But she wasn’t sad. Death isn’t so scary, she thought as the ceiling blurred and everything around her went white.

CHAPTER SIX

Water poured out of her in a rush. She vomited pure liquid and it escaped her involuntarily and seeped out onto the tiled floor, pooling beneath her already wet clothes. Her lungs seared with sharp, shooting pain and her throat burned as the water fled from her. No matter what, she couldn’t stop herself from coughing and choking. Snot streamed down her nose and her wet hair lay in a tangled mass.

She was on her side; her shoulder bone rested on a groove, she tried to shift away, but everything hurt.

“We have to get her to the medic pod.”

“Gordy…” Blair’s voice was whiny and afraid.

The young man spun, one hand still resting on Lucy’s back. “That entitled whimpering might work with dad, but not with me. Are you out of your small, ridiculous, mind?”

“Don’t lecture me. Not now. You don’t think I know how bad this is?”

“Call the hospital on Floor F. Get the medic pod to get a room for her. Do it now.” He pointed at the door, but Blair didn’t move. He muttered imbecile underneath his breath.

“What about the boy, Gordy? He’s a survivor.” She spat the word like it was poison.

“Leave the boy. He’s not our concern right now.

“Grant—” Lucy said, and then she coughed, more water dribbling down her chin and to the floor; she thought she tasted something metallic and rusty. She thought of Grant and then to the pain in her chest and then back to Grant. She felt panic, like bile, gurgling up her throat.

“He’s fine. Just sitting in the tank,” the man named Gordy answered Lucy, but he didn’t even glance down at her. His hand on her shoulder felt mechanical, rigid. He had saved her, this Lucy knew. His face was the face she saw first when she was pulled from the abyss, and she focused in on his crystal blue eyes, the stubble on his chin. She had been in a place of peace, a place absent of pain, and then she felt drawn back—there was the sensation of touch: wetness, roughness, sharpness. Then she saw Gordy’s face and had the uncontrollable urge to vomit.

Whatever peace found her in those moments in the tank were gone. For a second, she wished he had just let her die.

She went to wipe her mouth, but her hand felt weighted down to the floor.

Lucy coughed again. And again.

“Get her up,” Gordy commanded.

“Get the guards to do it. They can say they found her.”

“You think they’re going to take the blame for this?”

Blair was quiet.

“Gordy, please—” she whispered. “Dad—”

“You better hope the girl lives. If she dies, Dad will never forgive you. Breaking the rules is one thing, but murder Blair. Murder?”

Blair scowled and climbed off the ground of the tank. “That’s rich, Gordy. That’s hilarious,” she seethed and pointed at him. “Maybe Dad will only love me if I murder seven billion people. God forbid I tank one person.”

Gordy shot up off the ground and walked right up to his sister; he leaned down over her and backed her up against a wall. His movement was quick, deliberate, and Blair didn’t have time to maneuver away from him. She cowered as he pressed his hand against her shoulder. “Don’t you ever say anything like that ever again or I will tank you. The Kings are members. And you know that it’s different. You know it, Blair. Call the medics.”

“Even you didn’t think they should be allowed to stay,” Blair challenged in a small voice. “Don’t get all high and mighty now…you wanted them dead once. You didn’t trust Scott. Remember that O-Mighty-One?”

Gordy gave Blair’s shoulder a second push into the cement wall and then walked away from her, leaving Blair to rub her shoulder. Her chin quivered.

Lucy coughed and coughed; she gasped for breath. She wanted to shout at them to shut up; she wanted to tell them she was in pain.

“It’s done. The decision was made long before and it’s done. Call the medics, Blair. Or I’ll have the guards tank you and bury you in the Sand Hills.”

“Gordy—”

“Call the Goddamn medics!”

Blair bristled and huffed, and then sauntered out with her fear disguised with defiance. But Gordy—who was her father’s age, somewhere in his early forties, maybe younger, but not by much—now leaned over her, his eyes narrowed, his face still. He opened his mouth to address her and then shook his head, thinking better of it.

“I’m sorry,” was what he finally said and Lucy looked at him.

“Where am I?” she asked. It hurt to speak. She coughed and leaned over the tile flooring.

“There are many ways to answer that—”

“I want to see Grant,” she demanded, pushing the words out through the ache.

“It’s difficult to explain, but Grant is not a member. It’s not as simple as just letting him out of the tank. He has no family here.”

Lucy shook her head. “He’s my family. A brother.”

Gordy smiled, not unkindly. He exhaled out his nose and patted her on the shoulder. “That’s a sweet sentiment and I’m sure it’s served you well these past weeks. But the System doesn’t work like that.”

“What system?”

“The System. This place. Where you are now…”

“My family?”

“Is here.”

“I need to see them—” Lucy started to push herself up from the floor, her knees wobbled underneath and her hands slipped against the wet tile.

“Easy, easy,” Gordy hummed and kept his hand trained on her.

“Take me to them now,” she demanded and as her tone challenged him, she couldn’t help but feel like Gordy was amused by her; it was like she was a four-year-old demanding an extra cookie and he was entertained by the suggestion.

“Lucy King, you are like your mother, aren’t you?” Gordy laughed at this. His own private joke.

The mention of her mother sent an icy trickle down Lucy’s spine. “I need her. Is she here? Please,” Lucy begged, attempting a different tactic.

“In time. There are protocols. They will be alerted of your arrival soon…there are things that need to happen first.”

“No,” Lucy shook her head, and hot tears stung her cheeks. “That’s not fair.”

Gordy didn’t answer. He merely looked at her, his eyebrows raised, expecting her to see the error in her logic so he didn’t have to state the obvious.

They were both saved when two men and a woman, in blue jeans, t-shirts and lab coats, entered the side room and waltzed through the door into the tank, eyeing Lucy with confusion and clinical concern.

One of the men knelt down to get a closer look. His eyes were kind and comforting, and Lucy felt her tension melt away—she hadn’t realized how tense Gordy and Blair had made her feel until the others arrived. For the first time since they set foot in Brixton, Lucy felt like someone might take care of her—someone might show her kindness.

“How much water did she intake?” the man asked Gordy, but he kept his eyes on Lucy.

“I can’t guess that…she puked up like a liter? She wasn’t breathing. But we got to her fast. I got to her fast, I should say.”

“We’ll get her up to the medic pod to observe her,” a second man answered.

“Is her questioning over? Why the change of heart?” the woman asked. She was chewing on a piece of bubble gum and it snapped loudly, echoing inside the tank.

Gordy laughed. “Oh, so my sister failed to communicate the most important piece of this whole mess.” He paused for dramatic effect and pointed a deliberate finger at Lucy’s soaked and disheveled state. “This is Lucy King.” He waited again and then added, “Scott’s daughter.”

The woman gasped and brought her hand up over her mouth. “No,” she said between her fingers.