Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
The Extraction
My heart plummets.
The woken ranger rises to his feet, towering above Zeke, lying still on the floor.
I slap my hand to my belt, pulling out a tranquilliser as I leap onto the bed.
The man has already turned to face me, his fist plummeting towards my head, while I now match his height.
I yank myself back, taking a glancing blow to the side of my head.
The ringing tunnels through my ears, causing me to blink as I right myself.
He’s big, but he’s slow. Before he can go in for another punch, I throw my clenched fist into his throat, catching his windpipe, and he clutches his neck, choking for air.
His arms reach out to resist mine as I push from above, putting all my weight against his defensive press.
The space between his neck and the tip of the shot shrinks with our shaky fight, and with a slip of his grip, the syringe plunges into his neck.
With the confirming click of the needle, he stills, and I pant above him.
He slows, struggling to hold onto consciousness.
I prepare to grab a second shot as he thuds to his knees, weakly coughing before folding over the bed.
For a moment, there’s nothing but the pounding of my heart before I spring into action. I pull the alarm from his belt as I whip past him, skidding onto my knees. “Zeke? Zeke, are you okay?!”
He mumbles incoherently, reaching to the back of his head, as if I’ve woken him from sleep. I lift his balaclava away, pulling a flashlight from my belt while I roll him onto his side.
His voice is slow as he says, “Hey. Hey… I’m okay.”
His dark hair seems damp with sweat, but when I shine the light upon his head, his parted hair is wet with blood, glistening across his scalp. He waves to shoo me away, but I can’t help but snap.
“Zeke, stop! You’ve busted your head open. Can you sit up?”
He scoffs dismissively. “Sit up? Of course I can sit up.”
I lift my balaclava away, trying to get a better look.
The blood barely trickles. It might have even stopped, but I’m more worried about the blow to his head.
I felt it in the core of my chest, like a small firework, popping with panic.
I go to his face, blaring the flashlight into his eyes, and they slam shut.
“You hit your head badly, Zeke. Do you feel okay?” I hold the back of my palm against his clammy brow.
He grows frustrated with my fussing. “Listen, I’m fine. He caught me off guard. He’s hurt my pride more than anything.” His own blood-tipped fingers glitter before his face in the fluorescent light from the hallway.
“Okay. Well, do you think you can stand?”
“How about this?” He rocks onto his back and leaps to his feet flawlessly.
I shake my head, wishing he would lie back down and rest for a moment.
A shadow catches the hallway light, startling me, but it’s only Leon’s silhouette.
“Three down in here. Zeke hit his head,” I say as Zeke snatches his balaclava from my grip.
“I’m fine,” he whispers loudly towards Leon. “I’m fine!”
He tugs his balaclava back on, and I reluctantly pull mine back down, releasing a frustrated huff as I follow him into the hallway with Atlas and Leon.
Atlas gestures with a nod. “They’re in the last two rooms.”
I observe Zeke, hoping the noise of his head hitting the iron bedframe sounded worse that it is, when Kris and Ren emerge.
“Another two,” Kris confirms as we patiently await Roscoe and Malcolm.
When they finally join us, we add up the sedated so far, leaving us with five more rangers and a sergeant to deal with in the next zone.
A set of double doors stands at the end of the hallway, which leads to the confined living quarters for the women.
It’s an open space with white tile floors and walls, so sterile, with only leafy potted plants adding a pop of colour.
There are no windows to the outside world, other than the skylights obscured with algae, while every room has an interior window, eliminating any privacy.
They really went all out when designing a space to suit the hospital-prison ambiance without pretending it was anything else.
I peek through the window in the door, and a pair of staircases on either side of the room lead up to another floor, with a command post. Like a free-standing office, it is slightly raised, with high, narrow windows spanning its white walls.
They’ll be purely for daylight, since they rely heavily on the surveillance monitors throughout the compound.
It looks more like a bunker, something that has been plopped into the middle of this building like an afterthought.
Rex says it’s the likely location of the sergeant, while Malcolm and Roscoe volunteer to do a sweep upstairs.
