Page 142 of Juniper Unraveling

The dream from the night before threatens to pull me deeper into grief, as I push through the doors and enter the ante room where I first woke up. I can hear the voices of ghosts all around me, the sounds of the victims ringing over the harsh breaths of the suit, and I tug the respirator from my mouth. Palms flat to the bench, I suck in the stagnant air, counting on the exhale.

“Calm down, Wren. They’re just memories,” I mutter, and head toward the surgical suite. In the dark, I half-heartedly search the refrigerators, cupboards, specimen racks, any place where the antibody would logically be stored. Most vaccines were kept refrigerated, but as I’m certain Papa wouldn’t have opted for anything obvious, I begin to tease the more obscure places and make my way to his office.

The scent of tobacco still lingers on the air, but most of his personal items have been removed. I don’t have much time, and because I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for yet, panic rides my shoulders as I rifle through Papa’s desk, credenza, anything that might speak of the antibody. The worry begins to prod my muscles, and I’m certain the curious glances I met on the way in will soon turn investigative.

In spite of the uneasy feeling stirring in my gut, I pause my searching and force my mind to think. Think.

Lifting my gaze brings the three bibles to my attention, set amongst the medical references. In his personal journal, he spoke of penance as it related to the antibody.

I nab the first bible, flipping through the pages, and set it back on the shelf. Next, I tug the second, and I open it to the center of the book where the pages have been carved into a box, deep enough to hold the skeleton key embedded within.

A verse is highlighted across the page:

For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ, so that each one may be recompensed for his deeds in the body, according to what he has done, whether good or bad–Corinthians 5:10

Judgement Day.

I remove the key from the bible, which I set back on the shelf, and dart through the office to the surgical suite. The Dies Irae plaque still hangs from a hook on the wall, and I lift it away, revealing the hole punched into the tiles behind it. I reach inside and pat around, lifting a dull gray box from the dust and bits of cracked tile. The key fits perfectly, and with one twist, the box pops open to reveal a syringe lying across a folded paper that bears a similar sketch of the antibody diagram I found in Papa’s journal.

Holding it out in front of me, I study the clear fluid inside, tapping the syringe to see that it moves.

It’s odd to me that it wouldn’t be refrigerated, but Papa had long studied heat-stable vaccines that could withstand the lack of electricity here, particularly at night. I slip the vaccine into the satchel strapped across my body inside the suit.

With the syringe in the bag, I secure the respirator back in my mouth and shuffle out of the office. Somehow, I’ll need to get back into Szolen, but hopefully, that’ll be easier than trying to break into this place.

Hang in there, Rhys.

I don’t know if he’s dead, or alive, only that I need to hustle and pray nothing stands in my way.

I push through the double doors and come to a skidding halt.

Four Legion soldiers stand in the middle of the hallway, all of whom have their guns aimed at me.

The one in the middle removes his mask, and my breaths wither along with any hope for escape.

Albert.

Chapter 41

Three bullets. Four guards. It almost sounds like the first line of a joke.

In the silence that fills the space between us, I try to imagine the most efficient use of them, assuming I don’t miss and waste a bullet.

There is no scenario where I survive, however, so I lower the gun to keep them from firing off a shot.

“Remove your mask.” Albert’s arm is steady, his voice unyielding. “Now.”

Three seconds pass. Four. Five. I contemplate the alternatives. Seven. Eight. There’s a door to the left of them, but I’ll never make it. Ten. They’d gun me down before I took the first shot.

What I wouldn’t give for five smooth stones. At least then, I’d stand a chance.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” Albert cracks his neck and lifts his gun higher, aiming somewhere in the neighborhood of my skull.

I peel back the respirator and slip the mask over my head, tossing both of them to the floor.

Albert’s lips stretch to a bastardly smile. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” The lowering of his gun, and the dramatic way he slides it back into its holster, is meant to be an insult, as if I’m not worth the bullet, but mostly I’m just relieved not to be staring down the barrel of it anymore. “Whatever brought you here, Wren?”

Stare locked on him, I don’t bother answering the question.