The old factory was a square building with no windows except at the very top, the panes cracked and broken. Very dim lighting came from within, so weak I wondered if it was a trick on the eyes. The tall, wooden door was secured with a large but cheap padlock. Didn’t take me more than a minute to pick it; the lock gave with a loud click. Victor, Arun, and I looked at each other, and I eased the door open.
The scene that greeted us infuriated me and made me want to retch at the same time. At least fifty people were crammed into the warehouse, lying on the concrete ground with nothing more than thin blankets. The government couldn’t even be bothered to provide cots, because I suppose they were expecting all of them to die. Moans, coughs, and weeping echoed through the empty warehouse. I couldn’t smell anything with my respirator on, but I saw enough vomit and urine on the floor, and dirty bodies glistening with fever sweat to imagine what it must be like.
Arun turned on a powerful lamp and was greeted by cries of alarm and hoarse voices begging for help. The sick ranged in all ages, although I saw more lined faces and heads covered in gray among them. At least eight were children, many curled up on their sides, faces flushed with fever. I gagged, fighting down nausea.
It was obvious that everyone who had been left here was poor and homeless, without family or friends to speak up for them, to demand they be treated as human beings, not like rabid dogs thrown into a cage to die.
Victor cursed.
“Let’s get to work,” Arun said, his voice cracking.
He demonstrated the best way to inject the antidote into the forearm. We made quick work of it through the ranks. A few tried to protest, asking in fear what we were doing, unable to believe that we were trying to help—not giving a lethal injection to kill them. After what they’d gone through, I didn’t blame them. I gave as many reassurances as I could, but in the end, they were too weak to fight us off. We were done in an hour and left for the next stop.
Within fifteen minutes, we pulled up to a second warehouse. This was an abandoned clothing manufacturing company, and we had to navigate between dusty sewing machine stations to reach another forty meis locked inside. While Victor and Arun were unloading water jugs to leave behind for those who might recover, I removed my gloves and checked my Vox for any messages or news.
The undernet was on fire tonight with sightings of three men outside one of the holding pens. They are not dressed like the others who push the people in and bring out the bodies to burn, one informant reported. Saw one pick lock to break in, another poster added. Me, I thought. This was followed by a flurry of speculation as to who the people were and what they were up to. Someone was curious enough to investigate. An hour later, another post: they were in there for a while. taller guy came out and i got a glimpse inside when he held the door open. looks like they are injecting people with something.
The discussion erupted into more frenzied hypothesizing and conspiracy theories. Most agreed that we were there to kill the sick, to try and curtail the virus. I didn’t know what this meant for our operation, but the answer came soon enough. Victor shouted one word of warning from outside. I peered from behind the old wooden door just as three men stepped from a black sedan that had pulled up behind our van. They were dressed in black suits, hiding multiple weapons, I was certain.
Crap.
I was only carrying one knife on me tonight.
“We’re not looking for any help,” Arun said. Even behind his respirator, I could tell his chin was jutted out.
Without listening for more, I sprinted to the small emergency exit door on the opposite end of the floor, praying it wasn’t jammed or would somehow set off the alarm in the derelict building. It resisted, but finally creaked open with a low whine. The men were facing Arun and Victor, stances tense, their necks thrust forward. A red taser glowed brightly in the hand of one of the thugs, and he waved it aggressively, ready to fire.
I crept out, easing the emergency door shut noiselessly behind me. The street was dark, lending cover as I circled around to the back of the men and ran toward the group, their loud arguing drowning my quick footsteps. I palmed my knife into my right hand, but it was too risky to cast it—the man with the taser might fire anyway; I’d also lose my sole weapon.
So I did the only thing I could and hurled myself into him at full speed, slamming him to the ground, away from my friends. He grunted, arm flung outward, and the taser crackled. He could kill me in an instant.
Cursing, he thrust the taser upward. Instinctively, I stabbed his arm, the sharp blade hitting bone. Crying out, he buckled under me and dropped the taser. I pinned his arm to the ground with one hand and wrapped my other around his throat. “Who do you work for?”
He sputtered, his features twisted with hatred and tried to throw me off, but I had my knees planted on either side of him and shoved harder on his windpipe, squeezing. His eyes bulged.
“Answer me,” I said.
“Zhou!” Arun called from behind.
I looked toward Arun, and four more men had emerged from another black sedan. Seven in all now. We were outnumbered.
Victor had pulled Arun back, a hand clasped on his shoulder. But everyone’s attention seemed to be on me.
“I’ll kill him,” I said, voice muffled behind my respirator.
There was no sound except for the ragged breathing of the man pinned beneath me.
“Kill him, then,” one of the thugs said. “But you’re coming with us.”
I recognized him even in the dim streetlight: Da Ge, Jin’s right-hand man.
I lunged for the dropped taser, still crackling a lethal red, and fired. All the men fell to the ground, avoiding the laser that arced over them. “Run,” I shouted at my friends. They ran, Vic pulling Arun by the arm.
Da Ge and another man were scrambling to their feet, and I fired the taser again. Da Ge dodged, lightning quick in his reflexes. The other guy wasn’t so lucky. I shot and tagged him square in the chest. He dropped instantly, convulsing on the ground. Victor and Arun disappeared into a dark alley. It had given my friends enough time—
I didn’t finish the thought as I felt a sharp prick on my exposed wrist. The man under me had jabbed me with a syringe. “Sweet dreams, asshole,” he said as the world went black around me.
? ? ?
I struggled to consciousness, my head heavy as stone, temples pounding. My mouth had been stuffed with a rag, and my throat worked, parched. Slowly, I opened my eyes. They felt swollen; my vision blurred. I had been thrown into some storage room. Boxes and old machinery were crammed against the walls. The thugs had tied me to a metal chair, bound my hands behind my back and my ankles together with rope. My limbs were numb, and I tried to rotate my shoulders. Pinpricks, then sharp pain flared in my joints and arms.