The Last Moments of Amberly Schreave
I look up at the raised platform where Maxon sits with Kriss and America, and I have to remind myself to be happy no matter how this turns out. I've promised myself throughout the Selection that I wouldn't pick a favorite, wouldn't let myself be disappointed.
I should really stop lying to myself, I think with a small smile. I thought Maxon's choice would be obvious, but he has only talked to Kriss this whole time. Lately he's been positively radiant whenever America is around, but something seems to have changed between them. America is putting on a great act, but I have been through the Selection before. I see cameras every day, have to put on a show. I know what a fake smile looks like. And America is close to tears.
Before I have time to think more about this, I notice most of the guards removing red fabric from their pockets and tying it around their foreheads. Looking around, I see that Clarkson, Maxon, and Kriss are oblivious to the change, and America and Adele seem just as confused as I am. Until one of the red-marked guards walks behind Celeste and puts a bullet through the back of her head.
The room immediately erupts into chaos, full of shouts, screams, gunfire, and smoke, the red-marked killing so many. Clarkson pulls me away, into an empty corner, and I survey the room. I see Adele running with her children. I squint to see through the haze of gun smoke, and only count three children. No. Where are the others? I can't think about it. I continue looking. I can't see Maxon, Kriss, or America. Wait. A guard, ours, not one of the red-marked, carries a fainted Kriss past us. Seconds later, the guard reappears, no longer carrying Kriss, running back into the smoke. I hope she made it to a safe room. I hear a voice yell,
"I got him! Someone go find the king!"
No. Maxon! My baby! No, I tell myself, He's not dead. He can't be dead. I take deep breaths, trying to get myself under control, but then I see a blur of red out of the corner of my eye. I whirl around just in time to see a red-banded guard aiming at Clarkson's back. He shoots, and I don't think, just run as fast as I can, throw myself through the air, in front of the bullet. I feel it thud into my chest, and when I touch the spot, my hand comes away red. But it's okay. Now Clarkson can get away, can live. The shot will have alerted the loyal guards; they will protect him. I mentally picture Clarkson and Maxon, and I keep the picture there, hold it, as the world around me fades into black.