third chapter
It was easier said than done to locate one guy in a large house filled to the brim with anxious, worried, frightened teenagers. Everybody had put down their drinks and sat huddled on the couches or stood by the windows overlooking the city in the distance. The tension could be sliced with a butter knife, the soft soundtrack of crying and empty attempts at consoling each other making the world seem even more bleak than it already was. Thomas ran into Gally, who by means of shoving and shouting was trying to get people into the basement to hide. The large boy turned around to look at him and stopped dead in his tracks, scanning him up and down with an unusual sympathy in his blue-grey eyes. There was panic in there too, buried underneath years of acting the strong, bad boy in school.
Newt came up beside Thomas. "Minho. You've seen him?" he asked Gally.
Gally thought about it for one second, still taken aback by Thomas's messed up appearance. "Upstairs," he said shortly, then nodded to assure them he was certain. He moved past them and continued to forcefully direct the masses toward the basement.
Thomas headed for the stairs, pushing people aside to reach it faster, Newt trailing him close behind. Thomas tried taking the steps two at a time, but his knees were so weak from the running that he stumbled and hit his shins on the stairs. Newt helped push him upwards, past a couple of girls running the other way. Even though people were moving around in obvious unease, a weird calmness had fallen over the house.
The fire bombs did not hit anywhere near here, Thomas thought. They didn't see it up close. Images of Minho's burning house and the streets littered with shards of glass flashed before his eyes. He blinked hard when sweat ran into his eyes, but the motion only sent a new wave of pain from his eye wound and reminded him of how his world had been screwed over.
The second floor was nearly empty, but the signs of a lively party lay scattered everywhere — empty glasses and half-finished drinks, a jacket and a purse and a phone. Like everyone had just dropped everything in their hands when they realised that the planes flying by were about to set their lives on fire. Two girls were standing by the window in the hallway, holding each other tightly while watching the flames in the dark distance. One was the blonde who had come out of the gym at school earlier, a girl Thomas recognised from art class. The other was Harriet, an admirable, scary-looking chick from his homeroom.
"Sonya," Newt hasted, startling both girls so that they turned around. "Is Minho up here?"
"I'm right here."
Minho came around the corner just then. He stopped and looked around him nervously at Newt and the girls, his entire body on edge and breathing shallow breaths. Then he saw Thomas, and an unreadable mixture of horror and relief came across his face.
"Thomas, what the—"
He never got to finish the sentence. A choir of screams started outside the house, then spread inwards through the crowds downstairs. Newt was at the top of the stairs instantly, looking down to see what was going on. Minho's eyes locked with Thomas's, both boys filling up with fear all over again, silently commanding themselves and each other not to panic.
Gally was yelling at people again, so loud his voice cracked. "Everybody to the basement! Now!"
The five people standing in the upstairs hallway seemed to freeze where they were. The rush of movement downstairs didn't seem to break their fear-induced stupor. Sonya and Harriet looked out the window, Thomas and Minho at each other, Newt at the floor. Time and space slowed down to a halt, but only for a split second.
Then their ears caught the sound slowly approaching — growls like engines on an old truck.
Minho must have seen the color drain from Thomas's face, because his reaction was the strongest. "Downstairs!" he called so loud Thomas's ears started ringing again.
Then Minho proceeded to shove his entire body into Thomas, knocking him backwards into Newt with a force that sent the blond boy tumbling headfirst down the steps. But, as if Minho's cry had broken some kind of lock in his brain, Thomas didn't stop moving. Survival instinct took over, made him blind to pain or fatigue. Newt found his footing in front of him, Minho's hands were behind him, pushing him forward and down. The sounds of the oncoming bomber planes grew louder with each passing second.
Newt stumbled onto the first floor, but stopped dead in his tracks and looked around. He didn't know where the basement was, and although he heard the screams of his school mates from somewhere, he couldn't see anyone. Thomas, Minho and the girls came crashing into his back, but he simply did not know which way to go.
