Robison Wells - Variant

“Not coming.”

We hit the door, only to find it locked, and our chips wouldn’t open it.

“Get back,” Curtis ordered, and then kicked. It held firm.

He kicked again, his foot hitting right next to the doorknob. There was a splintering sound.

“Come on, Hector,” he said. “One, two, three—”

They both kicked, and the door flung wide open with a sharp crack.

There were thirteen of us—eight V’s and five from Havoc—and we charged down the stairs. We were completely outnumbered and outgunned. The doors were locked and we didn’t have any supplies to hike out, if we could even get over the wall.

I called Becky on the radio while we ran. “Where are you?”

There was no answer.

“Becky,” I shouted. “Where are you?”

“Basement,” Curtis said, breathing heavily. “If they’re trying to save Rosa, they’ll be in the basement.”

We hit the first-floor foyer. A few students—Havoc girls—stood against the wall, watching, and Oakland barked at them to follow us. The polished marble was slick, and I slid as I rounded the corner, running for the stairwell to the basement.

“There are three different ways down,” Curtis said. “We won’t get cornered.”

I knew that was optimistic. They’d have the high ground, and whether they were armed with paintball guns or pepper spray or just clubs, it would be a nightmare getting out.

We skidded around another corner, ready to jump down the stairs, only to find the girls standing at the top.

Becky was seething, her eyes red but dry. “She’s gone. We were too late.”

“What?”

Carrie ran forward and grabbed Curtis in a hug.

“What can we do?” I asked. We’d failed.

“Nothing,” Becky said. “There’s no button like on an elevator. You just put her in, and the school takes her. The room is empty.”

Everyone stood, stunned and silent. Only the distant sound of the pursuing Society guys shook us back to life.

“Where are Isaiah’s girls?” Oakland asked.

“Still down there,” Gabby answered. There were a few Havoc girls here, but Mouse wasn’t one of them. She must not have come.

“We need to go,” Curtis said. “Now.”

“Where are we going?” Anna asked, obviously frightened.

“Over the wall,” he said. “And if you don’t want to, go now. We don’t have time to debate.”

Curtis began running, and we followed. The doors were locked—we knew that—so now we just needed to find the easiest one to break. Curtis seemed to have the same idea I had. He ran for the back of the school, to the door that had been broken earlier that morning.

Isaiah was there ahead of us, his group of thugs spread to each side. They were all splattered with paint on their chests and face, and one had blood dripping from his swollen eye.

There was nothing smug about Isaiah now, who had a massive welt of his own on the side of his neck. His face was red and splotchy, his eyes still watering from the pepper spray.

“Let us out,” I said. “What does it hurt you?”

“What does it hurt me?” he yelled. He was shouting at the group, fiery and animated. “What were things like before Benson showed up? We had parties and dances and went to class. These robots didn’t change that. It was Benson!”

I felt a hand slip into mine. Becky.

“We can go back to that,” Isaiah bellowed, “or you can die. Those are your only choices. Because make no mistake: If you cross that wall, you’re dead. And it has nothing to do with me.”

Oakland stepped forward, and I noticed for the first time that he was holding a long knife—at least twelve inches. It looked like a machete but had to have come from the kitchen.

Isaiah’s eyes were growing increasingly wild. “It’s all about cost and benefit with you people, isn’t it?” he shouted. “You know that some of you will die, but it’s worth it because some are going to live. That’s a stupid, selfish idea. You all plan to be the ones who live. It’s easy to write off the others, because you tell yourself that it won’t be you.”

“You could come with us,” Curtis said, trying to stay calm.

“Or I could stay right here and live!”

I glanced behind us. The Society girls were back there, and they were armed, too.

“Or,” Isaiah screeched, “maybe cost and benefit is the way to go.” From the back of his pants he whipped out a pistol.

A. 38, semiautomatic.

“How many of you do I need to shoot to stop you from leaving? It’ll be fewer than will die out there.”

The hall was dead silent. Finally Curtis spoke. “Where did you get the gun, Isaiah?”

Isaiah swung the pistol around and pointed it at Curtis. “How many V’s have died, Curtis? It seems to happen every week.” He aimed now at Oakland. “How many in Havoc?”

Oakland snarled. “You don’t scare me.”

“That’s the problem!” Isaiah screamed. “You’re staring down the barrel of a gun and you’re not scared! That’s why you idiots get killed. The Society doesn’t get sent to detention. And we don’t die in the forest.”

Curtis took a step forward. “Give me the gun, Isaiah.”

Isaiah stared back. Sweat was dripping down his face.

“No.” He pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed in slow motion, sounding like a thunderclap in the marble hallway. Curtis fell to one knee, clutching his hip, and then slid all the way down to the floor.

Carrie screamed, leaping forward, and then dozens of voices exploded.

Isaiah simply stood there, his arm still outstretched, staring at the growing puddle of blood forming around Curtis. He didn’t move as the thugs behind him slowly moved away. And he didn’t move as Oakland stepped forward and took the pistol from his hand.

We ventured outside slowly and somberly, nearly silent as we crossed the lawn—more than fifty of us now. The sky was growing dark, and puffs of frozen breath rose above us as we moved.

A deer stood on the edge of the woods.

We left Isaiah tied to a radiator, but the dozen or so staunch Society members who stayed with him were probably already untying him.

Not everyone who was with us was armed, either. It was more about time than trust. We only had so many tools from maintenance and groundskeeping. I was carrying my paintball gun and a three-pronged rake. Becky held a pair of pruning shears.

Curtis was nearly unconscious, his arms around two other guys as he hobbled along on his good leg. The bullet passed through his upper thigh—it looked like a clean hole—but he’d lost a lot of blood. Carrie followed right behind. We wanted to take Curtis on the back of a four-wheeler, but none of them would start. One of the Society’s former guards said that they only ever started for certain people—people Isaiah designated.

Despite his condition, Curtis had the pistol. The wound had proven one thing all too plainly to everyone who tried to help him. He was human. They’d seen inches of bloodied muscle and the white of his femur. He was the only one out of all of us who could prove he wasn’t a robot.

I worried he wouldn’t make it. We had hardly any medical supplies and no expertise to apply them. He was bandaged and given pain meds, and that was it. We didn’t even have any antibiotics. I’d heard that Anna had rubbed hand sanitizer onto the wound.

We stared into the forest around us, watching for signs of trouble. It could come from anywhere in that dark forest. It could even come from the middle of our group, if anyone else turned out to be a robot. Would they have a gun, like Isaiah?

Becky held a small battery-powered reading light, but it only lit up the ground directly in front of us.

“What are you going to do?” Becky asked. “You know, when we get away.”