couldn’t even find the strength to move; she just let the water travel into her lungs, and she sank to the bottom of the tank—she looked at the mismatched tile beneath her.
The pain subsided, the panic drained from her. She resumed breathing, in and out, and there was a coolness in her body, like she had swallowed an ice cube and could feel it traveling past her lungs and settling in her stomach. But then she realized: she didn’t feel afraid anymore. She just kept trying to fill her lungs with water to feel the cold. Lucy thought she might have smiled as she embraced the calm and the peace of knowing this was the end.
She let herself float now. Her body bobbed. Keeping her eyes trained on the cement above her, Lucy watched the gray ceiling move further away and then her body hit the floor. She closed her eyes and thought of her family—she had come so close and she was sorry that she wouldn’t be able to say goodbye. Her life was not flashing before her eyes but the images of Harper, the twins, Galen and her mom and dad did float past her vision. They would be sad. She hoped they would find comfort.