In this short moment of confusion, the growling noises reached its climax, and another, more high-pitched sound took over. Within the next second Minho ran past Newt, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt to make him move, pulling Thomas along by the hand. He knew where the basement was.
Too late.
When Minho came to he expected darkness, but that wasn't what he found. He'd been half awake for some time, concentrating on drawing slow breaths although every movement of his chest felt like a bench pressing session. The air was warm, bordering on hot, on his torso and right arm, while a cool breeze brushed his left arm. A fire crackled not far away, an almost peaceful sound in an otherwise overwhelming silence. He tried to cough, the air heavy with dust and smoke, but there was literally something preventing his chest from rising very far. So he slowly opened his eyes, staring straight up onto a jagged surface where the orange light of fire danced barely half a metre from his face. Then he tried bending his neck to see what was weighing so heavily on his chest.
There was Newt's face resting on his upper right arm, eyes closed and mouth hanging open. Cuts and bloodstains spotted the skin, making his pale face look even whiter. There was a gash about the size of a golf ball just underneath the blond hairline, and his lips looked dry and swollen. It was Newt's body, pressed between Minho's chest and whatever had fallen on top of them, that strained Minho's breathing.
His heart contracted. Newt looked completely and undeniably dead.
"Newt," he said, but it came out as more of a pained grunt between hissing breaths. "Newt."
His throat was bone dry, his tongue feeling like moist sandpaper, but he kept whispering Newt's name. He tried reaching up with his left arm but couldn't move it very far. He lifted his right arm until he found the back of Newt's head and shook him gently to rouse him.
"Come on, Newton, wake up," he breathed, feeling the panic boiling up inside him. Newt wasn't responding at all.
He shook harder, spoke as loud as he could but nothing worked. He held his breath for as long as he could, trying to feel if Newt's chest was moving against his, but he couldn't stop shaking and he needed the air desperately. Whenever he exhaled, the weight of Newt and the debris seemed to come down even more.
He tried something else — he pressed Newt's head down so that his face was buried in Minho's shirt. He was careful not to block off Newt's airways completely, and then he waited. And sure as hell, after a few minutes Minho swore on the Gods that he could feel warmth and moisture through the fabric.
"I knew you wouldn't leave me alone in this screwed up world," Minho sighed, the relief soothing his every muscle.
No longer so afraid, Minho let his head fall back and his strained neck rest for a bit. He used his free arm to stroke Newt's hair and back, hoping that the movement would wake him up sooner or later. Now that Minho relaxed he could actually feel Newt's ribs press against his stomach before slowly rising again. He was alive, and it brought unmeasurable joy to Minho. Now, if he would only wake up.
For a very long time, hours even, Minho lay there struggling to breathe while the heat of the fire slowly intensified. He tested his limbs to make sure he wasn't hurt, and although he couldn't move anything but his right arm and head, he figured he was one lucky bastard. A hard edge — it seemed to be the edge of the what-ever-it-was that lay on top of Newt — pressed against his thighs and it hurt really bad, but nothing seemed broken. Once all self-centred worry wore off, Minho's thoughts quickly settled on Thomas.
He tried calling his name a few times, but the struggle to draw satisfying breaths made it near impossible. Chills went down Minho's spine, sent new waves of crushing worry through him. He hoped for his dear life that Thomas was alive and unharmed, and if not unharmed then at least not dying. And he wished with all his heart that, if he was unconscious like Newt, that Thomas wasn't in danger of being swallowed by the fire that without a doubt was working its way closer and closer to where Minho was lying.
The fire was starting to become a major threat, he realised. The smoke irritated his eyes and throat, and the radiating heat on his right arm was growing more intense. He tried shuffling to his left away from the fire, but it only made breathing harder. Then he figured he might be able to lift the debris off Newt's back with his right arm, but it wouldn't budge even a little.
He was stuck there.
