CHAPTER 7 The Immunes' Worth

The mandatory WICKED's Headquarters Tour took up most of their afternoon. Following Doctor Paige, they walked the familiar, dull corridors—like the ones back at the Sanctuary. Not a single window to the outside on sight. They had walked so far into the immense building that even a good few minutes of running wouldn't have brought them close to the exit.

"You'll now be escorted to your quarters," said Doctor Paige, though not before placing a hand on William's shoulder. "I'd like to have a word with you first. If you don't mind."

Perhaps he did mind, he thought while following her. If only he could say that to her. It would be amusing for sure. Her face, calm as it had been since earlier, twisting into a fit of different emotions and turning her cheeks a deep red of hatred, would be a sight to behold. Yet he kept the image to himself and carried on, ignoring her every word in hopes—if he kept quiet enough—she wouldn't dump him in Solitary Confinement.

She halted abruptly at an intersection, her sight lost somewhere in the corridor to their left. "There's something I need to ask you."

He pursed his lips the moment he felt himself mumbling, "I'm in no position to deny anything", and took his hands to his back, standing tall and rigid as he should. "Anything, doctor."

Doctor Paige took him to a tall window that overlooked a ward. Patients thrashed in their beds, their skin marred by dark, spreading veins. Their cries, though faint compared to the piercing screams of Cranks, still made him feel sick to his stomach. Those people were human—infected, undeniably—but not yet consumed by insanity. They understood everything that happened around them. In William's opinion, putting up a fight should have been expected, and it didn't mean they were any less sane for it. Who wouldn't try to escape when even their doctors had given up on saving them long before they became infected? Not to mention the guards standing by the doors with their menacing guns at the ready. Anyone could tell that they weren't there for the protection of the patients or the doctors. Their purpose was to prevent an outbreak at all costs, regardless of the means necessary.

"Do you understand what's at stake?" asked Doctor Paige. "The lives of hundreds of thousands relay on finding the cure—relay on us. We've got a duty to them. Imagine living carefree in a world where the Flare can be stopped—can be survived. Your group… I trust you know none of you are Immunes?"

"Yes," William replied sharply. "That's been made very clear."

A smile flickered across her face. "Then you must understand. Is there something you wouldn't do to save them?"

He turned back to the ward, where his mind played horrible tricks, replacing the patients with the soldiers, his friends. "Never mind the cure—that's none of our concern. We soldiers aren't exactly living the perfect life, either. Killing for a living can get to anybody at the ripe age of whatever-the-hell-we-are. Do I know what's at stake? Of course. Whether I care is different. Nobody, not even The Commander, can force me in that aspect. This—this is our last mission, and we'll make sure it's a success."

The corridor broke into an eerie silence. Enough to hear his own heartbeat pounding in his chest. It echoed to the rhythm of the muffled gunshots, accompanied by much fainter hits on the ward's tiled floor. In the blink of an eye, he saw one, three, seven patients motionless on the ground. The drains gurgled as blood poured out from the corpses, flowing in waves of crimson red and ink-black spots. Doctor Paige grabbed his shoulder and gripped with such strength he could almost not believe her impassive face had broken down into a fit of horror and, strange as it was, determination.

They were off in less than it took the doctors to haul the bodies back to the medical tables. Doctor Paige had accompanied him to the entrance of the soldiers' quarters, wished him a good night's sleep, and turned right down the next corridor. No sooner had she vanished than a hand tugged at his arm, pulling him along for just two steps. William's patience was wearing thin by that point. Before they could take another step, trying to pull him along, he knocked them down.

"I take it you remember me," Thomas grunted, hugging his stomach to comfort himself.

William crouched down beside him, staring at the Elite without offering a helping hand—it didn't feel right somehow. "You're the Elite boy. Tommy, wasn't it?"

Thomas' eyes brightened for a moment, though they got back to what he could only assume was their usual paleness. "Still mad, aren't you? Thought you'd be." He didn't give William a moment to say anything as he continued, "I know, you said not to tell you anything—I know I overstepped—but I just… I couldn't let you go like that. Will, he loves you—"

"Whoa, there!" William almost bounced back to his feet, watching the Elite boy with eyes so widened they could very well roll off his face at any second. "Look, mate," he said, frustration evident in his tone, "I've got no clue who you are, why I should be pissed off at you, or who even that 'he' is. Doesn't look like I'd like to remember it either."

"Wait." Thomas brushed off his, more than exaggerated, pain to stand up and face him. "You don't know me?"

He shook his head right away. "Not a clue… I mean, besides the fact that you're some Elite-whatever Immune."

"What about Aris?" Thomas wouldn't keep quiet about it. "And Newt? You can't have forgotten him!"

"Don't just throw names like I ought to know who they are!" He stepped back, about to rush into the soldiers' quarters, where he should be—where his friends awaited him. However, something about the dejected look on that boy's face made him stay. "So we were friends?"

Thomas let out such a melancholic chuckle he could only imagine how long it had been since the last time they had spoken from his perspective. "You and Newt were my very first friends. Always together—the both of you. How did you not see it for so long?"

"Again, no clue what you're talking about," said William, though keeping his wits for enough time to remind himself to be calm. "Who's the Newt fella?"

It took less than a second for Thomas to reply. "I can show you."