We’re ordered to clear the downstairs before joining them, and I swallow a lump in my throat at the idea of them unarmed against a gun, but Roscoe leaves no time to worry.
He slides the key card through the console, moving upstairs and out of sight while we head beyond the hall.
Kris and Ren ease into a large room with couches, tables, and walls filled with books, as well as a small, soft children’s play area filled with toys in the corner of the room.
It must be the women’s “education and recreation centre”—a far cry from the extensive selling point of R&R facilities that Beckett boasts of.
We clear the cafeteria as Kris and Ren go outside to check the garden, leaving us with only one last room.
With no windows other than the porthole in the door, Leon stands and peers through.
“No way,” he whispers.
“What?” Atlas asks, pushing him aside to look in. “… Holy shit.”
Zeke and I squeeze before the window to see for ourselves: a room the size of a sports hall. Rows of camp beds host women forced to sleep beneath half-lit fluorescent lights.
I gasp. “There are more than we expected!”
Kris returns and confirms that they just sedated a smoking ranger outside. We follow up the stairs, which are lined with glass doors and rooms so small that I assume they’re offices, before we find my fathers with a couple of neatly bound and sedated rangers lying on the landing.
“There are three in the command post,” Malcolm says. “Beware of the sergeant.”
Voices simper from within while we stand with our backs against the walls on either side of the door. We stay out of sight as Roscoe curls his palm over the handle. He flicks the door open, letting it bang against the wall with a slam, and the rangers groan with fright.
One jumps to his feet. “I swear to God, woman! Get back in your bed!”
He marches to the doorway, and Roscoe gives a solid tug on his arm, pulling him from the opening, while Malcolm expertly plunges a syringe into his neck.
“Owens?” a trepidatious ranger calls from inside.
Two pairs of boots hop from their chairs, creeping towards the door. As they step from the room, Kris and Atlas tackle them, sweeping them from the doorway. I count the red stripes on their uniforms. Still no sergeant.
Like the drums of war, purposeful steps pound against the floor, and a fist rises from the doorway gripping a gun, aiming at the first man before him: Malcolm.
Roscoe lifts his boot, launching a kick at the ranger, but the ranger’s arm holds strong.
I pull my baton and slam it beneath his raised arm.
The ranger flinches as he fires. The bullet shoots into the tiled wall behind us, which shatters like thunder, forked cracks flashing across its surface.
Leon jumps in, trying to wrestle the gun from his tight grasp, when the ranger removes his baton and slams it onto the back of Leon’s legs, crumpling him to the floor with a yelp.
I’m yanked from behind and fall to the floor—Ren.
He steps over me as the ranger raises his gun again.
I scramble to my knees, but the sergeant’s finger moves to squeeze the trigger.
I plant a syringe into his groin, and he falters, but the shot still fires.
I track the gun’s aim, and there stands Ren.
His head looks down at his shoulder, while his fingers reach towards it.
I jump to my feet, and as he sways, Zeke sweeps in behind him.
He’s propped between us as the gun slides past my feet while Leon and Malcolm wrestle with the rapidly tiring sergeant.
“Sit down, buddy,” Zeke says to Ren, helping lower him to the floor with me.
“He shot me,” Ren says, clear and calm. His gaze flickers between me and his shoulder.
I yank off his balaclava, unfasten his jacket, and expose the wound.
On his bare skin sits a perfect circle, eclipsed by blood gently pumping from the wound and trickling down his chest. I pull the rest of the suit away and lift my balaclava up before pulling gauze from my pockets and pressing it atop his wound.
Ren’s calmness dissipates as the gauze turns ruby and thick within seconds, sending his bottom lip trembling.
His fingers lift to meet my face, gently touching my cheek.
I gulp before I speak. “You’re an idiot. What were you thinking?!”
He shakes his head, his lips stuttering, but I sweep my hand over his hair and press my forehead against his.
“Everlee… I…”
“Don’t.” I pull away. “You’re going to be okay. The doc will fix you up, but we’d best not tell your mom, or we’ll all be in trouble.”
He lets out a light laugh, reaching for my cheek again, and I allow it as long as it keeps him calm.