Fear crept up on him, infecting him like a disease. It had been lurking in the back of his mind ever since he'd witnessed the first bombs fall in the distance from Gally Carpenter's window. He had kept it at bay, focusing on simple tasks like sticking close to Newt and looking for his car keys when they found out they were gone. Now, as he was lying in the aftermath of yet another explosion, pinned down and unable to escape, Minho was truly terrified.
I'm not gonna die here, he told himself over and over in his mind, with less confidence every time. He looked down on Newt, still deep in restless slumber, while tears pooled in his eyes. We're not gonna die…
He remembered the seconds before the explosion perfectly, those few moments after the bomb fell but before he hit his head and blacked out. He'd run toward the living room, his hand grasping Thomas's so hard it hurt, his other pulling at Newt's shirt after the blond had stopped beneath the stairs. He remembered the deafening sound and the force of the shockwave as it hurled him backwards. How Thomas's hand had slipped from his grasp.
Why was all this happening? Peace was the name of the game in The West, and there were hardly any military organisation left — it had all been disarmed. Yes, the borders were still heavily fortified, but that had more to do with disputes between The East and The North. Citizens of The West and The East could pass the borders as they wished, allowing people like Newt and his father to move here. Why were they being attacked like this? Terrorism? It sounded so crazy to Minho considering the number of planes he'd seen in the sky. And if it wasn't terrorists or extremists, then who was attacking them?
And what of his family? His parents had been at home when he left for the party, and he didn't know where his brother was. His sister lived on the countryside with her husband, between the city and the border. Had that area been bombed as well?
He couldn't hold it back anymore — the tears that wetted his eyes overflowed, flipping the switch on every emotion he had bottled up. He cried, sobbing uncontrollably although it felt like his chest was about to cave in. And all the while the fires closed in, slowly but surely, its crackling noises sounding like promises of death to his ears. Eventually Minho's strength gave way too, and he fell asleep clutching Newt's hair in his hand.
He was trapped.
Walls. Invisible, impenetrable. Darkness all around. He threw himself against the walls, beating at them with his fists. Hot and cold alternating.
Can't breathe. Have to breathe. The walls closing in. Ceiling coming down, pressing. Have to escape. Breathe.
"Can anyone hear me? Is anyone here? Hello?"
Calling, desperately. Screaming, hearing the sound but feeling like it's not coming from his throat. Smaller and smaller, hotter and hotter. Feeling cold inside.
He dug his nails into the walls like they were made of jelly, but couldn't break through. Walls closing in, swallowing him. No air. His lungs shrunk, smaller and smaller. His ribcage closing in.
Trapped.
Dying.
"Hello? Can you hear me? Over here!"
Calling, less desperately. Trapped, but not alone.
There was somebody there with him.
Minho's eyes shot wide open and he drew a sharp, deep breath. It almost hurt the way his chest suddenly rose freely, and his muscles kept expanding although his lungs were already filled to the brim with air. A bright ball of light flashed before Minho's eyes, and then he heard the trampling of shoes next to his head.
"Hey, hey, easy there, boy! You're okay, you're okay." A man's voice, deep and brisk. "We're getting this thing off of you. You'll be alright."
Minho fell back again, hitting the back of his head quite hard. His vision was a blur of different shades of darkness, the blinding ball of light the only thing he could focus on. He thought he could see a face smudged in there in the corner of his eye, with a dark beard and deep eyes, but his mind could not pull the image together.
The man shouted something and the sounds of shoes and clothes and creaking wood all fought for Minho's attention. He breathed deep lungfuls of icy air, exhaling quickly so that he could fill his lungs again. It was relieving beyond comprehension.
Something like a hand came in under his neck, lifting it upward. Another set of fingers grabbed his right arm. He wanted to look, but his eyelids dropped and would not open again.
"Stay with me, boy! Don't fall asleep!"
Before he could do anything about it, the world fell away completely and he slept.