Back at the screen room, the flickering screens had become brighter as sundown approached inside the square farm. After supper, the boys had scattered. The blond boy stood near a tall hut, fixated on the concrete walls as the sun disappeared behind them. He was so engrossed in watching that he didn't notice his friend sitting down beside him, eagerly eating the food he had just received after coming back from outside the walls.

"That's Newt," said Thomas while pointing at the blond boy.

A burst of light that Thomas didn't seem to have noticed left William breathless. He leaned on his new friend for support, gripping his jumper to steady himself. His eyes closed by instinct, and there it stood, a tall concrete wall covered in vines, equal to those surrounding the square farm. The hazy image didn't clear until the screen met Newt, who stood hesitantly at the edge of the vines, halfway up the wall. With wide, tearful eyes, the boy peered down and then jumped off into an endless fall. There was no telling what happened after that. He had turned away from the screens before seeing it—leaving the room itself to escape from it as his heartbeat echoed in his ears.

When William opened his eyes, Thomas had his arms around him, hands clutched onto his jumper to keep him from falling. They stared at each other for a moment, letting the silence speak for itself. Reluctant to test his voice, William thanked Thomas as he got back to his feet, avoiding all screens around the best he could. No doubt, his new friend—perhaps 'old friend' if he trusted his word—had picked up on that.

"What did you see?" Thomas asked, clearly worried.

He sighed and looked away. Big mistake, as he came across a rather close image of Newt's face. "Nothing. I'm just not at my best lately. I have bad headaches."

"Bad headaches," Thomas repeated, eyebrows raised accusingly. "Man, I had no clue headaches made people cry out other people's names. Next thing we know, you'll be reciting an entire list."

"You don't get it, Tommy," said William, his voice devoid of any fear or happiness. "Nobody remembers a thing. Not one soldiers. I can't be the odd one out. Not again. Trust me, two nights at Solitary Confinement are plenty."

The conversation died out naturally. Thomas didn't dare to press further, and William had lost any remaining desire to know about his past. They stood in a worse silence than earlier, leaving them to wish each other goodnight before heading their separate ways. The soldiers were about as surprised about his rather eventful day as he was. Mae made him repeat everything to the smallest detail at least twice. He didn't quite mention Newt much. Though it could be important in the long run, he knew it would lead to his haunting memory about the Immune boy, and would rather not admit it aloud.

William hanged his head low, burying his face in his hands. "I get it. Doesn't look good, does it?"

"Not really," said Mae, stealing Rowan's spot on the bottom bunk across as the owner went off to march back and forth. "The Immunes didn't seem to remember anything inside that… farm, or whatever it was. But the Elites do. They'll be introduced in less than a week. It'll be a real mess if they don't go down there without memories."

"We can think of something. Elites or not, they'll probably trust me—"

Mae cut him off before he could come up with any excuse. "It's not about the Elites. We can trick them without breaking a sweat. Problem is—is that what you want? They're your friends."

It took him a minute to respond. "Kill me. It will be easier."

"There you go again," Henry whined, twisting on his top bunk just as he reached out to the bunk ladder. "Will you stop it? We're not killing anybody!"

"It's not like it's a big deal!" William rushed to his feet, meeting Henry's eyes with the same burning and misplaced anger. "Aren't you a bit too soft for soldiers? You couldn't even let the birdie get himself killed on his first mission! Hadn't Mae come waltzing into trouble, I would have let Ana tear my throat open!"

"Why wouldn't it be a big deal?" George asked, keeping a far better approach to a calm tone when speaking compared to him. "You're one of us—part of our family. Ever since we found you in the Scorch, you already were. We just… we lost too many, Will. You've got to understand. If you couldn't survive on your own… we can't play babysitters in a minefield forever."

"Is this…" William's sight travelled across the rest of soldiers, who were fighting off their concern from taking over their expressions. "Is this true? I thought… You were annoying me to my wits' end when we met, so I just…"

"You're thicker than Rowan on a bad day," Flor joked, grabbing his shoulders to pull him into a hug. "Welcome to the family, William. Now, whatever your decision is—if we lead the Immunes through the Scorch like WICKED wants or not—is up to you. We'll listen. No matter what you decide."

The answers became so clear that it didn't feel right. He could tell there was nothing they could do—nobody could, to be fair. Yet, something told him he was taking something for granted. He turned back to his small haul of memories, going over what he could recall in a desperate search for whatever hint, no matter how tiny.

"There's another option." William's eyes widened in realisation, going over the swirling set of emotions washing over the soldiers' faces. "Janson told us about it. The self-entitled army. They're somewhere out there—somewhere WICKED can't get to them, or they'd all be dead by now."

Bea raised her head, a glint of hope in her eyes that she didn't seem willing to acknowledge. "Doubt they'd help us. We're WICKED's Mad Dogs."

"Oh, they would have to," Mae mumbled, a grin forming on her lips as she got up to take William's side. "Think about it. They're risking their necks attacking WICKED. For what?"

"Not for the fun of it," said Henry. "That's for sure."

"They want the Immunes," continued Leen, who looked up at everyone with a knowing smile. "Bet they've got plans to create a cure. Wouldn't want their rivals hogging all the so-precious-Immunes."

Rowan nodded along, leaning her back against William's bunk ladder. "Bring them a good batch of Immunes…"

"A threat or two about alerting WICKED," added George.

William had to refrain from laughing. "And they'll have no option but to help us."